For my overseas readers (which includes Canada, just miles north of here on a snowmobile) I would like you to take a gander at how we do things here on the election front. It’s not all nasty as the media would have you believe.
Tuesday night I attended my caucus. Caucus is a Latin word for “too many sweaty people crammed into a noisy room after dinner.”
My caucus was held in the same building that the Democratic Farm Labor party held theirs. They were upstairs, we were downstairs. They stole all our signs, we left theirs alone.
Seated next to me at the Republican caucus was a college student. On the other side, an older woman. One white, one black. Around the table we had an assortment of groundskeepers, technicians, teachers, small business owners, union members, and one attorney. He was to be forgiven based on the fact that he’s an immigrant from Australia. That buys you a lot of rope when you’re a young person who clearly worked your butt off to get where you are in this world – no special treats for him except hard work.
Nobody pounded on the table. Nobody was rude to another. Everyone was quite civil. We had about 20 people in my ward/precinct. We elected officers and delegates to the next level. We handed out ballots. We voted. We tallied ballots. We left.
The next day I stopped at the Mojo Monkey Donuts near my house. I got a box of donuts. I included one for a coworker who went to the other caucus, will vote for the other candidate, and who will still be my friend when this whole thing is over in November. He got a donut with red frosting because that’s what he wanted last week. No significance to the color. Just the odds are good that it would be tasty. It was – I got one for myself.
Tomorrow we will all endorse/root for/hope for/pray for candidates different than others. I plan on remaining civil. I also plan on responding with full fury if someone impinges upon my right to vote as I choose, or to display a yard sign. I will not do that to others. It is un-American. In my city, which is heavily Democrat, it happens all the time. Republican and Libertarian signs get trashed all the time. But I won’t retaliate.
In November, we will go to the poles. There will be cheating. There always is. I think that voter identification would stop a lot of it (*I was a poll-watcher a few times and it’s pretty blatant*) and not take away anyone’s rights. But there are other ways to cheat, and the vermin among us will always seek a host for a free ride. It’s sad.
After the election we will all bitch and moan about the results. Some will gloat. Some will mourn. The odds of tanks and troops in the streets on November 9 is infinitesimal. In February of 2017 we will have a new President. Hopefully not a convicted/soon to be convicted/felon.
Life will go on. Better or worse, it will go on.
I can’t say that about any other country. Except Canada. They have Hockey Night. Nobody with Hockey Night could be all bad.
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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.
I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.
In the past few months, the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy (MCPON) has generated controversy with his skills/job based physical fitness test proposals. I would like to provide some background and suggested tests that might apply not only to military jobs, but the civilian world as well.
A little background is in order. While I am currently fatter than two of you put together (*in many cases*) I was once a young man with an abundance of muscle and an enormous neck. I could lift more weight, pass cases of goods from the helicopter, tote heavy seabags long distances, and generally out-goon almost anybody you knew. I was strong.
Alas, I was also very slow. I was a man designed to provide strength, not swiftness. As a result, I failed the annual triple event physical fitness test on a few occasions. The events were run, jump, puke. Not always in that order. Seriously, it was pushups, sit-ups, and a run. I could hammer out the sit-ups and pushups, but the run was a huge challenge. Mental as much as phsyical, I hated running. All of this frivolity was followed by a neck and waist measurement so that skinny little admin weasels could tell me that I was a fat blob. (I may be remembering that from a skewed perspective…)
I hated the PRT (Physical Readiness Test) and all that it meant: my not getting promoted if I kept failing the stupid thing. This lead to some, er, a lot of cheating on my part. I think the statute of limitations on this is now past it’s enforcement date. I hereby admit that I cheated like a drunken card-shark in Vegas on a losing streak. Anything to pass that test. My proudest moment of dishonesty was when the base at Rota, Spain, put in a track. There wasn’t enough room to make it a full 1/4 mile oval. Thankfully some genius decided that a figure 8 shaped track would do just as well. I liked that track. I could easily merge with the herd entering the bottom half and skip the top half if I gave a glance toward the monitors before “blending.” The trick was to only do it once or twice during the test lest I be too fast. I was always close, within 30 seconds to two minutes of making the run in the allotted time. That 1/2 a loop made all the difference.
