William Martin: Author - Actor - Voiceover Artist
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Ah, What the Hell

11/1/2022

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I was able to sleep in for a bit this morning, which everyone knows is why God, evolution, or whatever deity you follow, made Saturdays to begin with.

When I got up and looked outside I saw that it was one helluva glorious day today. Sunshine, temperatures in the mid ‘70s, hardly any wind. Definitely not a day to stay indoors.

I should point out that I’m not a morning person at all. I found out a long time ago that, left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1:00 a.m. or 1:30 and sleep in until 9:00 or 10:00. In a way this makes it difficult to get up on weekdays at 6:00 a.m., but on the plus side, I’m not really awake until about mid-morning. So, half my workday is practically done –although I may not have a real clear recollection of just what it was I did.

You take the good with the bad.

But I had to have my coffee first. Yep. I’m one of those.

I have to have two or three cups of coffee just to get my heart beating and my lungs functioning properly.

So I sat and drank my coffee and looked out on this really gorgeous day, deciding what I would do.

I noticed the lawn had grown about five feet since my last fall mowing. I should probably take care of that. It had dried enough. I could do that. My 30-year-old Sears lawnmower would be up for it. I’m pretty positive that I will die long before that thing does.

The weeds around the edge of the yard were higher than the grass, so I thought about breaking out the old weed-whacker and taking care of those.

Some of the lawn edging (okay, quite a bit of the edging) had started rotting away, so I needed to replace those. I used those red, timber things because they were cheap, but I did get a lot of mileage out of them.

My German Shepherd, Maggie, was alternately looking at me and the glass door to outside, not so subtly letting me know that she’d be more than happy to run after a stick for a few hours, if I’d be willing to throw it.

My truck hasn’t had a bath in months and it could really use a good wax as well. The interior also needs to be vacuumed and cleaned.

There was a lot of stuff that needed done inside the house too: laundry, the floors, dusting…

So I sipped my coffee and planned my day.

Then I sipped my coffee and checked my email, social stuff, news, and worked on a poem a bit –while I was waking up, of course.

When next I looked, it was 11:00 a.m. I shut down the computer and gazed again at the lawn, the weeds, the borders, my dog (who still continued to stare at me with the intensity that only dogs can do), and my dirty pickup. I also looked again at the floors, the laundry, and the dusting that needed to be done.

So I made myself some breakfast.

You can’t take on those kinds of chores on an empty stomach.

After making and eating my eggs, bacon (the fairy dust of foods), and toast (and drinking a couple of more cups of coffee), I was ready to hit it.

But by then it was almost 12:30.

Suddenly, the lawn, weeds, edging, dog, the dirty pickup, the floors, the laundry, the dusting…it all seemed so overwhelming. And in the back of my mind I knew the grass would grow again, the weeds would spring forth again, other parts of the edging would rot, the clothes would get dirty again, as would the floors and the furniture…

I wasn’t sure where to start first.

So I debated on it and tried to plan a strategy of attack.

Next thing I knew it was past 1:00 p.m.

So I had a beer and checked my email again and my social media stuff again.

Then I took a nap, because I was still a little tired.

Now it’s late afternoon and time for another beer.

Why did I get a house with a yard anyway?

Why did I insist on getting a dog?

Why couldn’t I just hire someone to clean my truck?

Why couldn’t I just wear my clothes another day or two? I mean really, who would notice?

That’s when I reached the point of “Ah, what the hell.”

And started writing my blog and having another beer.

There will be plenty of time to get to all that other stuff tomorrow.

Right?

The only thing is…I never did make it outside, but it looked great through the window.

Be well.     --William


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F/X 

10/1/2022

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            Just last Saturday I was working hard, watching movies as I lay on the sofa (purely research for writing…honest) and shoving healthy snacks like potato chips, Peanut Butter M&M’s, and beer in my face (you have to keep the calories up if you’re working hard –and don’t even get me started on hydration).

            As per usual, my thoughts were everywhere: on the movie, on the food, on the beer, on what we were going to have for dinner, and why the dogs can’t clean up their own dog run. 

            That’s when I realized something (I do have occasional single thought bursts): I’d just watched a good guy –Judge Dredd—shoot a bad guy –generic bad guy name—in the head. This in itself isn’t unusual in films today, but as I stuffed my mouth with M&M’s and washed them down with beer I realized that I was watching everything in slow motion. The bullet moved at a rate of about two feet per hour. It pushed on the bad guy’s forehead a bit before punching through. It came out the back of his head in a slow-motion explosion of red and grey gore.

            I think some of the spray even ended up on the camera lens, but by this time the action had sped up again.

            And then I wondered how I could eat M&M’s and drink beer while watching a guy’s head explode and not even think too much about it. I figured it out right away.

            Desensitization.

            Of course, I had to pat myself on the back for a bit because I’d used a word with more than three syllables, but once I got my mind back on track I thought some more on the concept itself.

            It didn’t bother me to watch this gore-fest, because I’ve seen it in films so many times before; I’ve become desensitized.

            I’ve never been in combat, but through films I’ve seen people shot, exploded, stabbed, parts cut off, hit, beaten, crushed, dismembered, tortured, water-boarded, and even put on the receiving end of some pretty severe noogies.

            It’s a wonder we all don’t have PTSD.

            I read an interview with a filmmaker recently, who was quoted as saying that given the special effects and CGI capabilities they have now, they can literally show you anything you can imagine on the big screen.  The only limitation is money.

            Think about that: Anything. You. Can. Imagine.

            That’s both exciting and a bit scary –I guess depending on your imagination.

            Ah, but therein lies the rub. (Okay, now I’m giving myself mega-kudos for using ‘desensitization’ and quoting Shakespeare in one blog post…but back to what I was saying.)

            By providing us with ultra-slow-motion, ultra-detailed effects, aren’t filmmakers actually killing our imaginations? They’re showing us everything and our imaginations don’t have any room to get its groove on.

            For example, when I was a kid we watched “The Adventures of Superman” on television. Of course, there were only three channels, but we’d have watched it anyway.

            George Reeves played Superman. Google a picture. The Superman of yesteryear looked nothing like the Superman of today.

            The Superman of yesteryear had a potbelly. He had no muscle definition whatsoever. He even had a bit of a waddle under his chin. When he flew he would run a couple of steps and jump. You could literally see him starting to come back down before the camera cut away to his flying. 

            Poor George looked like he was straining to keep his head up and his arms level with his body. His belly sagged a bit. He looked unsteady –as though Superman hadn’t read the rules on drinking and flying.

            You could see the wires! Small wires at his shoulders, waist and knees lifted him off the ground. The only other effect was a long “Whoooooooooosh,”—supposedly the air he carved through like a red and blue marshmallow.

            You knew that after filming that twenty second shot George probably had to go for a smoke break and a drink. They used the same shot over and over and over and…well, you get the idea.

            But here’s the thing…

            WE DIDN’T CARE!

            We loved it anyway. Our little imaginations kicked into overdrive. We could overlook the potbelly, the wires, the awkward takeoff, the cheap suit and cape. We could ignore all that because for those twenty seconds we were Superman.

