Adventurer Rich – Page 7 – HappyStinkingJoy

Once Every Blue Moon Or So, Something Nice Happens Here…

Last night, the wife and I took our youngest boy and two of our nieces to see the local high school’s rendition of The Wizard of Oz. I’ve been to a couple of high school plays here locally (Beauty and the Beast and High School Musical), and they were both very enjoyable. Good acting, great singing, a good testament to local talent destined to find futures somewhere outside of the panhandle where their talents will be useful. Last night’s performance, however, was something really special.

The wiring that caused the Wicked Witch and her monkeys to fly was cool, but that wasn’t the reason this performance was so special. The pyrotechnics made me jump on more than one occasion, but they weren’t the reason the performance won’t be soon forgotten. The reason I found Scottsbluff High School’s performance of The Wizard of Oz so endearing was… they got it right!

The original movie starring Judy Garland is over 70 years old. I grew up watching that stupid old movie once a year, every year, throughout my adolescent years. It never got old. It was always exciting. And last night, I felt like those teen-aged kids up on the stage had seen that stupid movie even more times than I had. All of the kids in this play were excellent. Even the tiny munchkins, played by a bunch of little kids who were up way past their bed times, were absolutely amazing. It was a few of the leads, though, who stole my heart.

Maggie Hopp, who played Dorothy, pulled off Judy Garland’s pouty, defiant innocence with flair. She sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow to near-perfection. At times, I almost believed that the late-Garland’s spirit had possessed young Hopp. Watching her made me feel like a child again, sitting in our small living room in front of our small television, my brother, sister, mom, dad and me, wishing for Dorothy to be able to click her heels at least one more time and once again return to Kansas. If I had realized then what I know now (that Kansas is a lot like Nebraska), I would have wished for poor Dorothy to go to New York, or Los Angeles, or somewhere she and Toto could have a successful future… but I didn’t.

Carlos Santana (no, not the aged-musician who still rocks) was amazing as the Cowardly Lion. His no-holds-barred performance was hysterical. For a teenage boy to get up in front of a full auditorium and hold nothing back in his performance of the blubbering coward who slowly finds his courage… it was unforgettable in the best of ways. It takes someone with a lot of talent and self-confidence to get up on stage and play a chicken so well 🙂

Chris Brening pulled-off a convincing and very likable Scarecrow. Like Carlos, Chris didn’t seem to have an issue being a complete goofball on stage, and this character needs to be goofy…. and dance… and wobble around… without falling off of the small stage. There was more than one occasion where I thought the Scarecrow was going to fall into the orchestra pit, but he didn’t!

During the first half of the play, Aaron Aguallo’s microphone wasn’t working very well and he was hard to hear. After the intermission, Aaron’s voice brought life to the heartless Tin Woodsman. Once I could hear his voice, I had a very hard time believing that Jack Haley himself wasn’t actually up on stage instead of Aaron. This was what was so cool about this performance: the kids pulled off the characters so closely to the original casts’ rendition… yet each with just a hint of uniqueness that made them their own.

Karenna Booth was stunning as the good witch Glinda, and her singing gave me goosebumps. The only things that commonly gives me goosebumps in Nebraska are the chilly winter nights.

Emily Yanke was terrifically evil as the Wicked Witch of the West. She cackled like an old pro and seemed to relish her inhumanity. Kind of makes me wonder what this young lady does to small animals on the weekends… but her performance was superb… and that’s not a word I use much 🙂

I could go on and on… but I’m not really used to having nice things to say. Don’t get used to it! If you don’t already have tickets to tonight’s performance or the final performance on Saturday, you are probably out of luck. Both nights are sold out. However, if you know someone who has tickets and you don’t like them very much… steal them. This show is worth petty larceny.

Thanks to the cast and crew of the The Wizard of Oz. Old guys like me seldom feel young anymore, but all of you helped me feel a little younger for a couple of hours last night.

Next post: back to bitching, I promise…

The Hardest Job in the World…

What is the hardest job in the world?

Is it a rocket scientist — ensuring the trajectory of space bound thingies and other such sciencey stuff?

Is it a brain surgeon — holding all consciousness and memories (in essence, the entire “being”) of an individual between her fingers as she attempts to save a life?

Is it perhaps the President of the United States — deciding where to send our soldiers to die and who in our economy will suffer and how to make nice-nice with the rich and famous?

These are all good answers, but none are truly the hardest job in the world. The hardest job in the world recently had a vacancy, and it was recently filled.

Scotts Bluff County recently filled the hardest job in the world. Congratulation to Brenda Leisy…
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holder of the hardest job in the world. Brenda was hired by Scotts Bluff County as the county’s tourism director.

Tourism director: one who tries to get tourists to stop and spend their had earned money in our area by convincing said tourists that there is something worth stopping and spending money on here. Like I already pointed out, this is (in my opinion) the hardest job in the world.

Scotts Bluff County has little to offer. It’s kind of… what’s a nice way of putting this… boring here. There are many who disagree with me, but I’m sticking to my personal guns on this. There is nothing to do here.

“Oh, there’s a lot to do here!” scream the long-time residents who hate anyone speaking the truth about their beloved Nebraska.

“Like what?” someone may ask.

“Well… uh… you can go for a walk on the pathway by the river!” says the Nebraska-lover.

“I’ve done that before,” someone may say.

“Do it again,” says Nebraska-lover.

“Uh… why?” someone may ask.

“Maybe you’ll see a goose… or something,” says Nebraska-lover.

“I saw a goose the last time I walked the path,” someone may say.

“Well, go to the top of Scotts Bluff National Monument,” Nebrasaka-lover recommends.

“That’s fun to do about once every two or three years,” someone may say, “and I did that last summer.”

“Go fishing,” says Nebraska-lover.

“Fishing here sucks,” someone may say, “unless you like catching tiny trout and sunfish, which is all I ever catch. I suck at fishing, thus I don’t really like fishing, and can you imagine trying to get my 8-year-old son to sit still long enough to catch a stinking blue gill? Yeah, fishing isn’t for me.”

“There is good hunting,” says Nebraska-lover.

“No there’s not,” someone may say. “All of the good hunting is on private land, and landowners here would rather shoot you than look at you. You have to have some sort of backwater relationship with a landowner to access that landowner’s land, and I have no such relationships. Hunting here sucks.”