My favorite excuse was that I was deployed, or just coming back from a deployment, when they had the test. Nobody expected me to get out in the Spanish sun and run after spending the last 30 days cooped up on a submarine. By the time they could reschedule the test, I was back out at sea. That worked for a couple of tests. Kept me out of jail (remedial physical fitness) which was just an excuse for some sadistic clown that was up for Chief lording it over all of the “fat bodies” for 45 minutes twice a week. The good thing was that they were so busy tormenting some soul that they never noticed me slipping out for a smoke after ten minutes and returning just in time for a shower.
I’ll admit I didn’t play by the rules, but I always contended that I didn’t have very far to run on a Los Angeles class submarine. Secondly, when it came to the fun-filled event known as replenishment, I was a superstar. This is an activity that consists of several helicopter crews, and a ship next to you, dropping cargo on your deck at an ever increasing pace. Usually conducted in such a manner as to make the Captain of the ship a raving Ahab because of potential collision with the fueling ship, and the great chance that one of those escaped lunatics piloting the helicopter will catch their pallet and sling on the ship and consequently crash into the poor fools waiting to carry the cargo away like a trail of hungry ants.
I could handle that all day. It was strength work. More than once I worked some other sailor who had a perfect PRT score into a coma by handing them boxes. They had to quit. I stuck it out until we were done. Never failed. Strong like bull.
Finally, before I propose the tests, I could never see the relationship between my very nerdy job (Cryptoligic Linguist) and running. Unless somebody was trying to abduct me, I was going to stand and fight it out. Kidnap teams of my nightmares might provoke a run. But that was about it.
On to the tests:
Cryptologic Technician Interpretive – climb a ship’s ladder while holding 4 cups of hot coffee, spilling none when the ladder is tilted to simulate the submarine changing depth. This is a timed event, because you are actually supposed to be manning your equipment. Add 1 second to the time for each drop of coffee spilled.
Author: this is a combination test. You must carry three reams of paper in one hand while balancing a pastry and a cup of tea on top of the pile. During the 10 meter event, you have to tap the blue-tooth for your phone, step over the dog, and mute the television.
Electronics Technician: while complaining that nobody appreciates you, you have to stick your hand into an energized cabinet and be mildly electrocuted. After the shock wears off, you must spring to your feet and declare, “That’s nothing. One time…” without any evidence of tardive dyskinesia.
Editor: in this test, the individual must curse under their breath for three hours while scrolling through a document on the computer. Every 18 seconds they MUST find an error, or insert a comment bound to make the author cry. During this test, they must pace back and forth, cover a minimum of 1/3 mile during the thirty minute evolution.
Cryptologic Technician Collection: in this event you must sit rigidly in your chair, glare at the computer screen in front of you while listening to static on the headphones you wear at a high level of volume. Every minute, without fail, you must leap to your feet, knocking the chair over and proclaim: “I could have been an “I” brancher but my recruiter was a moron!” Pickup chair, regain your seat, and repeat. Duration of test is 2 hours.
Ship’s Serviceman: This is the most demanding of the tests by far. You must give a shipmate a bad haircut, do his laundry, “lose” 1 expensive watch from the ship’s store, and collect bribes from the rest of the crew for stocking “their” brands of soda pop and snacks in the store. All of these events are combined with running up and down ladders with a clipboard and an urgent sense of purpose and declaring, “Chief, honest: that cash balanced when I left the register.” This is a timed event as well, all events must be completed in 1 hour, including 8 trips from the bowels of the ship to the combat center. It is permissible to fake the ladder event, and instead hide in a fan closet drinking scotch.
I would like to describe some other events, but I’m pretty sure I’ve ticked off most of the Navy by now, so I’ll just call it a day.
We all had jobs to do: but only the SEABEES and the SEALS had to run. The rest of us had our own crosses to bear.
Have a great, Navy day.
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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.
I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.
That title will probably garner me some dirty looks from a few readers, but worry not: I’m still faithful to my wife. But my wife didn’t write The End of the World. Amy Matayo did. And I’m in love with her for what she’s written.
I’ve discussed my man-card issues here before, and this situation is no different. I keep the man card based on my beard, wicked good skills with weaponry, superior driving ability, lawn-mowing agility, snow-shoveling prowess, and a shaved head that blinds jet pilots at altitude on a sunny day.
That having been said, there are a few women authors of romance novels who probably should get new titles. It’s not a romance novel. It’s a wonderful story of pain, anger, hurt, struggle, victory, and resolution. I wish these damned literary boxes weren’t so confining: they hurt authors.