            Our imaginations filled in all the plot and productions holes and delicately painted over all the cheap effects.

            It was the same with Batman.

            As a kid, I wanted to be those heroes. I wanted to be those guys. I knew I could be those guys.

            Hell, now at 53, I could still probably be those guys.

            Today, Superman’s body is perfect. Ripped muscles (or is it cut? I forget), six-pack abs, hair perfect. Batman is the same. And when the newer Superman flies, it looks, sounds and feels like he’s actually flying.

            My imagination doesn’t have a single thing to work with here. Everything is provided.

            And I sure as hell can’t imagine myself being one of these new superheroes. They look like they spend eight hours a day at the gym. The closest I get to a gym is when I drive past one on my way to get a donut and coffee before work.

            I miss the old heroes. The ones that allowed me to use my imagination –which was much better than any special effects they had.

            Just for nostalgia’s sake, I think this afternoon I might do what I did years ago when I was a wee-shaver. Mom would safety pin a towel around my neck and for an hour or so I was Superman. Or she’d let me run around the house in my undies, rubber knife in hand (yes, they actually sold those as toys) and be Tarzan for a while. I usually passed on playing Batman, because he had so much crap in his utility belt that even a five-year-old me did some major eye-rolling.

            But if I do that now the neighbors might start talking again and there’s the chance my wife could walk in on me. The neighbor thing would be bad. The wife can be a wild-card. She might actually enjoy a bit of pretending too. Maybe I should reconsider that utility belt...

            Nah. I think I’ll get back to watching movies and stuffing my face with M&M’s and beer while someone else provides the imagination for me.

            It’s a whole lot safer and easier that way.

            Dammit.

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Super Cop

8/1/2022

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* Caveat: My intent in this post is not to slight law enforcement personnel. It is simply my experience shared through the lenses of time, memory, and the need to tell a decent story. Enjoy.

Super Cop

            I’ve mentioned before on this blog that when I was younger I wasn’t the Einstein that many confuse me with today (honestly, I hear ‘Way to go Einstein!’ fairly frequently which only goes to prove my point). One of my greater deficiencies was the inability to choose a career path. I mean, I thought I made a lot of decisions, but my dad said that making a lot of decisions wasn’t the same as making the decision. That was dad: he could deflate a brick if he was of a mind to. But one advantage to being clueless is the opportunity to seek out and discover a wide variety of potential careers you suck at. 

            Which is what I did.

            I tried dish washing. I sucked at it, hated it and, truth be told, wasn’t very good at it. It does not bode well when you have a small epiphany and realize you suck at one of the most menial jobs available.

            I tried installing floor covering: I sucked.

            Sheetmetal apprentice: I sucked.

            Salesman: I really sucked (check out my ‘If I, Will You?’ blog post).

            Shipping/receiving clerk: I sucked.

            Welding supply store manager: I sucked.

            Heavy steel construction: I sucked.

            I think you’re getting the idea of the pattern I established early on. Yet there was one career I checked into where a strange thing happened: I didn’t suck. Unfortunately, many of the people within the career sucked, but in various ways.

            I decided I would pursue a career in law enforcement.

            The idea of wearing a uniform, feeling like I belonged, and helping others appealed to me. I liked the honor and nobility of it. All that and I could carry a gun. I mean, how cool is that?

            I had visions of being in uniform smiling down at some little kid who would be reaching up to touch my gun and me saying in a deep, kind voice, “Don’t touch that, sonny. It’s dangerous.” Of course I also had visions of being in uniform and some hot chick reaching over to touch my gun and me smiling and saying in a deep, sexy voice, “Go ahead and touch it. It’s dangerous.”

            I went down to the local cop shop to check into it. They suggested I go on “ride-alongs” with some of the patrolmen to get a feel for the job and decide if I truly wanted to pursue it.

            No problem.

            Well, I say no problem, but I always had to go with the late shift, which put me home about 2:00 a.m., but hey, I’m not a morning person anyway.

            My first night on a ride-along was dull as hell. I sat for six hours listening to the patrolman (I’ll call him Bob) bitch about his previous two wives and how this third one wasn’t much better and ‘what the hell is wrong with women?’ I almost said, “Hey buddy, if you’re facing your third strike, you might try checking your swing instead of blaming the bat.” But since it was my first night, I kept my mouth shut.

            The second night we had excitement. Another officer was in pursuit of a motorcycle traveling at a high rate of speed. Officer Bob hit the party lights, picked up his mike, gave his code and said, “We’re on it.” We’re on it. I felt like I was part of the squad already.

            We raced to cut off the motorcycle which the other cop judged was traveling somewhere between 60 mph and instant death. Far up the road we saw a single headlight. Before it got to us though, it veered to the right down a side street. We raced up to the side street, looked and saw nothing. Then we slowly cruised around the neighborhood until we finally ended up down a back alley. We were barely rolling behind a house when I saw a motorcycle.

            Me: “There’s a motorcycle.”

            Bob: “Yeah, but there’s nobody on it.”

            Me: “Yeah, but he could have gotten off of it.”

            Bob (shrugging his shoulders): “How ya gonna know?”

            Me: “Well, I could hop out and go see if the engine’s hot.”

            Bob (after some short, false reflection): “That might work. Go check it out.”

            I did. The engine was hot. I went back and reported to Officer Bob.

            Me: “It’s hot alright”

            Bob: “Okay, get in.”

            Me: “But aren’t we going to go knock on the door and check it out?”

            Bob: “Nah. My shift is over in a half hour and I don’t want to be stuck at the station for another two hours filling out paperwork. The guy was only speeding anyway.”

            Me: “He was also eluding a police officer, endangering other motorists, riding recklessly.”

            Bob (his eyes narrowing): “Get in the Goddam car.”

            I got in the car as instructed and that ended our night of fighting crime.

            The next night, Officer Bob drove right through an accident scene. I pointed out the obvious.

            “Um, Bob, an accident just happened at this intersection.”

            Officer Bob rolled the window down and called out, “Is anybody hurt?” A few people shook their heads and Bob yelled, “Hang tight. I’ll have another cruiser right here.” We continued on our way and he called it in. I asked him why we didn’t stop to see if help was needed.

            Officer Bob: “’Cause there’s a shoplifter to pick up at Wagner’s Grocery and I want to get him.”

            Me: “Why? It seems like the accident would be more important. There could be people injured. The store is holding the shoplifter. He isn’t going anywhere.”

            Bob: “Yeah, but if I get to the shoplifter I’ll get to take him down to the station to the booking agent and the booking agent is hot! Actually, I’m talking beyond hot. She’s scalding!”

            Me: “To protect and to serve, huh?”

            He glared at me for a few seconds and didn’t say much the rest of the night.

            The next night I was paired up with Officer Fred. Fred had recently moved to our small town from L.A. He seemed like a good guy and we got along pretty well, until we were driving through a fairly affluent community and a kid with a group of other kids waved at us.

            Officer Fred dove for the floorboards and actually started pushing the gas pedal with his hand. I hadn’t experienced this driving technique before so was a bit concerned as to how he could pull it off without looking to see where we were going.