“Well,” says Nebraska-lover, a hint of doubt becoming evident in her eyes, “there’s always… uh… what about a trek in the Wildcat Hills?”

“Oh yeah, a hike through sage brush and cactus,” someone may say, “with the seasonal threat of rattlesnakes and the ever-present threat of mountain lions. Doesn’t sound like my cup of tea. Besides, you keep mentioning all of these outdoor activities, and Scotts Bluff County is notoriously bad for allergens. Spending time outside in the wind with snot running down my face and claw marks on my eyeballs from all of the scratching doesn’t sound very fun.”

“We have… uh… we have a mall,” Nebraska-lover says, as if she just remembered.

“Yeah, the mall,” someone may say. “The mall here is about, what, 1/4 empty? And it’s a small mall in the first place. Walking around the mall is good for about 15 minutes of wasting time.”

“Our downtown business areas in Scottsbluff and Gering…” Nebraska-lover tries to say.

“… suck,” someone may finish. “Parking downtown is horrible, there are very few shops that interest me or are within my price range, and very few of the downtown businesses have public restrooms, so you end up peeing in the freaking alley if you gotta go. I have an 8-year-old boy. My son now believes that it is acceptable to pee in an alley… which I’m sure is going to benefit him in his adulthood. Thanks, downtown businesses!”

“Well… uh… we have… uh…” Nebraska-lover stammers, “we have a lot of bars and liquor stores.”

“Yes,” someone may say. “Yes we do.”

“I could sure use a drink,” Nebraska-lover says.

“I’m buying,” someone may say.

There really isn’t much to do around here. You have to keep your kids uber-involved in sports and other activities to keep them away from the drugs, alcohol and sex. The teen-pregnancy rate in the area is high, as are the teen alcohol and drug usage rates. Why? Because there isn’t anything to do here. Adult alcoholism and drug use also run rampant in Scotts Bluff County. Why? Because there isn’t anything to do here… and there are many adults who are trying to numb the pain of watching their hopes, dreams, and aspirations float down the North Platte River.

I know that in the past, the county’s tourism department has stressed how important it is for “front-line” employees (employees in low-paying jobs who actually deal with potential tourists) to present a positive, excited portrayal of the community to aid tourism. This may be hard for a hung-over, pregnant teen to do while she is trying to figure out where she is going to score her next hit of meth. The only positive thing many front-line employees can think about is how in the hell they are going to get out of here, so it may be hard to convince them to speak positively about their communities. Front-line employees can’t figure out what to do with their free time, so how can they be expected to help tourists find something to do around here?

Congratulations once again to Brenda Leisy! She has the hardest job in the world, and I wish her all of the luck I can muster. She’s going to need it…

Women — Trying to Train Men How to Think Since the Beginning of Time…

Here they are again! You know what I’m writing about, those pictures that float around Facebook and the Internet in general… pictures that point out how women of all shapes and sizes need to be loved for who they are and not necessarily how skinny they are.

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Come on, the bottom row in the above picture is just as hot (if not hotter) than the top row. Very few men would argue against that. However, every person has his or her own personal preferences as far as what he or she considers attractive.

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I know that a lot of this “message” is geared towards women.

“Be happy with who you are.”

“Your uniqueness is your most beautiful asset!”

“Never let a man’s opinion shape your feelings of self-worth!”

I am not going to argue any of those points because, to a vast extent, they are all true.

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Okay, okay… we are supposed to “deal with it!” Alrighty, I get it. Men need to reconsider what they view as attractive. Women are going to tell us what should be attractive to us. Fine.

I don’t disagree with any of this argument that, you know, a person’s real worth shouldn’t be based on physical appearance. Hell, as a fat, short, ugly guy, I’d preach that little tidbit from the highest mountain. However, I do have a couple of issues with being told how I’m supposed to judge physical attractiveness.

First, the preachers of the whole “when did ‘this’ become sexier than ‘that'” deal need to come to a realization. That realization is…

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There is a significant difference between bootiliciously curvaceous and may have a heart attack just from sitting up. There are going to be a lot of guys who have an issue with a potential mate who could theoretically kill him in his sleep just by accidentally rolling on top of him in bed.
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Sorry, I know that may seem shallow, but it is the truth. But keep preaching… you may change our minds.

The second issue I have with the argument that all women are equally physically beautiful (just in different ways) is the hypocrisy displayed by those who argue it. Let’s take, for example, my randomly-taken-from-the-Internet picture of my not-so-real-friend George.

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George is the sweetest guy on the planet. He helps orphans and stray kitty cats find homes and he comforts little old people on their death beds. George makes a decent living and he is one of the most caring guys on the planet. George is very attracted to Britney.

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Britney likes George as a “friend,” and that is breaking George’s heart. George knows that Britney is secretly in love with Brandon.
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Now Brandon works with Myrtle. Myrtle has a major case of the hots for Brandon, but Brandon just likes Myrtle as a friend.
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Myrtle is also a sweetheart. She is a loyal friend, has a great sense of humor, and her career as a rocket scientist at NASA (where Brandon is a janitor) pays her quite well. Brandon, although tempted by Myrtle’s income (because all pretty boys are shallow), likes Myrtle only as a friend and is in love with Britney.

Britney and Brandon finally hook up. As a act of courtesy, Brandon and Britney introduce Myrtle to George. Myrtle is not attracted to George, and George is not attracted to Myrtle. However, given the other choices that both of them have (… zero), Myrtle and George go out, fall in love, and get married. They are happily married until they both have massive heart attacks a few years later.

Britney and Brandon date for awhile. They then have a horrible break-up after each of them find out that the other was having an affair with someone even better looking. This happens time and time again in each of their relationships for the next few years.

Finally, Brandon gets hooks up with a 16-year-old girl (because all of the women his age appear to “old” for him), and the girl’s father finds out and shoots Brandon dead.

