Sleep is Overrated

A Place to Eat - A Project

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 19:42:00 +0000

Been a little while since I've posted, but that's because I've been busy with projects. One of which was refinishing the breakfast nook table and chairs. The look The Wife and I were going for was a driftwood nautical type feel. So let's get started.

First was sanding the table.

Once that was done we applied an exterior transparent deck stain to the table top.

Then The Wife painted the base a rich white.

Then I sealed the table top with a self-leveling clear coat.

Next were the chairs.

The spindles and the details on the legs made these a bit of a pain.

I used a red primer on the chairs because...

You guessed it, the chairs were to be red.

For some reason The Wife has this notion that because I came from a trailer park in Homestead that I have mad graffiti skills and therefor can use spray paint on anything.
So after 12 cans of paint (seriously, 12 cans) the set was complete.

Gotta say, it was a lot of work but did come out pretty good. I think investing in an airless sprayer might be a good idea for future projects though. I'm not so sure I can afford to lose anymore braincells huff'n all that paint.

The Box of Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 16:10:00 +0000

It had happened again. This time it was while we were cleaning out our closet when Ana came across the old cardboard box. I had a pile of old t-shirts that I was deciding which would stay and which would become rags when I heard her cry. I turned and saw her on the floor with the box between her legs. The flaps hung open to reveal its stale contents; a jewelry box, a wristwatch, some papers, some books, and other personal belongings. She held a yellowed newspaper clipping in one hand and an eccentric jade necklace in the other.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered while tears gently rolled down her checks.

I stood silent for probably too long. I never knew what to say. Finally I knelt down in front of her “Honey, it’s okay I know it is hard.”

“Every time I think it will get easier; this time I won’t cry. But it still hurts so much.” Her silent cry turned to sobs “Why does he get to live? Why doesn’t he have to pay for what he did?”

“I don’t know,” I said solemnly and reached over and rubbed her shoulder. “Come on, let’s put this stuff away.”

She nodded slightly as she sniffled and together we put the things back in the box, last being the article that detailed her parent’s tragic end.

Every time this happened I would get a burning inside of me. My poor lovely wife forced to deal with such a horrible experience at such an early age. And the man responsible for her parent’s death lived his life as though nothing ever happened. It was fifteen years ago, my wife was nine, when he killed them. I guess back then they weren’t too sharp on handling drunk drivers. My would-be in-laws were coming back from a formal dinner party when that waste of flesh slammed into them. Of course the drunk goes unscathed while the victims are zipped up and towed away in bags.

~

I tell you it was a strange feeling, almost like a literal switch being flipped. My mind began to work out a plan. More and more the intricate details became clearer as the days went on. I found my work was not getting done as I focused more on my plan. My solution to the box of stuff. Then the day came.

Ana thought I was away on business and I told work there were personal issues that needed to be handled so I needed a week off. Both were only half-lies. I left Atlanta and drove nonstop to Chicago. I only had a week at best so I could not spare a single minute.

He was easy enough to find and I began to watch him. People are such creatures of habit and he was no different. In only three days his routine was detailed in the notepad I kept in the seat beside me. She was absolutely right; he lived his life as though nothing had ever happened. As if he was not responsible for the murder of her parents. He had a wife and child, but the bottle was still more important to him. Drinks after work seemed to be the norm so it was quite easy to snatch him up leaving the bar. I merely hid in the backseat and right before he turned the ignition I laid the tire iron across the back of his head.

I think it took him a minute to understand what was happening as he looked at me with a glazed look through the windshield. His slow blink turned to eyes wide open when he tried to reach for the back of his head and realized he couldn’t. He looked down at the silvery globs where his hands should be on the steering wheel. He jerked frantically against the duct tape, but I had used practically a whole role on his hands alone. Yelling was not an option for the same reason he couldn’t move his hands, feet, or body. I managed to buy plenty of the tape on sale as a handy man special.

After a few minutes of enjoying his struggle, I came around from the front of the car to his window. He jerked away when I reached for his face and sounded off with muted screams. I grabbed his hair with one gloved hand to hold his head still and ripped the strip of tape from his mouth. Instantly he began to yell for help.

“Go ahead, scream and yell all you want,” I told him as I balled the piece of tape up then flicked it at his face.

He looked at me and continued to scream for help. His head jerked side to side looking for help while he screamed. But there was no one around. I was quite proud of myself having found this spot in a strange place on so little sleep. There were no lights on this particular part of the tracks. And his Lincoln fit nicely across them.

I stood with my arms folded and my eyebrows raised and waited patiently until finally he stopped screaming.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.

I slowly shook my head, “In your position, do you think it is best to yell at me?”