            Me: “What the hell are you doing?”  Officer Fred sat up again, sweating and panting a bit.

            Officer Fred: “Sorry. It’s just that my last job was in East L.A. and when a kid’s hand goes up like that you don’t know what they’re throwing at you. I know this is a small town and that stuff doesn’t really happen. I just need to…I guess ‘retrain’ my instincts.”

            We made a routine traffic stop a bit later that evening. Officer Fred called in the plates and then leaned toward me, his head below the dash. His face was invading my private space a bit more than I cared for, but then he whispered, “Okay, if any shit goes down, you scrunch down to that floor board as much as you can. You get all the way down there. But whatever you do, you do not scrunch down on the floorboard on this side.”

            Me: “Okay. Because the pedals will get in the way, right?”

            Officer Fred: “No. ’Cause I’ll be scrunching down over here and I don’t want you invading my personal space.”

            He went on to tell me that the car, an older piece of crap that was lucky to be rolling, was a ‘throw-down’ rig. When I asked what that was he explained it was the kind of car that low-lifes drove and if something prompted shooting and they ended up being unarmed, you’d need a throw-down gun to toss in the car so the shooting would be ‘righteous.’

            I decided to just stay on the floorboard while he went and wrote them a ticket for going through a stop sign at ‘walk speed.’ The floorboard wasn’t too uncomfortable and it was somewhat emotionally comforting after all of the paranoia Officer Fred instilled in me.

            My last night of trying ‘ride-alongs,’ I was once again paired with Officer Bob. He was in a jovial mood compared to my other rides with him. I soon found out he had solved all his problems with his third wife.

            Me: “Wow. Good for you. So you two straightened everything out?”

            Officer Bob: “Nah. But I’ve got a girlfriend now, so I can pretty much ignore the bitch from hell.”

            Me: “Wow. Good for you? I don’t know what to say. Congratulations?”

            Officer Bob: “You can meet her a little later if you want.”

            Me: “Nah, that’s okay. Maybe next time. You don't have to go out of your way.”

            Officer Bob: “Not a problem at all. Don’t worry about it.”

            A couple of hours later we were flying down a back road about ten miles out of town –and the area we were supposed to be patrolling. I knew we were going pretty fast, but couldn’t see the speedometer with all the cop crap between us.

            Me: “We’re going a little fast, aren’t we Bob?”

            Officer Bob: “Yeah. It sure doesn’t feel like 110 mph though, does it?”

            I felt my butt cheeks scrunch together to hold onto the seat (yeah, like that would help if we hit anything).

            Me: “Um, Bob? If it’s okay to ask, how come we’re going so fast?”

            Officer Bob: “’Cause my girlfriend lives fifteen miles from town and we only get a half-hour break.”

            Me: “Oh.”

            Officer Bob: “Well, there’s that and we’re leaving our area of patrol, so I’ll have to get back before they find out.”

            The short time that Officer Bob was with his new girlfriend in her single-wide, I scrunched down on the floorboard. I’m not sure why, but it felt a bit more comforting there. And as I wadded into a fetal ball it occurred to me that once again I’d tried a career and failed. But this time when I added it to my list it would read:

            Police officer: They sucked. 

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The Department Meeting

7/1/2022

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The Department Meeting

            “Okay, so it looks as though we’re all here, which is great, because it means we can adhere to our communal agreement to honor each other’s time. Susan, could you please record the individual names of those who are present?”

            “Um, okay, but didn’t you just say that everyone was here?”

            “Yes, Susan, but it needs to be recorded for the current meeting minutes.”

            “Oh, okay.”

            “Also, we should point out in the minutes that Susan is taking meeting notes and Bill has volunteered to keep time, so that we stay on track with the meeting topics and honor everyone’s time.”

            “But what if we stray from the meeting topics to clarify other aspects that invariably come up when we attempt to discuss an issue?”

            “Susan, please take note that Fred has introduced another topic for consideration, which we will address as time allows when we’ve completed our current agenda.”

            “But that doesn’t address the immediate consideration of allowing us to explore varied opinions and concerns in regards to our current meeting agenda.”

            “Fred, we haven’t even started the meeting proper yet, but you seem to have an issue in regards to our proceedings, which we all agreed upon at our last meeting. Do you have an issue you’d like to bring up at a future meeting?”

            “Um, no. Never mind. I’m okay.”

            “Good, then we’re able to proceed without further interruption...although if you feel the need to interrupt the meeting with other thoughts or input, we’re more than willing to stop and consider any and all input, even though it may extend our time frame, which will not honor our agreement in respecting each other’s time. Now, the first item on our agenda has to do with the school-wide policy on pencils.”

            “I’m a little confused as to how ‘pencils’ are on our department’s agenda.”

            “Bob, this has been a district wide concern that each department and each individual within that department should have concern over.”

            “But aren’t pencils just pencils?”

            “Bob, as you were informed of via email and in the email reminder of meeting minutes and the copy of those concerns placed in your mail box as you came in this morning, and the email immediately prior to this meeting, pencils are a very important issue within our department and within every department in the school. It literally reflects our school district’s policy and communication to the general public.”

            “I guess that’s where I’m a bit confused. Aren’t pencils just pencils? How are they a matter of department, school, and school district policy? I don’t get it.”

            “Let the record show that Bob ‘doesn’t get it.’ Bob, have you ever thought about what a pencil is and what it could potentially be?”

            “Um, I guess not. I guess I’ve always thought of a pencil as a pencil.”

            “Bob, I think it may be a matter of your not considering the bigger issues at stake here.”

            “What issues? Isn’t a pencil just a pencil?

            “Bob, I really wish you would have taken the time to read through the paperwork placed in your mailbox and read the emails referencing this particular topic.”

            “I’m sorry. There are just so many emails, copies of which are put in our mailboxes, and which we review at staff meetings, which are also put in our mailboxes. It’s difficult to discern what is of actual importance and what is simply repeated for repetition’s sake.”

            “Bob, it seems as though you’re approaching this meeting with a bad attitude. Is everything okay at home? How are your wife and daughters?”

            “Uh, they’re all okay. My comments have nothing to do with, nor reflect upon them.”

            “Okay then, if there’s not a problem, then perhaps we can continue?”

            “Sure. Whatever. Go for it.”

            “Thank you, Bob, for allowing us to continue while honoring everyone’s individual work time.”

            “Okay.”

            “So, back to the pencils.”

            “I thought the issue of the pencils was determined last night at the school board meeting.”

            “Fred, they discussed it at last night’s board meeting, but they still require our input.”

            “Actually, I don’t think they do. They voted and reached a decision. The local newspaper printed a column on their debate and decision today. I think it may be a dead issue.”

            “Fred, administration has asked for our input on the issue, which is the primary purpose of our meeting today.”

            “Why would we meet on an issue that has already been decided? It looks to me like they’re just giving us the illusion of having input. The issue regarding pencils has already been decided.”

            “Fred, that’s where we’re trying to be proactive in regards to other aspects of the pencil issue.”