Britney goes through pretty boys like they are going out of style. Finally, she decides she wants to settle down. She finds a nice, ugly, rich guy who has never in the past had a chance at with a hot chick. They get married. The rich guy is totally in love with Britney for the rest of their days together. Britney has various affairs with various, hot household employees (pool boys and gardeners and window washers and whatnot) until the day where she decides that she doesn’t need to take care of herself anymore and she gains 100 pounds. Throughout her life, Britney posts silly “When did this become sexier than that” pictures on Facebook. She posts these pictures not because she wants all chubby chicks to have an equal shot at the pool boy that Britney used to have. Britney posts these pictures because she is afraid that with her new weight she will not have equal access to the male hotties that someone skinnier than her has. Her picture posts are clearly self-serving for the whale that she always knew she would become. But, of course, Britney has no interest in the fat guy who works on her husbands cars. Fat guys are gross.

Okay, so maybe my Britney-Brandon-Myrtle-George example isn’t overly realistic, but it’s not as far from the truth as many hypocritical women would have us believe. Men who objectify women are dogs. Women who objectify men are just “cougars”, or liberated, or something else stupid like that.

Objectification is based on physical appearance and women are just as guilty of it as men. The only difference is that men don’t feel the need to post picture on Facebook like this:

Photobucket — ... it didn't. We're all equally beautiful and demand the full respect that we deserve as human males... or something...

Men realize that the question is stupid. We know we’re fat and/or ugly and we deal with it. We don’t preach that women should be expected to find our fat, ugly asses beautiful…

NEXT: The Panhandle’s Social Elite…

There is an organization here in the wonderful panhandle of Nebraska called NEXT. NEXT is a group of “young professionals” who have taken it upon themselves to be leaders in the community. They have made it their job to promote the panhandle as a great place to live. Good for them.

On their website, the folks at NEXT make some very clear statements as to what they are… and what they are not. For example, NEXT is: “A group of the Panhandle’s future elite leaders, not the social elite.” What a great statement… too bad it’s not true. If you visit NEXT’s website and click on the “board” tab, you will see the leaders of this “leaders’ group”. Judging from the last names of these leaders, the names of the businesses they work for, and the dates those businesses were established, I’m assuming three of the five board members have parents or grandparents who started successful businesses… and these kids are able to ride on those coattails. Can you say “trust fund”? The other two board members are pretty faces, and we all know that the pretty people have a higher likelihood of success than us normal (or, in my case, morbidly disgusting) people.

I am not saying that these people didn’t work hard to reach their current levels of success. I don’t personally know any of them (we don’t hang in the same social circles — oh wait, I don’t have a social circle…) All I’m saying is that, in my opinion, being a pretty person or having rich parents gives you quite an advantage over the rest of the population when it comes to future success.

So, the rich and the pretty… how in the hell is that not the social elite? This is life in the panhandle: have parents or grandparents who were successful — or be pretty — and you have a shot at true success. It takes money and/or looks to make it here… which is why there are so many of us who can’t really make it. The rest of us work to serve the social elite. Maybe this isn’t a panhandle problem. Maybe this is an American problem…

The rich and pretty of NEXT have made one of their goals to retain and encourage potential leaders (i.e. other rich and pretty people who either leave after 2-3 years because they think it sucks here… or don’t become involved in community leadership roles because they are too busy pushing their slaves to make them more money) to become active in the community by stressing “the great life that the Panhandle offers”. Are they referring to the same panhandle that I live in? Maybe there is another panhandle (one that deserves to be capitalized) that I’m not familiar with. Or maybe if you are part of the social elite and have the rest of the community bowing down to serve you, life can be pretty good here. Who knows?

Another of the statements made by NEXT is that they are “A group using a social platform to accomplish objectives, not a Saturday night social club.” Really? Again, looking at their website, the last few events listed were a “Mardi Gras” event in February of 2009, a “Peacocks and Potluck” event (at the zoo, I’m assuming) in May of 2009, and a “Comedy on the Rocks” event in June of 2010. Those all sound an awful lot like “Saturday night social club” events to me… but what do I know; I’m not part of the social elite.

I think I need to start my own leadership group. You know, a group for guys and gals who once thought they could find some measure of financial success but have come to realize that just ain’t going to happen. We could get together on Saturday nights once every couple of months and sit around a keg of Old Milwaukee eating chicken wings and talking about how we can’t understand why we are all still living here. We won’t be able to stay up late, however, because many of us will probably have to get up the next morning to go to work (because we will all be working at serving the social elite until the day we die). We could charge all members a cover charge to cover the cheap beer and hot wings, and whatever is left over could be donated to a local charity… I’m thinking Habitat-for-the-Non-Social-Elite may be a good choice…

*****INTERESTING TIDBIT ALERT*****

You know the saying “piss poor”? Do you know where this comes from? In the olden days, apparently tanners used urine to tan hides. If your family was poor, often the family would all pee in a collective pot to be taken and sold to the tanner. Your family was “piss poor”. Of course, if your family was super duper poor, you “wouldn’t have a pot to piss in”.

How do I know this is true? I found it on the Internet. Everything on the Internet is true, right?

I kind of wish tanners still used urine to tan hides. Not that I would want to be “piss poor”, it would just be an easy way to make a little extra cash…

*****INTERESTING TIDBIT COMPLETE****

So, until I get my own leadership group together, I guess I’ll have to make do with making fun of the existing organizations. You know what, though? NEXT is at least doing something to try to make the panhandle a better place. They even recently participated in an event that benefited Special Olympics, and I can’t dog on that. I am, however, skeptical of their motives because I believe they are mostly looking out for themselves. They could give a crap-less how the ordinary citizens of the panhandle are doing (as long as they keep flipping burgers and mowing lawns and painting houses and controlling pests and collecting garbage or any job where some peon is available to be yelled at when the elite feel like yelling). They want more rich, pretty people in the area to hang out with so they can defend themselves when the unruly, unclean masses finally rise up! But still, they are doing something. I have to give them credit for that. People who sit around and bitch like me probably drive the elite absolutely insane… hahaha… and that’s why I do what I do 🙂

The Piano Lady and Her Daughter…

A few weeks ago, I found myself working at a farm and ranch expo for my employer. Selling Internet to rural folks is what our business is all about, and there are plenty of rural folks at a farm and ranch expo.