His head dropped and he took a deep breath. Without looking up he asked, “What is it you want?”

“I want you to die,” I said nonchalant.

His head jerked around “Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“You are the stone in the pond and I am one of your ripples.”

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?”

“About fifteen years ago you killed a man and a woman.”

At first he looked at me with his face scrunched up, like I was talking in some foreign language, but then his eyes opened. “That was an accident!”

I stepped toward the car and kicked the driver door. “Accident? You chose to drink and drive! How is that an accident?” He just stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “You killed my wife’s parents. You stole her childhood. It is something she has to live with, something she has to deal with everyday. It is something that I have to deal with because it hurts her so.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” I chuckled. “If you were sorry you wouldn’t still be drinking and driving. If you were sorry you might have come to her and apologized for what you did, begged for forgiveness.” I could feel a vibration under my foot as I stood on the steel rail. I looked at my watch. “No, you’re not sorry, but you’re about to be,” I said as I turned and looked down the track.

We were both silent long enough to hear the rumbling and clanking of the train.

“Please don’t do this! I’ll do anything! I have a wife and son!” he yelled and tears started rolling down his face.

“Oh, you cry now when it’s you who is looking death face on. Did you cry for them? Did you cry for the little girl whose life you changed forever?”

I slowly backed away from the car and watched him begin to thrash against the tape. I looked down the tracks and saw it closing in. The massive serpent of metal wasn’t moving terribly fast, but it rumbled ahead quick enough. When I looked back I was shocked to see that he actually got a hand free. My heart pounded and I kept snapping my attention from the train to the car. Then he got his other hand free. The train was closer. Now his torso. The damn train wasn’t moving fast enough. I inched toward the car not sure what to do. I looked back for him, but he wasn’t there. Franticly I looked around for him and stepped toward the car. There I saw his back jostling as he worked to get his feet free. I was only a couple steps away from the car. Every part of my body throbbed as my heart jolted in my chest. Everything was happening in slow motion, especially the train.

His head popped up and he gave me a look of disdain; he had gotten his feet free. My eyes shot open and my jaw dropped. As he turned for the door the blast from the horn sounded causing me to jerk and snap my attention to the foreboding beast. The brake screeched as the train, deceptively quick, was upon us. Something that big doesn’t seem to move that fast, but it did. Over the horn and the breaks I could hear the horrific sound of him screaming. He had managed to get the door open, but that was all when the train collided with the car and him between the two. Being so close to the impact I stumbled backwards and fell. I stared as the train pushed the wreckage down the tracks creating a wake of sparks, then the car ignited. Once the train and the squeal of the brakes came to a halt I shuddered and began to run.

~

When I returned home I couldn’t sleep. Any moment I didn’t preoccupy my mind the images and the sound of his scream would fill my head. Every time the phone rang, every unexpected knock on the door I would start to sweat. I waited for word to come to Ana from her friends or distant relatives about his demise, but no one seemed to care. Truth was she really didn’t have anybody. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to tell her, partly because I couldn’t stand to carry this burden by myself any longer, but mostly because I did it for her. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. It was at dinner weeks later that I finally broke down.

“Baby, you’re not eating your dinner. Do you still feel bad?” she asked as she twirled the spaghetti onto her fork.

She looked so sweet and innocent. Her shoulder length curls draped the sides of her soft face. Her round green eyes were set perfectly in her porcelain skin. I couldn’t help but crack a smile as I looked at her.

She sheepishly smiled back “What?”

“I don’t tell you enough how beautiful you are.”

She smiled big then looked down at her plate and shook her head “You are being silly.”

“Really, you are my world. You mean so much to me and I would do anything to make you happy.” I took a deep breath “I would even kill for you.”

She looked at me sideways “That’s a strange thing to say. Most people would say die for you.”

“Oh, and I would die for you, but that would be easier comparatively. There is something I have to tell you.”

“You are starting to scare me.”

“You know the man that killed your parents?”

“Stop, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“No listen. I didn’t go away on business.”

“Don’t tell me this! I don’t want to hear this.”

“I found him and I killed him.”

A loud clank rang out as she slammed her fork into her plate. “Stop it! Why would you say something like that? I don’t think this is funny!”

“Baby, listen, I know how much he hurt you. I couldn’t bear to see you get so upset every time you looked into that box of stuff. You were right, he deserved to die.”

“Shut up!” she screamed and jumped from her seat. The chair fell back and crashed onto the floor and she ran out of the room.

She was face down on the bed sobbing when I found her in our room.

“I did it for you. I love you!” I plead.

“Go away!” came a muffled yell from behind one of the pillows.