            “But what is there to be proactive about? The board decided that a pencil wasn’t a lethal weapon unless sharpened beyond a .02 diameter tip and the student illustrated ‘intent to harm.’ What else is there to be proactive about?”

            “Fred, I want to put this across professionally, without you taking it as a personal statement or attack, but have you considered the implications of varied sexuality when it comes to the pencil?”

            “Sexual implications? What the hell kind of sexual…”

            “Which is my point, Fred. We can help each other in being more proactive in understanding the varied implications of an issue, rather than the one that seems most apparent.”

            “But how the hell does a pencil relate to sexuality?”

            “You illustrate my point exactly, Fred. Have you not noticed that most pencils are --and I mean this with all decorum-- hard? And it goes without saying the implication of pencils having pink erasers on the tips. Ticonderoga is probably the most obvious example of this and in their blatant insensitivity to race, because of their particular color.”

            “They’re yellow. Is that what you mean?”

            “Um, yes Fred. Haven’t you noticed the implications of that? We’re not only talking sexually, but also in regards to ethnicity. As you know, we’re all supposed to be a bit more sensitive to those issues.”

            “Okay. Give me a moment to wrap my head around that one. Please go on.”

            “Okay then. Administration would like to have our input on the pencil issue.”

            “Our input, specifically, in regards to what?”

            “Hannah, have you not been paying attention? We need to come to a consensus regarding whether we consider wooden pencils to be a potential weapon in the hands of a student or not. Can we have a show of hands? Please raise five fingers if you believe they are and we’ll work our way down to one if you don’t think they are.”

            “But what if we’re the only one to raise one finger? Won’t that single us out?”

            “No, not at all. We’re sensitive to everyone’s opinions and input. If you vote with a single digit against everyone else, we will simply stop and re-discuss the issue until a consensus is reached.”

            “But if I’m the only one to disagree, won’t it amount to my being bullied into agreeing or being labeled as a troublemaker?”

            “Fred, I think that’s a rather cynical viewpoint. Can’t you at least give the agreed upon system a fair try? Of course, if you disagree, we’re more than happy to consider your thoughts and opinions.”

            “Um, okay.”

            “Okay then. All who vote five? Okay then, all fives except for Fred’s single ‘one’ vote. So, Fred, what can we do to convince you that you should vote along with the other fourteen of us?”

            “I guess….maybe it’s just a matter of my being confused…but you’re asking us to vote on an issue that’s already been decided, but if we don’t agree with the other votes, it will be a matter of record and we will be met with frustration and disagreement until we vote with the majority?”

            “That’s a very cynical way of looking at the proceedings we all agreed upon Fred. Would you like some time to reconsider your vote or would you like to discuss the issue that the school board voted for last night so that you might contribute in…some way?”

            “No. No. I think I understand the issue at this point and the varied opinions of all of those in our department who have contributed.”

            “Good then. So we can call it all fives. I can’t tell you all how happy I am with what we’ve accomplished today. And I really appreciate everything that everyone in our department contributed to the discussion and decision. I’ll report our thoughts, opinions, and votes to administration.”

            “Um, I don’t mean to be the spoiler in the group, but we’ve went beyond the hour of allotted time.”

            “Thank you Bill, your contribution to making sure we were all on task and accomplished so much is very much appreciated. I feel good about what we’ve managed to accomplish today people. It makes me feel good about each of you and the good things we can continue to do in the future. I look forward to letting administration know what we’ve decided here today.”

            “Um, but…

            “What was that, Fred?”

            “Nothing. Just clearing my voice a bit. I look forward to our next meeting and all that we can accomplish.”

            “Good for you, Fred. That’s the kind of input and attitude everyone can benefit from.”

            “Just noticing. We went over by four minutes on our meeting.”

            “Thank you for that input Bill. We'll talk to those who feel the need to move beyond our established time frame with our next meeting, perhaps you can help with minutes as well as time-keeping?”

            “Um. Sure. Okay. Happy to be able to contribute. As I’m sure, all of us are.”

            "Fred, in between now and the next meeting, would you like a pencil or two, just to look over and possibly take notes on so you'll be better prepared for our next meeting?"

            "That sounds great. I'll look the pencils over real well before the next meeting."

           "That's the spirit Fred. It's always a good sign when you know you have a solid team player working with you."

            "Um, thanks?"

 


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On Brothers, Gangs and Advice

6/1/2022

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I’ve mentioned elsewhere in my blogs that I was the youngest of five children and the youngest of four boys. You would think that having that many brothers would be like having your own gang, although if we were to go with the gang option, our gang colors would have been hand-me-downs, rolled up denim jeans, work boots (they lasted longer), plaid work shirts (they lasted longer too) and short hair –not the kind of image likely to strike fear in other gangs.

Dad’s rule: He gave you $5 to go get your hair cut, however you liked, just so long as it didn’t touch your eyebrows, your ears or your collar. Not a lot of leeway with those instructions.

But the hair cut only cost $3.50, so if you were within those boundaries, you got to keep the change. However, if you dared to challenge those rules, he would march you right back to the barber’s and have your hair cut his way. No one wanted that. I don’t think it ever happened.

So much for having a tough gang.

Older siblings do like to dispense advice, although I was too young, too stupid or a combination of the two to realize that often their advice was intentionally wrong.

For example: One of my older brothers decided to take up chewing tobacco. I guess because my grandfather chewed tobacco, Gary thought it might bump him up a bit on the favorite-grandkid-o-meter. (Little did he know, I think my grandfather pretty much hated all kids.)

Gary got pretty good at chewing tobacco too. I’d hang out in his bedroom with him and he’d open the window and spit a thick brown stream out the window and onto the lawn. Simply put, to me, it just made him look tough. Looking tough is quite a feat for a 16-year-old kid who is 6’3” and weighs about 145 lbs. but the tobacco and the squirt-spitting was helping him pull it off.

I began to wonder if I could try.

“Absolutely,” he said.

He then advised me to take the biggest wad of tobacco I could manage and stuff it into my cheek. I did, even though it felt like a billiard ball and tasted like dead…well, whatever the grossest dead thing you can think of might taste like.

I tried spitting out the window a few times, but my prowess in spitting was only matched by my stupidity and soon my white tee shirt looked like a crow stood backward on my head, overdosing on Ex-lax.

Then the room began to spin a bit.

Me: “Gary, it feels like the room is starting to spin. What do I do?”

Gary: “Whatever you do, do NOT spit out the tobacco. If you do that, you’re sure to get sick. It’s best if you just lie down on the bed and try not to move…at all.”

Of course, this was absolutely the worst advice anyone could give, but he was my brother and I trusted him. So I lay back on the bed, kept quiet, as the room picked up momentum. For a second or two I thought maybe that whole house spinning thing from the Wizard of Oz actually happened. I finally had to jump off the bed and make a run for the window. I stumbled and fell twice, but made it in time to empty out just about every thing that was in me.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see internal organs, my kneecaps or my socks come up.

I fell back on the floor, my head pounding as I sweated and moaned. Yet, through my own head-pounding, moaning noise, I could hear my brother’s laughter.