One thing about a farm and ranch expo out in the middle of nowhere is there aren’t a lot of places to get some grub for lunch. At the expo, however, there was a little lunch counter. The neat thing is that lunch counter was hosted by the church I attend. The not so neat thing about that lunch counter is who was working it: the piano lady and her daughter.

I have had my share of run-ins with the piano lady and her daughter, but I have managed to remain unscathed. The piano lady plays piano at my church. Her daughter… well, is her daughter. These diabolical women tend to be… uh… kind of mean. I have long suspected that there may be some sort of evil workings constantly formulating in their methodical minds, but other than the occasional mean-spirited comments spouted in my general direction, I have little direct dealings with these dark ladies. And, I have never found myself face-to-face with either of them in the direct sunlight. They tend to stick to the shadows.

On this particular day at the farm and ranch expo, I found myself considering spending some of my hard-earned money on a little lunch.

Sitting at our booth, my coworker asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Well, I thought I’d give the lunch counter a try,” I said. “And you?”

“Oh, I brought some organic lettuce to munch on,” said my coworker. He’s vegan… which means he eats crappy food.

I glanced at the lunch counter and saw both the piano lady and her daughter staring directly at me. Their cold, hard eyes locked on me and I momentarily lost all sensation in all parts of my body. I felt cold and everything around me began to spin. I don’t know how, and I don’t remember getting up and walking there, but the next thing I knew I was standing right in front of that lunch counter.

“Whaddaya want, ” said the piano lady, her beady little eyes darting all over my face but refusing to make contact with my eyes; it wasn’t so much a question as it was almost an accusation.

“Burger and fries, I guess,” I replied.

Suddenly, from out of the shadows in the back of the kitchen, the piano lady’s daughter appeared. Now, I can honestly not say that I saw her move to the location right behind the counter. She was just there, all at once. From the shadows at the back of the kitchen is the only place I can imagine she came from.

“We don’t have burgers and fries,” hissed the daughter, and I could swear I noticed a flash of fangs in her mouth as she spoke. “Can’t you read?”

“I don’t think he can read,” said the piano lady. “I don’t think he can read at all. Maybe he’s one of them dunces.” They both thought this was hilarious and their cackling laughter drove shivers up my spine.

“Well, what do you have?” I asked. I was not at all comfortable. I thought of returning to the booth where I was working, but I wanted to support my church’s efforts… and I was hungry.

“Read the menu,” said the daughter, motioning with her abnormally large head toward a small menu to the right of the counter. Her eyes, which I had previously thought to be brown, glared a yellowish orange similar to the picture I have in my head of what molten forces of a volcano look like right before they unleash their fury. I blinked in disbelief, and her eyes were brown once again.

“I guess… I guess I will take a chili… chili cheese dog,” I stammered.

“Learn how to talk in public, boy,” the piano lady said while leaning her face close to mine. Her warm breath held a hint of peppermint and rotting flesh.

“That it?” hissed the daughter.

“I’ll take a pop, I guess,” I said.

“What kinda pop you want?” hissed the daughter, her red gums framing the sharp teeth in her grimace.

“I guess I’ll take a Dr, Pepper,” I said.

“Why don’t you quit ‘guessing’ and grow a pair,” screamed the piano lady. “Show some spine!”

“A Dr. Pepper, please,” I whispered.

“We don’t have no Dr. Pepper,” hissed the daughter. “You’ll take a Pepsi.”

“Fine… yes… I like Pepsi,” I said. “Pepsi will… uh, yeah… be fine.”

Then, they both disappeared to the shadows at the back of the kitchen. I could neither hear nor see any trace of them. Behind me, I sensed a growing silence. The exhibit hall was full of vendors and visitors, but all of their falling footsteps and sales pitches and small talk grew quickly silent. I turned to find the exhibit hall dark…

A few feet ahead of me, the floor dissolved into nothingness. Nothing more than black silence stretched in all directions. Turning quickly around, I found the lunch counter swallowed by darkness as well. Fearing that I may have gone blind, I reached for where the counter should have been.

Nothing…

Panic spread quickly, and I began to call out.

“Hello! Is anybody there?”

Nothing.

I was terrified to walk. I couldn’t escape thoughts of falling into a bottomless chasm.

“Got your pop, boy.” The voice came from directly overhead. I couldn’t tell if it was the piano player or her daughter.

“And your chili dog.” This voice was different — younger. I suspected it was the daughter that spoke of the chili dog, and she seemed to be somewhere beneath me.

“What’s going on?” I said, the words almost catching in my throat. “Why is everything dark? Where is everybody?”

“Everything is as it should be,” said the older voice off to my left.

“Yes,” said the younger voice from somewhere behind me, “as it should be.”

I whirled around in hopes of catching sight of something… anything.

Nothing.

“I can’t see,” I whispered.

“We know,” said the younger voice from somewhere close.

“You won’t want to see what we’re gonna to do to you,” said the older voice right in front of me, filling my face with the scent of peppermint and rotting flesh.

I tried to run. My legs, like in a dream, refused to cooperate. I stood frozen as the voices danced around me.

“Got your Pepsi…”

“Got your chili cheese dog…”

“You one of them dunces…”

“Why don’t you grow a pair…”

I felt something cold brush against my arm and I jerked away. Putrid breath warmed the back of my neck as I heard, “You’re won’t want to see what we’re gonna do to you.”

Bright light exploded around me, so bright it was as blinding as the darkness that preceded it. I winced at the light as I felt strong, cold hands grasp me by the shoulders. I could barely make out the piano lady’s distorted face in front of me as her hands shoved me back. My legs continued in their resistance and stayed firmly attached to whatever they were standing on. I bent backwards, legs straight, as my back became parallel to where the floor should have been. I couldn’t understand how my spine was not snapping as the daughter sunk her claw-like fingers into my hair. She drew my face up to hers and smiled.

“You won’t want to see what we’re gonna do to you… but we want you to see,” the daughter laughed, then she opened her mouth. Her teeth like broken shards of stained porcelain: long, jagged, sharp. The black hole of her mouth grew larger and larger, surrounded by those shards, until she could have put my entire face in her mouth. Her yellow eyes looked directly into mine, then she bit. I could feel the shards piercing my cheeks and then penetrating the bone beneath, bone cracking in my ears, but my site was consumed in the blackness of her mouth. Her moist, dank breath filled my lungs as I tried to scream. My own blood gushed into my mouth through the wounds in my face. Vertigo set in and, as conscientiousness began to drift away, I could here my name called in the distance.

rich…

Rich…

“Rich!”