Amy Matayo has hit an absolute bulls eye with The End of the World. I hate spoilers, so you won’t get them. I will, instead, tell you that only one other author, Rajdeep Paulus, has torn a bit of my heart out in the way that Amy has done with this book. You will experience angst as a given, joy in abundance, sadness in its depths, and hope springs forth in many places.
You will also feel fear. Lots of fear. Fear of what others might do and how you might react to that fear. I am not ashamed to say that from this day forward (when I remember) I am painting a fingernail in solidarity with abused and beaten children. I have always taken my role as a sheepdog seriously, but as of today I’m a polished man. Click the link. Join me.
If you’re going to wear nail polish, it should be sparkly and purple.
If you’re searching for a way to write a novel from two points of view (The Sacred P.O.V. that writing teachers babble about constantly) you need look no further. Amy is teaching the final lesson on the subject. Study with a master. The same goes for setting scenes and dialogue. Not only does she know what bits to use to make you present, she also knows what not to tell you. The dialogue is what you’d expect from real humans. No exposition. No babbling about deep feelings and meaning. Terse. Tightly crafted. Wonderful.
There is an air of suspense throughout the work that is masterful. If there isn’t a film made of this very soon, someone should hang in Hollywood. Yes, it’s that good. I found myself ripping through the book at a near record pace. I lost precious sleep trying to finish it before I had to go to work. It is a fast read as a result.
Amy, thanks for an outstanding book. Shaye and Cameron are beautifully written. The villains? You did an amazing job bringing that evil to light – they are as you’ve depicted them in the real world. It’s always good to glimpse the darkness and know where to thrust that beam of light. Most of all, you remind us that forgiveness is there for the asking. We’re all broken. Thank you for some of the glue that will put your readers back together.
I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.
I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.
Saturday was the morning when I got up early, left my sleeping wife in the hotel room, and headed out on the streets of Las Vegas to find breakfast before sitting down to do some writing. I like that part of this town – there’s always something good to eat if you are willing to walk a bit.
My choice of restaurants was dictated by a combination of the smell of a great steak, and the bitter irony of the joint’s namesake. Only in Las Vegas could the man who was banned from baseball for life have a restaurant dedicated to him. I’m not a stakeholder in the arguments on his getting into the hall of fame, but the dude did like to gamble and this is definitely the city for that activity.
Turns out they make a great country-fried steak and potatoes. Got the eggs just right as well. Good coffee. Best of all, they had a counter that faced the sidewalk where you could watch the deritus of the human race go by. (Big word for a fat guy in red shorts who’s wearing pink sunglasses – let that Freak Flag fly in Vegas, baby.)
Once the meal was consumed, my little fingers were ready to pound the keys and do some writing. Problem is, I had only my travel keyboard with me and the arthritic fingers were acting up. Simple solution: get a full-sized blue-tooth keyboard and synch it up with the tablet. God knows there’s a ton of electronics shops in Las Vegas.
The first two places I went were more into cameras and other devices. No keyboards. Tablets yes, keyboards no. But I was assured by the very nice man at the shop near Mr. Rose’s establishment that there was a Fry’s electronics one mile away on the right-hand side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Rightie-O, off I go.
The sidewalks of this city are a combination of pinball, eye-dominance, and jousting. I usually win due to my size and appearance. Not even the most aggresive touts for the topless opportunities consider violating my space after a glare or two. Instead, they just nod and fix their gaze on some other poor fool. This fool moves on unscathed.
Once I hit Tropicana, I crossed over the street on an elevated walkway. The casinos own the turf in front of their buildings, and police it aggressively. The overpasses are fair game (evidently public property) and are littered with everything from addicts pan-handling for their next fix to the completely insane who don’t have enough money to be a high-roller in a casino. I’m pretty sure that it’s a matter of dollars more than anything else that marks the boundry between the two, as the level of self-destrucive behavior is relatively similar.
WARNING: I do gamble. I plan to tithe any winnings, but I like the machines. I don’t smoke because you can get all you want just being inside a casino, and I don’t drink because it makes me feel bad. But the one-armed bandits are fun. Judge me if you must, but I’m just coming clean. I have a daily limit, don’t exceed it, and walk away poorer but always with the potential to have a sack of cash in the event of the reels lining up just so…
Back to the story. Marching along down the sidewalk, the further toward the airport you go the thinner the foot traffic. Once you’re past Mandalay Bay, you start to think, “Gee. Fry’s is usually a big place. I don’t see any sign of it.” However, I am an imbecile, it’s a nice day, I have sunglasses and a sidewalk clear of morons. This is good. I’m willing to walk a little further than I expected. After all, I used to walk half marathons, 10K races, even a full marathon one time. I’m good for another few blocks.