Another bit of advice I received included being a part my oldest brothers’ ‘plan.’ Hell, to be included in anything was a step up for me, so I naturally said "count me in."

It had happened that the brother closest to my age, Glen, had gotten in a fight with a neighborhood tough guy the day before. The kid was a year older and slightly larger than my brother, but knowing Glen, he’d probably provoked the kid somehow.

That didn’t matter to my two oldest brothers. They reminded me that they were both five and six years older than the neighborhood tough kid, so it would be ‘wrong’ for them to just hunt him down and beat him up. They needed a viable excuse to do it. They couldn’t use the excuse that the tough guy had beaten up Glen, because, in all honesty, Glen was an ass and probably started it.

But they were adamant that the kid wouldn’t get away with beating up a Martin kid. That was where we all needed to make a stand of solidarity.

I was swelling with the pride of brotherly solidarity. It was a heady thought, because it had never happened before. There had never even been a slight hint of it before. I was ready to work in brotherhood to kick the crap out of this kid who beat up a brother who often beat me up and who I didn’t even really like all that much.

Me: “So, what’s the plan?”

Gary: “The three of us will walk down the street. The tough kid is in his front yard. We can’t just start beating him up, he has to start it.”

Me: “Okay.”

Gary: “So you call him a fu**ing coc* sucker and he’ll make a move to beat you up.”

Me: “Okay, now I’m having a few doubts on this plan. Not really seeing how this is going to work out with him in a state of beat-up-edness and me living happily ever after.”

Gary: “As soon as he makes a move toward you, we’ll jump in and beat him within an inch of his life. We can say we were justified because he was going to hurt you. Come on. It’s a fool-proof plan.”

Me: --to dumb to know that the fool in the plan was me—“Alright! Let’s go for it!”

We walked the few blocks down to the tough kid’s house. He was outside. I walked in front of my older brothers.

Me: “Hey you fu**ing coc* sucker! I heard you beat up my brother. Well, I’m here to kick your ass.”

Oddly, the kid didn’t reply at all. He didn’t go through all the posturing rituals that I thought were a part of every fight. He simply walked up to me, hit me squarely in the nose and put me down. He was also soon down with me and continuing to hit me.

Me (shouting): “Backup! Where’s my backup! Call 911! Backup!”

My backup stood together over on the sidewalk, laughing so hard they were crying.

When the neighborhood tough kid was worn to a frazzle with beating me up, he got up and simply walked away and into his house. I don’t think he said a word the whole time.

My brothers picked me up by each arm and dragged me home. Of course, my mom was there and began freaking out over the blood, various swellings and bruises.

Mom: “What the hell happened?”

Gary: “I don’t know. He just went stupid and tried to pick a fight with the kid down the street.”

I think my mom knew better. I just told her I couldn’t remember what happened.

But at that point I knew, without a shred of doubt, that we’d never have a gang. I think I also knew that at best we’d only have a passing sibling relationship.

I’m proud to say I now think carefully about giving or receiving advice. I’ve long since quit thinking about a gang, knowing they kill individualism, individual thought and empathy towards others.

I often wish though, that the sibling relationships had not passed away. I’m not sure why. They say you often miss most those things you never had.

And who am I to argue?


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Karma Cat

5/1/2022

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I should start off by clarifying my family make up before diving into the story of this week’s post. My parents were pretty young when they married and it’s said they married because mom was pregnant with my oldest brother. I don’t know for sure the truth of it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Many marriages started off with the cart before the horse, even back in the 1950’s. Soon after the marriage and birth, my folks had my sister and another brother in fairly quick succession. Then, for some reason they waited five years, had another brother and then me.

I grew up thinking that, after five years, my parents just decided they wanted a couple of more kids. I kept that assumption clear up until I was 19 and was riding with my dad in his pickup. We were listening to the news on the radio (my dad was a news junkie) and the announcer just finished discussing a story of unwanted pregnancies. My dad looked over at me for a second:

            Him: “What’s it feel like to be an accident?”

            Me: “Um, I didn’t know I was an accident.”

            Him (bulling through the awkwardness): “Well, you were. You should think on it.”

I asked my mom about it later and she said she thought of me as a ‘surprise’ rather than an accident. For some reason, that didn’t really help much.

The five year span between siblings made a difference in growing up. I wasn’t real close to my three oldest siblings, except when I was a baby and my sister wanted another girl in the family so badly she sometimes dressed me in girls’ clothes. Thankfully, I was too young to mind and now I don’t even remember, so it has never bothered me or caused me any kind of sexual confusion. As I got bigger, she finally realized that I wasn’t going to turn into a girl and stopped pretending that I was.

Because I was closer in age to the brother just before me, Glen, he is the one I spent most of my time around. That’s not to say that spending time around Glen was a lot of fun. Being a year and a half older than I, he often relieved his boredom by picking on me until I finally fired back, which gave him the reason he was looking for to beat the hell out of me. This was a pretty common occurrence. If he really got to me, I would hit him first, but I always avoided his head, because I really didn’t want to hurt him. He wasn’t burdened by that hesitance and always tried for maximum damage.

Sometimes, when he had me pinned to the floor beating me, a wild look would come into his eyes. That scary ‘lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home’ look. That’s when I truly wondered about his mental stability –while I was struggling to get free, of course.

But sometimes Karma actually does kick in and people get their comeuppance.

My siblings and I grew up around firearms, firearms safety and use, and hunting. If my memory is correct, we had our first BB guns when we were seven or eight and a .22 rifle not too many years after that. In our early teens we started hunting and had larger caliber rifles. I saved up and bought a bolt action Savage 30-06 and Glen was given dad’s Remington pump action 30-06.

The day of Glen’s comeuppance came when he, my mother and I were the only ones at home. We lived out of town a few miles and it was a beautiful summer day. My mom told me to take the paper garbage out to the burning barrel in the back yard and burn it.

Side note: There is a bit of arsonist in all boys, so this was one chore I didn’t mind at all.

I watched the fire, mesmerized as the flames danced around the barrel’s interior

And that’s when I heard the shot. It sounded like an explosion coming from inside the house. The shot was immediately followed by Glen screaming.

I ran for the house, thinking he had shot mom, then I had a flash of that vacant, ugly stare he sometimes had when he beat me, so I slowed down a bit. Better not to rush into the unknown, especially if that unknown involves a gun and a possibly unstable brother.

When I finally heard mom’s voice I ventured inside and discovered what had happened. Glen kept his rifle on a wall rack and with a loaded magazine in it. In his boredom, he took the rifle down, took out the magazine and began racking the pump and dry-firing the gun at different things around his room. Mom called him to do some chore or other, so he slapped the magazine back into the rifle and put it back on the rack.

When he finished the chore, he went back to his room and picked up the rifle again. Except this time he forgot he had put the loaded magazine back in it. When he racked the slide, he unknowingly chambered a cartridge. He pointed it at a few things around his room, but then saw his cat walking across the front yard.

He slid open the window, aimed at the cat, and promptly blew half of its neck away.