My coworker was shaking my shoulder.

“Rich, dude, what in the hell is wrong with you?”

I was sitting at our booth at the farm and ranch expo, staring at the lunch counter. Neither the piano lady nor her daughter were anywhere in sight.

“What…” I whispered, “… what happened?” I felt my face expecting my fingers to disappear into gaping wounds, the fresh coppery taste of my blood still on my tongue. My trembling fingers found no holes.

“You said you were going to go grab some grub at the lunch counter, and then you just zoned,” my coworker laughed. “You went deaf, dumb and blind for like twenty seconds!”

“Twenty seconds…” I couldn’t wrap my mind around whatever had just transpired. Apparently it wasn’t real? Only twenty seconds? Apparently I passed out… sitting up… or something… and had a dream?

“I’m going to go grab my organic lettuce and eat in the parking lot,” said my coworker as he stood and began putting on his coat. “Did you want to grab something at the lunch counter before I go?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I guess.”

I stood on legs that, although slightly shaking, were fully compliant and walked to the lunch counter. A fellow parishioner, a fellow by the name of Chris, was standing at the counter smiling.

“Hey, Rich,” said Chris.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Want some lunch?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, I think I do.” I didn’t want lunch. I wasn’t the least bit hungry. Why I even went to the lunch counter, I can’t say.

“What can I get you,” Chris asked.

“Uh… I’m… uh… I’ll,” I stammered. I couldn’t make my tongue work.

“Well?” asked the daughter. “We don’t have all day.” She was smiling, and I couldn’t detect any hint of fangs in that smile.

“I’ll take a chili cheese dog and a Pepsi,” I said.

“Coming right up,” Chris said, slapping the counter as if that somehow finalized the transaction.

Chris disappeared to the shadows at the back of the kitchen, and I dared a glance at the daughter who was wiping down the counter with a damp towel.

“It’s always nice to see someone who knows exactly what they want,” the daughter said, her eyes locked on her cleaning.

“Mmmhmm,” I agreed.

“Some people just don’t know what they want,” she said, raising her eyes to mine. They were brown. “And that can be kind of frustrating for us volunteers.”

“Mmmhmm,” I agreed.

Chris appeared again with my order, took my money, and gave me my change.

I returned to my booth thinking I must have lost my mind. Maybe I’d had a stroke? Maybe I should go to the hospital? Whatever it was, it had freaked me out and I didn’t want it happening again.

By the time I got home after the farm and ranch expo, the memory of my daymare was fading fast. The memory would have probably faded to the furthest recesses of my apparently failing mind for the rest of my eternity… if not for the local newspaper. Apparently, a reporter from the local rag had been at the expo taking random pictures for an article she was writing. Apparently, one of those pictures was of me ordering my lunch.

Not much strange about this picture, right? Me looking confused. Chris slapping the counter, wrapping up the deal. The daughter… smiling. Well, I saw this picture in our copy of the newspaper at work. Later that night, as I was crawling into bed, my hand nudged some paper under my pillow. From beneath my pillow, I retrieved another copy of that days newspaper. I don’t know how it got there, although I have my suspicions. The copy from beneath my pillow reeked… of peppermint and rotting flesh… and the picture in this copy was a little different from the picture I had seen earlier that day. Although I still don’t know what exactly happened to me at the farm and ranch expo, I am afraid… very afraid… and maybe you should be afraid too…
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Technologically, I’m an Idiot…

I used to be kind of a techie geek. I liked the newest tech-toys and the hippest websites. When I worked at Alltel, I was all about the newest, coolest phones. I was one of the guys that the customers would come to so they could transfer all of their saved crap on their old phone to their new phone (because we didn’t have fancy machines that did that automatically), or set custom MP3 ringtones on phones that weren’t supposed to be able to have custom ringtones, or whatever other crap needed to be done that took a lot of time but didn’t generate any commission. Also, friends and family, because I worked at a cell phone store, thought I was the be-all, end-all to tech greatness. I liked being a go-to geek. Then I started doing actual tech support, and everything changed.

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I also used to love to read. I loved being taken away to a life that actually contained adventure by having my imagination stoked by a master wordsmith. Holding a book, turning the pages, feeling its heft in my hands, knowing that someone had taken months of their time creating this tale just for me… reading was awesome. I always dreamed of being one of those wordsmiths, creating those tales just for that individual who chose to be carried away by my musings. I dreamed of having a mass of paper bound together and full of my words with my name embossed on the cover underneath a catchy, deep title like: Whereas Whispers the Will of our Souls, or, Arnklot, Last of the Vampyre Clan of Tillystone. All dreams must come to an end.
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The wife used to be pretty technologically ignorant. She was anti-smartphone because they were too “fancy”, and she didn’t feel she would ever use all of the “fancy” Internet features on a smartphone. Still, I was able to convince her to go into a Droid, and she has never looked back. Her next step was a Kindle. I was actually against the Kindle (this was after I stopped working at Alltel, and technology had started to lose its appeal to me).

“Books are books, and they can’t be replaced by a stupid e-reader,” I would tell her.

“I still love books,” the wife would say, “it’s just nice to have a whole library in one easy-to-carry device.”

“That’s crap,” I would logically disagree. “Kindles are stupid. Only babies have Kindles!”

Whatever,” the wife would say, usually rolling her eyes.
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So the wife got her a Kindle and started getting fancy electronic books. They were much less expensive than the good old paper books, and she soon had a decent sized collection of crappy e-books on her Kindle. I was disgusted.

I started to notice that more and more “experts” were predicting the slow demise of the paper book. Digital books were predicted to be the wave of the future. I disagreed.

“Who is going to take the time to write a book if they have to sell them on Amazon for 99¢?” I would inquire.

“There are writers out there who have become millionaires selling books on Amazon,” the wife would argue. “These writer’s would have never even received an offer from a traditional publisher.”

“But, without a traditional publisher, how do you get a paper book made?” I asked.

“Well, they don’t have paper books made,” the wife said. “They are all digital.”