Less than an hour later, with the sun now high in the sky, I still couldn’t see any sign of the shopping center that allegedly housed the electronics super-store. Breakfast was catching up with me, and while there were secluced spots where a gentleman could be out of view and take care of all that coffee, I had watched entirely too many episodes of JAIL and COPS: Las Vegas. In my mind, there was no doubt that the minute I lit behind the tree and committed to the task, a helmeted bicycle cop would spring over the embankment and taser my bearded bod. Nope. Not gonna do it.
The sidewalk ran out. As in, no more concrete. No more smoothed gravel. Just gravel. The last pedestrian in the city was easily 100 yards away in any direction. Not too many fools stumble toward the mountains in this city. It’s a driving kind of place. But ahead there was a building. A refuge from my potential criminality – nope. It was a police substation. I may be an idiot, but I’m not turning myself in. Keep walking.
Blocks later I came upon the maintenance buildings for the Bali Hai golf course. The kind grounds keeper not only let me use the bathroom, but told me that Fry’s was just a 1/4 of a mile away. Oh frabjabulous heart, be still.
Again, I learned that the best intentions and kind hearts still have a terrible sense of distance in this desert wasteland. One mile later I came upon a gas station/casino. Nice combo – fill the tank, empty the wallet. The clerk advised me that just the other side of the enormous truck lot next door I would find the driveway to the shopping center. Fry’s would be “at the back.”
In my naivete, I boldly headed out into the sunshine once again. Indeed, once past the truck yard, three rattle snakes, and the skeleton of an expired woman from New Jersey who clutched a chip in her bony claw, I found the shopping center.
Problem is, the thing is monstorous. Acres and acres of shops. It was at least another 1/2 mile to Fry’s. But once I got there, I was cooled by the wash of air conditioning and frightened by the lack of places to park my weary feet. It’s a big-box store and they want you to buy things and leave. My feet, on the other hand, were not great with that idea.
Fry’s is what a badly inventoried, poorly marked Best Buy would be. Think of all the negatives about Best Buy, and then reduce the signage and number of employees by about 40%. No longer will Chad from car audio try to help you with your tablet purchase, eventually to fail and get Mauricio from appliances to come in his stead (Mauricio owns a tablet, which is more than Chad can say.) No, at Fry’s there is no human that will help. Except that guy slamming merchandise on pegs two aisles over. I’m not sure what’s on that aisle, however, because the 17 point type on the endcap is legible only to Marvel superheroes who are looking for a gadget. No super powers, no readability from the midpoint of the aisle.
The conundrum is now one of etiquitte and demeanor. Will the white-shirted automaton react worse to my yelling acros two aisles, or to me hulking up on him and releasing the blast of sweat and frustration in olfactory form? I opt for arms-length:he can’t run if I grab his collar.
I lead him back to the keyboard row and tell him what I want:A full size, bluetooth keyboard. I even mention a model number on the placards. He bolts for the register before I can taser him, and I lumber in his wake. No problem, but the only one left is a display model according to the computer. Display model. The shelf of shuffled, and reshuffled, items that bear no resemblence to the placards below them. The boxes, naturally, are kept out of site at the end of the row. Gleaming, he produces the box – it’s for a minature keyboard. Yes, dear friend, the placard neglected to mention that little fact.
Now we begin searching the shelf for a possible winner. Again, we spot a likely candidate and he goes to check inventory (no box in sight.) I look along the ledge and find a better buy, and a new box to match. It’s a Microsoft designer bluetooth desktop, complete with flat mouse. BINGO!!!11!111!!
I head to the computer island and let him know I found a victim.
Next stop is Audio. My beloved has requested noise cancelling headphones during our phone conversation in which I let her know that I was not yet dead, but beyond the pavement.
If the world of keyboards was a wasteland, audio is hostile territory.
A young man is helping two older women pick out headphones. I wait patiently. He says, “I can’t help you, I’m helping them right now.”
Aside from the fact that the women will likely be done within the next ten minutes, the fact that he doesn’t tack on a “If you can wait, I’ll be glad to help you in a few minutes” ticks me off in a non-minor kind of way. Any words of hope? Nope. Instead, he pirouettes like a deranged Peter Pan and drags them out of sight to the next aisle.
I spot the home theatre section. Three large benches designed to go in your enormous living room. I plop my sweaty frame down and vow not to buy anything until a clerk acknowledges my presence.