Where karma can be a real bitch, is that this was his cat; a cat he had raised, fed and that slept at the foot of his bed every night for years.

When he finally quieted from his screaming and crying, I took his gun, unloaded the magazine, put the gun back on the rack, and gave the magazine to mom. Once Glen had calmed down enough, mom sent us out to bury the cat.

Glen walked slowly. I got to the cat before he did. The upper half of the cat’s neck was gone, but it was still alive and trying to breath. It made an odd sucking/hissing noise. As Glen came up behind me, I couldn’t help but think that, although the cat didn’t deserve this, he certainly did. I also couldn’t help but make a wisecrack.

Me: “I don’t know Glen. It’s not dead yet. Maybe it’ll make it.”

He saw the cat, glared at me and lifted the shovel.

Him: “I don’t think so.” He put the cat out of its misery with the shovel and stood looking at it, still crying. I still couldn’t hold back.

Me: “Hey? You know how you’re always picking fights with me and beating me up?”

He looked at me, with a frown and one eyebrow raised in question.

Me: “Karma can be a bitch sometimes, huh?”

He chased me for awhile with the shovel raised in his hands, but I think his emotions had exhausted him and I easily out ran him.

After the cat incident I could honestly say that I never saw a more careful, safety-minded person around firearms than my brother.

Still, I never turn my back on him.  

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Classic Smack-Down Part 2

4/1/2022

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            About a month ago I took it upon myself to throw some (admittedly) unkind, but accurate criticism at what many consider two of America’s greatest pieces of literature: “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Catcher in the Rye.” To be honest, I expected a bit of a backlash, however the comments I received were mostly from people who hated the books as well and were glad that their feelings weren’t isolated flukes indicating they couldn’t appreciate ‘literature.’ (By the way, when you say the word ‘literature’ it somehow feels better if you raise your nose a bit and adopt a slight British accent. Drop the first ‘e’ so it comes out as ‘litrachure.’) Feels good, doesn’t it?

            This time around I decided to go for the biggie. The granddaddy of all American novels. The one Ernest Hemingway said all modern novels can be traced back to: “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

            Okay, before I launch in with the negative criticism, let me get a couple of points out of the way. First, yes, in many ways the book is genius –in the way Twain uses a variety of regional dialects, the relationship between Huck and Jim (the runaway slave), and the satire and comedy he uses to skewer aspects of society. Also, in consideration of historical context, the novel was hugely groundbreaking.

            What usually makes the book controversial and placed on many banned books lists is Twain’s use of the term ‘nigger.’ You’ll notice I didn’t say “the ‘N’ word.” To me, use of the term depends entirely upon context. Are we to pretend the term never existed? Recently, a new edition of “Huck” came out with each reference to the term ‘nigger’ replaced by the word ‘slave.’ To me, that’s a denial of our own historical shame, which is a decidedly greater offense than to admit the term was in use. Twain’s use primarily illustrates how wrong the term is, so to leave it out or replace it is a greater insult than addressing it up front and then moving on. Don’t mess with an artist’s work. You’re always free to close the book and slip into denial mode.

            That being said, there are other things that, for me, cause the book to tank. One thing is the pattern Harper Lee slipped into with “To Kill a Mockingbird”: Twain will make a point regarding an ugly part of society and then beat it into the ground. Then beat it into the ground some more. Then park a paddleboat on it to make sure it was sufficiently buried into the ground.

            This is best seen in the characters of The Duke and The Dauphin, two con-men who insert themselves into Huck and Jim’s journey and engage in increasingly disturbing con-jobs. The characters are meant to be both humorous and disturbing, but in combining the two attributes, Twain only succeeds in making them annoying. An annoying character in large doses can kill any story, but double up on the annoying factor and the tediousness becomes so thick you could float a truck on it.

            Yet, Twain outdoes himself in the annoying character department by bringing in a character that many readers previously loved, then making him so annoying you’d like to bitch-slap him with a brick. Twice. And then a third time just for good measure. The character? Tom Sawyer.

            I loved “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” It is a great book with a great character who is fun, likeable, kind and fairly sharp-witted. In “Huckleberry Finn” though, Twain takes away all of the positive attributes and replaces them with whiney, annoying, mean, and fairly dull-witted.

            Tom is this way at the very beginning of the book and as a reader you just want him to go away. You start to wish that his fake drowning in his own book would have been for real. All he wants to do is play games as characters from books he’s read but doesn’t understand. When Huck and Jim finally begin their journey down the Mississippi I actually sighed with relief that Tom was now out of the story.

            Um, too soon on the sigh of relief thing.

            Twain brings Tom back at the end of the novel, but now, after having read all the experiences Huck has been through Tom is even more annoying. Jim has been captured and Tom begins planning a pointless elaborate scheme to free him –a scheme that continues to grow and grow to the point that I may have screamed out loud for a few seconds (not sure, could have been minutes). What makes his scheme to free Jim so ridiculous is that if he and Huck wanted to free Jim, all they’d have to do is walk by and open the door to the shed where he is being held.

            What really sinks it altogether is that by the end of the story Huck has seen a murder, more than a few other killings and dead bodies, and has had a front row seat to the ugliest parts of humanity. He’s witnessed or been involved in things that would forever change any person –man, woman or child.

            But he doesn’t change. Let me repeat that. He doesn’t change. At all.

            At the end of the book, he’s still willing to go along with Tom’s crap. He still lies, cheats and steals. He hasn’t grown one iota from what he was at the beginning of the book, despite all he’s experienced. Which, frankly speaking, makes him seem pretty stupid.

            Some say that this non-growth business is part of the point Twain was making. Sorry, I’ve gotta cry bullshit on that one. If that was the case, it was a pretty poor attempt.

            I’ve read that Mark Twain may have written “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” in three separate time periods, which accounts for why the book feels like three pieces cobbled together. Perhaps his intent or purpose changed each time. 

           Throw out the beginning of the novel, and then throw out the end, and then throw out a good chunk of the center section in the middle, and Twain would have had one hell of a great novella.

            I have a theory that he knew the book was different and he wasn’t sure how it would be received. I also think he knew that in many ways the book simultaneously sucks and blows. I think that’s why he prefaces the book with:

                  NOTICE PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narra- tive will be             
                  prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons 
                  attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

                  BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
                  Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.

            The notice gives Twain and ‘out.’ If the book had been poorly received, if critical reviews had been predominantly negative, he could laugh it off, saying, “Well, I did kinda point that out in the notice.”

            Hey, I never said Twain wasn’t smart.

            Maybe next time I’ll take on that Hemingway guy. I hear he’s pretty highly regarded as well. 


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"Back in the day..." Auto Version

3/1/2022

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Obvious observation time: there is a lot of irony in life. Just the other day I was thinking, “Back in the day…” again. My father used to do that and I swore I would never do that when I got older. When Dad and I had a “Back in the day…” discussion, it went something like this:

Dad: “Back in the day, you used to be able to buy a candy bar for a dime and a soda for a quarter.”

Me: “Yeah, but dad, that was in the 1930’s. Did you even have a dime or a quarter? I mean, if you don’t have a dime it doesn’t matter if the candy bar costs a dime or a thousand bucks, does it?”