“That’s stupid,” I would conclude. “Only baby writers don’t have paper books.”

More eye rolling always followed. The wife likes to roll her eyes.

Before I knew it, the wife was getting involved in all kinds of reading crap. She got all wrapped up in Goodreads, and there she found new Facebook discussion groups and whatnot. She learned more ways to get enjoyment out of her stupid Kindle. She actually was fast becoming an expert on e-readers and e-books in general.

This past Christmas, both of my boys and the wife all got Kindle Fires. Now, all three of them are supporting making authors struggle more by buying e-books instead of the good old traditional paper books. How in the crap are you supposed to get a signed copy of an e-book? You can’t, that’s how! Stupid Kindle. Stupid Amazon. Stupid Nook. Stupid Barnes & Noble (whose brick and mortar stores are on the verge of extinction thanks to stupid e-readers).

The wife was recently talking about how e-reader experts will probably be in pretty high demand in the near future. Traditional bookstores, libraries, and even many businesses will have a need for an on-staff e-reader expert. That sounds like a job I would like. That seems like a job the wife has positioned herself for. Stupid technology. After dealing with tech crap all day at work, the last thing in the world I want to do is submerge myself in technology after hours. I watch stupid scary movies or find some other mind-killing activity to help me get to sleep: things that in no way will help me transition into a fun job (if there is such a thing).
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I don’t really read much anymore. I used to read because I thought reading might be a good way to improve my writing skills. Now, I have given up on my dream being a writer. I won’t have my name embossed on the cover of a stinking Kindle, and nobody is going to let me sign their stupid Nook. Selling e-books for 99¢ isn’t going to lead to a full-time gig (… at least not with any of the hogwash I would end up writing), and who in his or her right mind would write seriously just for fun (I have this stinking blog for that).

Technology kills dreams. Technology erodes real human contact. Technology is destroying the world. My wife is now the technology expert in our house. And although I work with stupid Internet technology all day, I am thankful that, technologically, I’m an idiot…

Normally, I would end my post here with this profound thought, but I’m feeling kind of bad. Here I have written a kind of stupid post (yeah, so what’s new?) and interlaced it with attractive women with a more-than-necessary amount of skin showing for the sole purpose of getting guys to stay on my site longer and increase my stats. I may be a little geekier than I let on. This is not fair to the women who visit my blog: the wife and my sister. In order to make amends, I offer the following for the ladies:

The Palm Trees in My Basement Bathroom…

We have this bathroom in our basement. I love this room. This room is where I go when I want to spend some quality time alone. The wife has decorated our little downstairs bathroom with a “theme”. The “theme” of this room is palm trees.
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I used to wonder how the lovely wife came up with the theme of palm trees for this particular room. I suspected that Walmart had a clearance rack of toilet-related materials and the only matching set the wife could find was palm trees. The wife claims the theme arrived in remembrance of our honeymoon almost 18 years ago in Cancun…
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… and the soft, warm breezes on the beach and the hint of lime in every shrimp quesadilla… or lobster taco… or 39 peso cheeseburger at McDonalds (seriously, every thing from Budweiser to bacon in Cancun has a hint of lime). Whenever I inquire about the theme downstairs, the wife waxes nostalgic of a time right after she and I stood before a man of God, all our family, and most of of friends and proclaimed our undying love for each other. Cancun for the wife and I was the whipped cream on the Hot Fudge Brownie Delight that is married life. Remember when Dairy Queen used to sell Hot Fudge Brownie Delights? These were the calorie-laden monstrosities that consisted of mountains of delectable soft-serve ice cream resting on plains of nut-covered chocolate brownies separated only by seemingly endless rivers of hot, steamy fudge… and then irresponsibly topped with the snow capped ridges of 100% dairy-and-sugar filled whipped cream. The foundation of marriage is the brownies and ice cream and I do not for an instance regret any part of it… but our honeymoon was the whipped topping, full of fun and sweetness and decadence…
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… everything that convinces a man that he is settling down with the right woman to begin a life of work and responsibilities and children and STINKING FUNDRAISERS!!! I digress…

So, anyway, I spend a large portion of my “free time” in our downstairs bathroom staring at the shower curtain that rests directly in front of the toilet.
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You may wonder to yourself, “now, what exactly could he be doing on the toilet for any measurable amount of time that would lead him to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at a shower curtain?” Well, you may be slightly dented for asking such a question. What goes in must come out, and I am sincerely sorry to point this out, but even Johnny Depp and Katy Perry spend time staring at the palm trees… if you know what I mean 😉

The wife dreams of tropical places when she and I discuss the wonderful places we would like to settle down once we figure out what we are going to do with the rest of our lives. I, on the other hand, tend to lean more towards something more mountainous.
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Of course, both of us are open to the ideas of the other. I would be almost as content in a bungalow on the beach, and she seems fine with the thought of fresh mountain air and fresh-caught trout with wild asparagus for supper a couple of nights a week. One problem is that we don’t know quite how to get to either of these locals. The second problem is that we live in Nebraska, which does have a scenery all its own, like this…
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… and this…
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… and this…
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… along with…
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and, occasionally even…
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… which leads to…
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… and ultimately…
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… but is about as far as you can get from either a tropical paradise or a scenic mountain retreat.

Living in either a tropical paradise or a mountain of solitude would require an income that currently surpasses us here where we actually have jobs, let alone in a remote location where jobs are few and far between. I’d like to think that we would be able to use our retirement savings to get us to our dream location, but I would also like to think that I don’t look my age and that the tooth fairy pays out even more when the elderly loose their teeth. All three of these wishes are pipe dreams. I figure that the only way the wife and I are ever going to see our dreams come true is found in three simple words:

third world country.

Third world countries can be tropical, and third world countries can have mountains. Third world countries are a lot cheaper to live in than the United States. Help me, Third World Country… you’re my only hope!

I figure if the wife and I can save up a few thousand dollars, we should be able to move to some neato place like Guatemala or Somalia or, heck, I hear there are some good deals on property in Afghanistan right now. Guatemala and Somalia both have some nice oceanfront property
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and Afghanistan is known for it’s mountainous regions.