Listen. I’d still be there if I hadn’t started to get chilled in the air conditioning. The closest I got to help was a frightened look from a young woman that said, “Holy Crap! That fat guy is sweating on our demo. He can’t sit there… I’d better go get an adult to tell him to move.”
I levered my decaying hulk from the seat and walked to the top end of the display. Bluetooth. Noise Cancelling. Sony. The winner. Price? Who knows at Fry’s. There is no hope that the box is next to the right placard.
With my keyboard and headphones I head for the cashier. There I encounter Kareem. Yes, the only real name in the story. He’s young, but he’s helpful. I ask him to call a cab for me after he’s checked out my fairly large dollar amount purchase. I note the register in his head where the inputs collate: never called a cab for a customer before. I’m sure of it: nobody in their right mind would walk to this place from anywhere else in Las Vegas.
Kareem gets his manager to hook me up with a cab. I map my route and discover I’ve walked about five miles this day and my feet are vouching for it in spades. But Kareem has lived up to his name: Arabic for generous.
My wife? She rejoiced when I dragged back in the door. She really rejoiced when she got her anniversary present early. Loves the headphones. The keyboard is awesome as well – that’s what I’m using right now.
Final benefit? I’m back on the walking kick. Heck, if you can walk out past the end of the sidewalk in Vegas, you can do anything.
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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.
I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.
There is nothing as good as a rant. Time to purge the system. Seems the cycle length between rants is decreasing for some reason. I suspect it is because society is getting dumber.
Right out of the chute, I’d like to say ENOUGH WITH THE COLORED RIBBONS AND SPECIAL DAYS AND MONTHS!!!11!!1!1111. I think my tolerance was exceeded when I saw the first pink dumpster. I like women. I like all their parts. But for crying out loud, we jumped the shark with the pink trash cans. It got worse when we then doubled down on the awareness month, and have two of them. You are not allowed to criticize this for fear you are going to be accused of rooting for cancer.
Let me tell you, I had my first meal at the breast of a woman. I’ve admired them since puberty. I am not rooting for cancer. My first real experience with it as a quasi adult was when a friend’s mother died from the disease. It was horrible. So, let it go. If you let my rant go, I won’t even mention the pink-sillouette targets that say to aim for the cure. No kidding – words to that effect, can’t break copyright. Seriously, I figured some lunatic in the PC police would have already been complaining about that one!
Speaking of guns, let’s talk about television. I know it’s fiction – I’m in that business in a way. But for the sake of both Smith & Wesson, can we at least get two things right? First, if that little black lever at the back of the slide is down, the gun is on safe. It won’t go bang. Oopsie. Next time you watch television, look for that detail. Pretty good bet it will be a Smith & Wesson model 59 in the closeup, as some armorer in Hollywood bought a couple and they are in danged near every television show and movie around. This is highly unlikely: they haven’t been made in about 30 years. I had one. I loved it. I can assure you that it won’t fire in the condition shown on television.
Black lever in firing position.
On that same rant (because I’m funny that way) they don’t go bang when your finger is out of the trigger housing either. Check the closeup. That’s what happens when actors don’t know about guns. It bugs me. But the director or prop master should have caught it. See, another thing I’ve ruined for you today.
Next topic is a doozy. Have you noticed that people are stopping further from the bumper of the car in front of them these days? Not just by a foot or so, but by several feet. This wastes space in turn lanes, and annoys me. Especially since I figured out that it’s because the jerk is texting and coasted to a stop too soon so that they can keep texting and not risk hitting the car in front of them. Look for the glow on the windshield at night and you’ll see I’m right. It’s always fun to honk while the light is still red, because they’ll likely hit the gas before they get their head back outside the car, and they’ll rear-end the car in front of them. This is only permissible if both cars have done the same thing and are currently texting. (For the sake of all that is bacon, don’t do this for real. This is just my vengeful ideal move. People could be hurt.)
Item next: all of you bicyclists wearing black clothing without lights at night deserve what you get. Spend the $10 for a head lamp and an additional $10 for a tail light that blinks. I’d like not to hit you. But when you wing around the stop sign without stopping, into my path, with no lights – well, you’re on your own.
I have more to contribute, but I’m pretty sure it’s been disturbing enough. Just to clarify: I like women, I hate technical flubs in movies and television, I hate texting drivers (but wouldn’t hurt one), and I used to ride a bike.
See you soon.
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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.
I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.