Dad: “Shut up, smartass.”

Me: “Yessir.”

But now, as I grow older, I’m slipping into the “Back in the day…” mode. What prompted this installment of “Back in the day…” was a recent car advertisement I watched. I forget what brand it was, but the car had a back up warning alarm, a camera for backing up (so you didn't have to twist your head or use a review mirror, I guess), front passenger airbags, side air bags, seat edge airbags and roof airbags. It had so many airbags that if you ever bumped into anything you’d probably feel like you were suddenly thrust into the middle of a marshmallow.

*Minor digression: How come you see chase scenes in the movies where they intentionally run into another car and no one’s airbags go off? The movies really ought to start investing in safer cars for their people.*

Anyway, after watching the car ad (by the way, you could simply push a button and the thing would parallel park by itself – hands free) I was struck by how far automobile safety measures have come. Back in the day, the best safety measure was to get as much metal around you as possible. That’s why so many of the cars from the 1930’s through the early ‘70’s were HUGE. You wanted more car around you than the other guy, so if you did have an accident, he’d at least come out on the losing end of the deal.

Cars were a lot boxier back then too. Seatbelts were either non-existent or, if they were in the car, you pushed them down between the cushions so they didn’t end up giving you a wedgie or wrinkling your clothes. The only airbags any one knew anything about was the term’s slang use for breasts. (Hey, I was a kid and there were about two dozen different terms we used for ‘breasts’ and we used all of them constantly. We were, after all, boys.)

Because the cars were so boxy, there was plenty of room on the top ledge behind the backseat where a kid could almost lay full-length to sleep on long rides. Of course, this totally obstructed the driver’s rearview mirror, but dad was usually intent on getting to where he was going, eyes front, never looking back. With four kids in the backseat, a fifth laying behind and above the backseat smashed against the rear window, and dad a mom up front, we still had room to get into fights with a pretty good arm swing range. Like I said, the cars were HUGE.

With so many kids in the car and I the youngest, I usually got stuck in the middle where the transmission hump kept my feet wedged together and my knees uncomfortably under my chin. If my feet slipped off the hump, it was taken as a deliberate assault on a sibling’s “car floor territory” and another fight was on.

You know, looking back, in a way I guess I was surrounded by human airbags, so I was probably the safest one in the car.

There was one pseudo-safety feature that our car had, but it was only when my mom was driving. 

I figured out as I got older that mom was a terrible driver. I don’t mean it as an insult to her. She was a great mom, but as a driver she was like a cat on a skateboard going down a rock slide.

She tended to drive with one foot on the gas and one on the brake. She drove hesitantly, unsure of herself and paranoid that every other person on the road was a worse driver than she was. If a driver pulled up to a stop sign facing the road we were on, she would slam on the brakes –and that’s when the automatic safety feature kicked in. If you were a kid riding up front alongside her, she would hit the brake and at the same time slam her right arm against your chest.

I don’t know why she didn’t just dig out the seatbelts, but she seemed to think that the right arm of a 115 pound mom would stop a 130 pound kid from flying forward (her knowledge of physics was as limited as her driving skills). We were usually prepared for the sudden slamming of the brakes, so all the right-arm-guardrail-thing did was knock the wind out of you or crack against your sternum.

It was painful, but it was an act of a mother’s love. I sometimes think of it and wax nostalgic. In fact the other day I was telling my daughter:

Me: “You know, back in the day, we didn’t have all these safety features on cars and we seemed to do okay. In fact, the simplicity of the car was kinda nice.”

My daughter: “Yeah, but dad, don’t you think that if your folks had had all of the current safety features available to them they would have used them? I mean, if it wasn’t available at the time, how could you really do a comparison?”

Me: “Shut up, smart-aleck.”

My daughter: “Yessir.”

Ah, the irony of the circle of life.

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If I...Will You?

2/1/2022

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            This is probably fairly easy to believe, but when I was younger, I wasn’t very smart. Even now there are those who would recommend that I wear a helmet while I write this and put Saran Wrap over the keyboard in case I drool. When I was younger I was also a bit naïve and even more immature than I am now. That being said, I was eager to learn (actually, I was eager to make a living and if that required having to learn something, so be it).

            My being a brick-head in my early 20’s often resulted in making quick decisions. Unfortunately, those decisions didn’t include a lot of thought. In about a four week period, I quit my job, married my wife (not that that was a poor decision, it’s just about the timing), bought a brand new pickup (the salesman didn’t know I’d quit my job) and landed in Anchorage, Alaska with all of our stuff crammed into the back of the pickup.

            Upon arrival at that great state, it occurred to me that I had no job (see what lack of thought will do for you?). I needed to pay rent, make a pickup payment and there were those other annoying things a person has to pay for like food, clothing, and a cold beer now and then.

            I went into scramble mode.

            I went everywhere looking for work. I literally went downtown and walked store-to-store looking for work. Did I mention that at the time I had absolutely no marketable work skills? Another result of poor thinking.

            Finally, I landed at a furniture store. They were looking for a salesman. They asked if I had experience in sales and I said, “A bit.” Complete lie right there, but I was desperate.

            Amazingly, they hired me. They told me they would put me under the wing of their top salesman, T.J.

            Picture the slipperiest, sneakiest, oiled-back-haired, cheap-suit-wearing, paunch-stomached salesman with a toothpick poking out the side of his mouth. There ya go. You just met T.J.

            I quickly found that T.J. had an embarrassing habit. Whenever within the proximity of any woman (and I mean ANY woman), he rarely looked them in the eye. His gaze went from breast to crotch and back again…repeatedly…over and over. After three or four up and down circuits, he’d glance up at them and give them a flash of a lecherous smile and then go back to perusing their nether regions.

            The thing of it is, he got away with it every time and every month he was consistently the store’s top salesman. I didn’t care for being under his slimy wing, but if it kept me the job…well, what are you going to do?

            He coached me on the ABC’s: Always Be Closing (the sale). Continually ask for the sale. Once you close the sale, push the ad-ons hard. Ad-ons primarily included fabric treatment and extended warranties. (Here’s a rock-solid tip: extended warranties are a total waste of money. They equate to pure profit for the store and a healthy bonus for the salesman. If a salesman keeps offering you the extended warranty, just tell him you used to sell them yourself. He’ll drop it like a hot biscuit straight from the microwave.)

            T.J. also schooled me on the “If I, will you?” method of always asking for the sale. If a customer says, “Does this chair come in blue?” your response should be, “If I can get it for you in blue, will you buy it?” This can be done with just about any question the customer might ask. Try it. It’s kind of fun. He also taught me how to quickly judge whether a customer will buy or not.

            T.J.: “Throw them a ridiculously low price. If they don’t pounce on it, they’re wasting your time. Dump ‘em and grab the next sucker, uh, I mean customer.”

            Then he gave me what he said was his biggest piece of advice: never, never, EVER try to sell to two women who come in to the store together. Avoid them like the plague (his words, not mine). He told me they always talk each other out of buying something.

            Me: “But I see you try to sell to two women who come in all the time.”