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Heck, that’s where all the fugitive Taliban hide, right?
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For a few thousand dollars, we should be able to live like a king and queen! Oh sure, there would be some language barriers, but I’m sure that any self-respecting country would teach English as a second language, right? And even if they don’t, just think of the millions of Mexicans who migrate to the US who don’t speak a word of English. The Mexicans get by just fine. In fact, many companies and even our government bend over backwards to make sure our Spanish speaking friends don’t have to bother with learning English. After all, on almost any telephone call you can always “apriete dos para español.” As ass-backwards as the US is viewed by the rest of the world, I’m sure these third world countries have even better programs in place to make non-native tongue people feel welcome, right? Of course they do.

There may be some other small hindrances, like decent health care, or a clean water supply, or a reliable food source. And the fact that the wife and I are Christian may lead to a problem or two. We may have to fend off the occasional suicide bomber or be weary of any Muslims with a big knife and a penchant for heads, but I’m sure it will be worth it to live in the type of surroundings that we dream of. I mean, it’s pretty obvious we aren’t going to make those dreams come true in the US.

Ahh… so maybe our dreams really can come true. Maybe there is some hope for our future outside of the good life that can only be found in Nebraska. I mean, either dying a martyr at the hands of a radical Muslim, or staring at another corn field and watching another disappointing Husker football season. At least the martyrdom would be on a beach… or in the mountains…

Well, that’s enough for now. I had a big supper, and my daily fiber seems to be kicking in. I have a date with some palm trees…
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Is that a CPAP on your face, or are you just happy to see me…

Nothing says “sexy beast” like a dude in a CPAP mask.

Just ask me.

I mean, at any given point of the day I have multiple people comment on my sexy goodness, but check me out in the middle of the night when I’m all nose-hosed and compressurized. The sight of me when I’m all CPAPed-up would turn any women to a state of weak-kneed, wanton lustfulness!

Just ask the wife.

Yeppers, CPAP has been the best thing to happen to my love life since… I mean the intimacy level in my bedroom has… well, uh, when the mask goes on, the romance…

Crap.

Who am I kidding…

Wearing a CPAP has helped me sleep better, and that’s it. It has not been at all helpful in the hanky-panky department.

My life has been filled with self-doubt and low self-confidence. I didn’t date in high school or college because I couldn’t expect some poor girl lose all self-respect for herself by being seen in public with me. I kind of assumed that a kiss from me might actually turn the girl into a toad. After college, I was lucky to meet the woman who is currently my wife. She seemed to like me well enough, and she didn’t have any major issues with being seen in public with me. She didn’t turn into a toad. So, even with her glaringly obvious mental condition, I married her.

Now, in addition to being a rather unsightly fellow, I snore like a mother. Yep, always have. Roommates in college cringed at the thought of sharing a room with me. If I had a dollar for every pillow thrown at me in the middle of the night, my wealth would put Warren Buffett’s to shame. My wife, bless her, put up with it for more than a decade before she could take no more.

So, I have the sex appeal of Quasimodo, a snoring ferocity that would silence a caterwauling cat, and the love-making skills of a zombie on crack. Yes, my wife is a lucky lady.

I figured that if I reduced one of the many negative traits that make up — you know — me, maybe I could score some points with the wife. You know, increase the frequency of the cracked-out zombie lovin’ just a bit. Then I realized what the wife was looking at on the opposite end of the bed every night and morning…

… and I realized that my previous thoughts and motivation were somewhat deluded.

Damn it.

Not only is a CPAP more effective than a chastity belt, it’s hella expensive to maintain. My CPAP contraption is made by Philips. You know, the light bulb people. Apparently Philips isn’t raking in quite enough money selling light bulbs, because they try to rape you on the price of one of their CPAP machines. I mean, seriously… A CPAP machine is little more than a reverse vacuum cleaner that blows instead of sucks. It’s got some kinda brain that registers when to blow and when not to. My Droid X phone completes a hell of a lot more complicated tasks than my CPAP machine, but the Droid X cost a small fraction of what that stupid Philips thingie did. Plus, I don’t have to buy outrageously priced replacement parts for my Droid X. This little gasket thingie (I believe it’s referred to as a “cushion” in the screwlicious world of CPAP) costs $65:

Seriously… 65 freaking dollars for a little piece of rubber. And, you wanna take a wild guess at how long that little sucker lasts? About a month.

Yeppers, one solitary month, or as they stay in China: 一個臭烘烘的一個月.

After about a month, the piece of crap starts to leak. So, with the payments on the machine (we rent… ’cause that’s the way our insurance rolls), the monthly “cushion”, and the other cheaply made, outrageously prices parts and pieces that need to be purchased for this sucker on a regular basis, my CPAP therapy costs a small fortune every year to maintain. I don’t know how people who aren’t on decent insurance can afford something like this (unless, of course, they are in that stupid 1%); oh wait… they can’t. People who are uninsured or have crappy insurance get to die early because they can’t afford to treat their sleep apnea. Well, we’re all better off without them, right? Don’t believe me? Just ask the 1%.

Oh sure, my sleep apnea is somewhat under control now. I sleep better at night. My wife sleeps better at night. But, I will freaking look like this every night for the rest of my life:

Bet you’re gonna have nightmares now, aren’t you? I do, and I’m sure the wife does too…

I Hate the Holidays…

Yep, you read right: I hate the holidays. By “the holidays,” I mean the season starting right around Halloween (which I know isn’t a real holiday, but that’s when this all starts)…

… and ending shortly after the champagne is drained on New Year’s Eve.

I hate this time of year. Not that I don’t appreciate things like Christ’s birth. You know, He went on to die a horrible death on a cross for our sins! His is a birth worth celebrating. It’s not that I don’t need to show my appreciation for all that I have by gorging myself on turkey and mashed potatoes and pecan pie… I do that just like I’m supposed to. The reason I hate the holidays is because the holidays are a two-month extravaganza leading to the ending of another year. The holidays are also the beginning of a new year that is supposed to hold new promise and hope for great things to come. Whatever…

Being an old pessimist, the ending of a year means another year of exactly what I expected: nothing spectacular.