I placed his driver license on the bed and pulled the door shut as I left. While I was cleaning the dishes I heard her scream. It was much like his right before the train hit.

~

The silence in the house was probably the hardest thing to take. Ana refused to even look at me. Whenever I was home she found refuge in another part of the house. I wondered when she would leave and where would she go. She led a sheltered life and was very shy. Despite her beauty she had never been in a relationship before ours. The grandmother that raised her had passed away a little over a year ago and the family she did have were so distant, either physically or emotionally, she was basically alone. And though I hoped she would realize there was no where for her to go, even more so I hoped that she would realize all I had done was out of love. Even when I threw that box of stuff in the trash.

It all came down to that damn box of aged reminders. Every time she looked in that box it tore her apart. Every time she was hurt by it, it hurt me. That damn box of stuff was the reason I had done what I had done. That night was the first time in six months she spoke to me. It was also the last.

“David, where is my box?” she screamed from the closet.

When I stepped into the doorway she was tearing the clothes off the racks. “Baby,” I paused as she slowly turned to look at me. “I had to get rid of it.”

She dropped to her knees and shrieked, “No!”

“Ana, don’t you see, it was that box of stuff that was tearing us apart” I said and knelt down in the pile of clothes beside her.

She held her face in her hands and wept.

I tried to stroke her hair, but she smacked my hand away “I can’t live here anymore,” she sobbed as she ran out of the closet.

Tears began to tickle my cheeks as I hoped that day would never come, but by the end of the night she was gone. I cried so hard I felt sick and threw-up in the shower. I just sat on the floor and let the water beat on me.

~

I’d been alone in the house for almost two years and why it took me so long to find her book behind the nightstand I’ll never know. She must have knocked it off when she left so hastily that night. But I did and in it what I found shocked me even more. Tucked almost halfway through the paperback romance were his driver’s license and a folded piece of paper. The book tucked under my arm dropped to the floor. The unfolded piece of paper revealed an Internet search of the name Richard Bateman, the man who had killed her parents and subsequently I had killed. Or so I thought.

I ran down the stairs and into the study. My fingers couldn’t type fast enough, but I found the archived article. As I read it I discovered that Mr. Bateman had managed to dive out of the way of the train at the very last second. When he was found at the site of the burning wreckage he was unconscious. He remained at the hospital in a coma for almost a month before he came out of it. Apparently he had no memory of the events that night or how and why he was parked on the tracks.

I couldn’t believe what I just read. I held the paper up with a shaky hand and my eyes darted around it. The article was written one month and one week after I had returned from Chicago. At the upper right of the paper was the print date; one week after the article was written. One day after I told Ana I had killed him.

She had known he was alive. She had known the whole time, yet she never said a word. Why? Why would she not tell me? All I ever did was love her. The only reason I did what I thought I did was for her. Yet, she couldn’t forgive me.

I folded the piece of paper up and slipped the license in one of the folds. The stairs creaked under my feet as I made my way back to the bedroom. I picked up the little novel and rubbed my thumb across the embossed cover and couldn’t help but smile as I looked at it. Every time Ana would start reading a new one she would make it a point to claim herself to be the voluptuous female character and me as the rugged male. I sighed as those happy days were long gone now.

Once in the closet I parted the hanging clothes to reveal a wooden chest. I turned through the dial on the lock and gave it tug. The lid opened with a squeak and I tucked the book into a little gap amongst the various items. I looked over to the right side of the chest and saw the smooth white orb. I lifted it up and looked deep into the sockets. In my head I could still see her green eyes set in her soft skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew all along he lived. It didn’t have to be like this, but you had to know I would never let you go.”

When I said I would kill for Ana I guess in the end that included her. I caressed her smooth skull and placed it ever so gently in its place. I closed and locked the lid, then put away my own box of stuff.

Death's Touch

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 18:46:00 +0000

I set my book down - the spine creased open - and peered into the shoe box for my new found friend. The small blue jay was on its side, motionless amongst the torn paper. I sighed and picked up the box and sat down with it on my lap. I can’t say that I was surprised the little bird didn’t make it. It’s as if this place kills everything that enters.

Out the corner of my eye it caught my attention while walking the yard. At first I thought it was trash of some sort. The frail thing was huddled in a corner by one of the benches in the yard. I crouched down to get a better look and he just quivered. His bright blue feathers with a soft grey haze from the baby down were out of place amongst the dirt and concrete. A survey of the area yielded no nest. The shy creature was hesitant at first, but seemed to appreciate the warmth of my cupped hands.

The guards have stray cats they feed and no doubt the little guy was easy prey and would have made a nice morsel. I didn’t want that to happen so I took the chance. At this point what could they do to me?