            He gave me a lecherous grin and wiggled his eyebrows up and down a few times.

            Eww.

            Him: “So you understand everything?”

            Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

            Him: “Okay, the next customer through the door, I’ll sell ‘em and you just tag along and watch.”

            The next customers through the door were two women. T.J. wiggled his eyebrows and bounced out of his chair to greet them. I followed behind like a mute puppy dog.

            He greeted them, jerked a thumb at me and told them to ignore me, I was the new kid in training and he was seeing to it that I learned how to “best serve the customer.” Of course, he said this while scanning both women from bulkheads to sterns. The older of the two did the talking. The younger of the two avoided looking at T.J. I avoided looking at any of them. If a rock had been handy, I would have crawled under it.

            Woman: “Where are your dinette sets?”

            T.J.: “If I show you where they are, will you buy one?”

            Lots of nervous chuckling. He winked at me.

            He led them over to the dinettes and they landed on one they kind of liked.

            Woman: “Can we see this with the leaf taken out?”

            T.J.: “If I take the leaf out, will you buy it?” 

            Quick wink at me.  More nervous chuckling.

            He took the leaf out. The ladies looked over the dinette set again. T.J. looked over the ladies again.

            Woman: “I like it, but $1,200 seems like quite a lot for a small dinette set.”

            T.J.: “If I can sell it to you for $400 will you buy it?”

            There was more nervous chuckling as he checked to make sure their female parts were still in place. Behind his back he held up two fingers, indicating that in one question he had tested to see if they were serious buyers and fit in the “If I, will you” thing.

            I couldn’t take it anymore. It was too embarrassing. I felt like I had been witnessing some weird kind of visual sexual assault and a purse snatching at the same time. I walked to the other side of the store and sat at the desk wondering how I was going to do a job like this and still be able to sleep at night.

            Soon, T.J. came jogging over to the desk, grabbed a sales contract, winked once again at me (he may have even given me the pointy-finger-gun-bang thing as well) and jogged back over to where the women sat at the dinette set.

            I was in shock. He’d sold them. Two women. However repulsive he was, this guy could sell.

            But it didn’t last. After a couple of minutes, the woman who did the talking jumped up, knocking her chair over backward. She said something through clinched teeth, but I was too far away to hear. Both women stomped to the front door and slammed it behind them on their way out.

            T.J. came back to the desk, his head down a bit, the sales contract hanging listlessly in his hand.

            Me: “What happened? I thought you had it sold?”

            T.J.: “I did, but when I wrote $1,200 on the contract she said I quoted her $400. I had to clarify. I told her ‘No, I said if I could sell it to you for $400. I can’t.”

            For just a split second I almost felt sorry for him.

            But then another woman came through the door and he launched out of his chair like he had pulled an ejection lever, grinned at me and winked. I wondered how this one would take the visual undressing. I wondered if I would be able to do this job. I wondered if all sales jobs were like this.

            I never found out, because after leaving that job, I never tried sales again.

Be well.     

        --William


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Classic Smack-Down

1/1/2022

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            Okay, I should probably start by admitting the title of this blog is a bit misleading. It implies you’re soon to read about some terrible act of violence when in fact, that’s not the case (hey, and shame on you if you’re so easily enticed by violence).

            Actually I was thinking of classic as in the literature sense.

            WAIT. HOLD ON.

            Before you think, “Oh, God. Literature? Next stop yawns-ville” give it a chance. What I propose is to burst the bubble on a couple of books you probably had to endure in high school. They are and have been considered classics. Classic? Um, not so much. I’ll only pick on a couple and tell you what your teachers would not or could not.  First up:

            “To Kill a Mockingbird”

            Already there are a lot of intellectuals (ladies mostly) who are probably trying to figure out how to give me a classic smack down. Atticus Finch, they’ll say, is the greatest literary hero…ever. But here’s the thing: most people who say it’s the greatest book ever never even read the book. They’re referring to the film with Gregory Peck. Yes that is a classic also (rightfully so) and one of the things that saves the book. There is a ton –and I mean a ton—of crap in the book that the film wisely took a chainsaw, a ripsaw and a blowtorch to.

            When people tell me how much they loved reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” I like to test them a bit by saying, “Me too! And you know, Aunt Alexandra is my favorite character!” Usually, you can tell by their expression they’re thinking of the film and not the book. Sometimes they’ll even come clean and say, “Aunt who?” The reason they don’t recognize the character is because the filmmakers wisely killed her off before they even began thinking of making the book into a film.  I’m hoping they killed her off in some slow, horrendous unspeakable way, because she is one of the most singularly annoying characters (second only to one I’ll mention in just a minute) in all of literature. Aunt Alexandra represents socioeconomic prejudice in mind-numbing amounts.

            There’s a reason Harper Lee only wrote one book. Pssst. Don’t tell anyone, but she’s kind of a crappy writer. The big scene, the trial of Tom Robinson that forever after associated Gregory Peck as Atticus, only lasts 46 pages in a paperback that is 376 pages long. The rest of the book is Lee making a point about various forms of prejudice, which is commendable, but she beats it into the ground –and I’m not talking with a shovel kind of beat it into the ground. I’m talking beat it with a shove, then take a sledgehammer to it, then roll over it with a dump truck kind of beat it into the ground. What’s worse is that much of the remaining 330 pages are filled with the annoying Aunt Alexandra. However, as annoying as her character is, she can’t hold a candle to the main character in the next ‘classic.’

            “Catcher in the Rye”
  
            If you’ve had to fight your way through this ‘classic’ before, then you will know exactly who I mean: Holden Caulfield. I think there’s a very good reason J. D. Salinger became a recluse. After unleashing the ultimate in annoying characters on society he probably thought it would be much safer behind closed doors…made of metal…three inches thick…with heavy bars and chains…and locks, lots and lots of locks.

            The novel starts with what many consider one of the greatest opening lines in all of literature. But the reality is that it opens with Holden (in a first-person narration) bitching about how he doesn’t even want to tell his story. I won’t give you the entire line (hey, that’s what Wikipedia is for), but the first eight words “If you really want to hear about it…” The thing is, within about two pages he whines, bitches, and moans so much that I REALLY didn’t want to hear about it. I get that the Holden Caulfield character embodies teen angst, depression, cynicism, isolation, etc., etc., and that it’s supposedly a reflection of society, but let me tell you this about how annoying Holden is: one of the most empathetic, sweetest, always-gives-you-cookies-when-you-see-her old ladies I know wanted to choke him out by the fourth page.  And there are 220 more pages to go.

            I’ll leave classic smack downs there for now, but may be forced to pick it up again in the future.

            Wait till you see the beating I give Huckleberry Finn.

* If you agree with my assessments on the aforementioned classics, click the ‘like’ button below and it will register your vote. If you disagree with my assessment, I’m okay with that. Just click the ‘like’ button below to record your vote. My classic software will sort it all out.  Feel free to also visit my Facebook page. I’ll try to leave something open there if you’d care to respond.

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    William Martin

    Just observing, sometimes remembering, often shaking my head, then writing.

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