I spent about 35% of my waking hours in 2011 getting up much earlier than I cared to and going to a job. I sat at a desk and talked with people who were upset with their Internet service, tried to manage a small cast of characters, and had any creative marketing idea I came up with shot down faster than the boss could say, “I’m not feeling it.” I think a funny YouTube video with a grandma, an alien, a “probe” and Internet would be hilarious and create much interest in our Internet services. The boss disagrees. Whatever… it’s his company. If he wants to keep it a “family-friendly” local business, that’s his choice. I guess my ideas are better for a national (or even world-wide) audience. My thoughts are too grand for Crapbraska.

After work, I almost daily went to the YMCA to do some cardio, which I recently discovered was pretty much worthless. Even though I worked my butt off at the Y, I didn’t lose a pound (apparently everything on my butt went straight to my gut), and I still found myself going on both high blood pressure and cholesterol medication this past year. I’m destined to be a fat person who doesn’t quite fit in…

At this point, it should be fairly obvious that a large portion of my life is nothing more than a huge waste of time. That’s always gratifying… knowing that a large portion of the time you spend breathing air is nothing more than time spent stealing air from someone who makes a difference.

So, the holidays do nothing more for me than remind me that I spent a large portion of the year not mattering. See, an optimist may find that realization a little depressing; for a pessimist, it’s the status quo. Long live the pessimist, usurper of the air of people who matter!

Thus, what the new year holds for me is little to get excited about. Lather, rinse, repeat. Such is life.

The great thing about being a pessimist is I know exactly what the new year is going to bring… no pleasant surprises. And if there is a pleasant surprise, it will be just that: a pleasant surprise.

The sucky thing about being a pessimist is I know exactly what the new year is going to bring…

…happy holidays, or whatever…

My Arch-Nemeses…

Do you have an arch-nemesis? Do certain people upset you just by the fact that they are alive? Do you find yourself in a social situation and come to the distinct conclusion that a certain person is ruining your social experience just by the mere fact that he or she is breathing the same air as you? No? Well, maybe it’s just me. I tend to be a little odd in that way. “That way”… hahaha… like that’s the only one! No — I’m odd in a multitude of ways. The topic of this post is, however, going to be my arch-nemesis.

I do not have a single arch-nemesis. No, I have the privilege of having several arch-nemeses. Yes — I had to look up the plural for nemesis, and yes — it is nemeses. Just because I didn’t know this does not make me less of a blogger. The fact that I’m admitting it may in fact mean that my grammar is derelict amongst the uppity-ups in the blogosphere, but that brings the point full circle to the purpose of this post. The uppity-ups are my arch-nemeses.

What do I mean by “uppity-ups”? One may think that an uppity-up is someone who looks down on others through some misconception that said someone has about being better than those he or she looks down on.

No.

My definition is based more on my feelings and how I think that person feels about their relative importance to society. I am most likely completely incorrect in my feelings and thinking, but this is how I judge someone’s arch-nemesis-worthiness.

Confused? Yeah, I may be too. Let me give an example.

Let’s pretend that last night I went to a choir concert. Let’s pretend that I was at said concert with the wife for the purpose of viewing my oldest son sing with the choir. Yes, he’s in the choir and no, he did not crash the concert in an attempt show off his singing ability. He is his mother’s son as much as he is mine. At this pretend concert, the wife and I enjoyed the experience and it was a fulfilling hour of musical entertainment.

Now, the pretend concert is over and my family and I are making our way from the auditorium to the parking lot. This is when I start to spot them: my arch-nemeses. First the shoe-store man and his wife. I know that this man is a zillionaire because, if you are buying shoes in the panhandle of Nebraska, most likely, you are buying them from him. Money is practically oozing out of this guy. He doesn’t have a clue as to who I am, because… why would he? Suddenly, it’s on! And up-up-and-awaaaayyyy goes my paranoid mind:

This guy probably thinks he is better than me. His wife think she is better than my wife. Their kid thinks he is better than my kid. Other people like Shoe-store Man’s family better than they like my family because the guy is a bazillionaire.

Other kids in school treat Shoe-store Man’s kid better than they treat my kid because Shoe-store Man is a quadrabazillionaire. Shoe-store Man’s kid is going to have a better, more successful life than my kid because my kid has me for a father instead of my arch-nemesis.

My kid hates me and secretly wants Shoe-Store Man to adopt him! My wife secretly desires an affair with Shoe-store Man because it is blatantly obvious that Shoe-store Man is a better provider for his family than I am. Shoe-store Man is like seven-foot tall and attractive… and I am at 5’7″, fat and ugly… and I really can’t blame my wife for wanting to leave me for Shoe-store Man. Shoe-store Man is destroying my family and robbing me of my life!

Shoe-store Man must DIE!!!

The wife asks if everything is okay.

“Are you kidding?!?” I seethe. “Do you see that SOB and his wife, acting all like their better than us and crap?”

“What are you talking about?” The concern in the wife’s voice is filtered out by the pure hatred in my soul.

“There,” I point, my entire body shaking as I try to aim my finger in the general direction of the shoe-store guy and his family.

“What about them?” asks the wife.

“They are ruining this for me!” I say through clenched teeth.

“What are they doing?” asks the wife.

“Can’t… can’t… can’t you see it?” I stammer. “They’re… he is… tall… their net worth… and the smug… she looks so…designer clothes… AAUGH (because I may actually turn into Charlie Brown when I’m upset) — THEY ARE RUINING THIS FOR ME!”

“I think you need to go to the car,” says the wife calmly. She has seen me like this before.

“I WILL!” I yell and then stomp off toward the parking lot once again. I glare at shoe-store guy until he is out of my sight.

‘Don’t think I don’t know who you are, Shoe-store Man,’ I whisper to myself. A small girl in pigtails with a lollipop in her mouth hears my whisper of rage and stares at me wide-eyed like I’m crazy. I growl at her and she looks away.

And as I am about to exit the building, I see him. A chiropractor, smiling as he mingles with the throbbing mass of after-concert crowd. A chiropractor whom I suspect to be a multi-quadrabazillionaire. The one who may very well be my arch-nemesis… The Chiropractor!

Hahaha… of course this is all an exaggeration (… or is it?). None of this really happened (… or did it?).

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, so I tend to use mine whenever possible… not always in the most productive ways, but I’m using it. I use it daily. I’m using my mind to sniff out my arch-nemeses…