Once back in my room I slipped my hand into my coat pocket and gently pulled him out. Trading him from hand to hand I eased my coat off. Then I cupped him against my chest while I caressed his feathers. He settled in and closed his eyes and I felt the corners of my mouth arch upward. It was the first time in a long time that I had smiled.

Not putting the bird down, I held sheets of paper up to my mouth and tore them into strips. I emptied out a little box and brushed the shredded paper into it. Then I settled him in. He closed his eyes and went to sleep; his body rocking slightly with each little breath. I tried to ignore him in hopes he would rest, but couldn’t help glancing into the box every so often. I wasn’t really sure what I would do with the bird, but then again I really wasn’t sure of much lately.

I have been in this place for so long and yet can’t figure out why it is I am still here. They laugh and joke I will never leave this place. Sounds about right; twenty years so far. I’ve seen them come and go. The ones with the keys walk out; the others are carried away in black bags.

South of here is a college town full of life. Young adults having fun while setting up their futures. Here there is no future. Even further south is Mickey’s house where children laugh and sing; bonding with their parents. This place parents come to watch their children die. This is Starke, Florida. This is death row.

Do they deserve to die? These men are responsible for some of the most heinous and brutal crimes known. They were the grim reapers for mothers, fathers, and children. Do they deserve to die? Of course they do.

Do I deserve to die? I won’t lie, I am no angel; I have killed my share of men. But the ones that I killed were the ones that deserved it. But I guess we all have to go some time and now is as good a time as any.

I lifted the frail remains out of the box and cupped it to my chest once more and pet him. He was probably sick or maybe injured from a fall. This time there was no response to my touch. Or was this the response?

The bird rested in the box and the box on the floor. I sat back, took a deep breath, and rubbed my hand over my freshly shaven scalp. My once thick hair was another casualty of my sentence. I laced my hands together and rested my elbows on my knees. I looked up and around the small and dismal room. The uniform they gave me hung from me no longer fitting like it used to. Not much appetite when you know death is looming over your shoulder.

I was reading when I heard the taps of heels slow approaching. With every other tap there was the jingle of keys that bounced against the guard’s waist. And with each jingle I cringed. The footsteps and jingle stopped in front of my door; time for one less reaper in the world. I closed my eyes and inhaled deep when there were three hard raps.

“Yes,” I said.

A guard probably half my age opened the door. “Lieutenant Masterson, they are ready.”

I nodded. “Who is it this time?”

The young guard looked down at his clipboard “Umm… looks like Speary.”

“He the one that killed the little girl?”

“Yes.”

“Is his family here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about the little girl’s.”

“Yes, they are already seated.”

My body jerked as my lungs convulsed and a hoarse cough found its way out of my clenched jaw.

“Sir, are you all right?”

He stood silent as I held my hand up, gathered myself, and then nodded. After another deep breath I closed the book, and stood up. I read the title “Living with Cancer” and tossed the book onto my desk. I was pretty sure my book should be titled “Dying with Cancer”.

“Well, let’s get this done then,” I said as I brushed past him. He stood trying to peer into the little box. “It’s a blue jay.”

“Is it alive?”

“No, he’s dead. As dead as me.”

He looked at me with a scrunched up face on his canted head. I just shook my head and walked on to pull the switch on another one. Another one closer to my own.

In Search of Snow

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 17:08:00 +0000

The idea was to take the girls up to North Carolina for a nice family getaway. And hopefully find snow since the girls have never seen it.
We intended on hitting the Charleston, SC area to see a childhood friend of mine on the way up which took longer than it should have since we had tire problems pretty much until we got out of Florida (4 hours in delays did not make for much joy).
We made it to Pete and Jenn's and had a nice dinner, evening, and breakfast then departed for the Glass Mountain Tree House cabin we were to be staying at in Fairview outside of Asheville.
We made good time and were early so we decided to check out Chimney Rock. It's a crazy winding drive up, but did deliver the first bit of snow for the girls.
Considering it was just a pile in parking lot we hoped we could do better. The views up top were awesome so of course I snapped some shots.

After that we ate at the Riverwatch Deli and Grill then headed to the cabin. By then it had started to get dark and we were guided by the GPS I borrowed from my folks. You either love those things or you hate them; I'll explain later.
According to the female voice with a British accent we arrived at destination on the left. It was so dark the only thing I could see was a service road to the left. Or at least I thought it was a service road. Apparently all the snow melting left the driveway muddied and torn up. After plowing the Volvo station wagon through the troughs of mud we got stuck on the ascent to the house.
After a bit of spinning the wheels and even more profanity I threw it in park and we lugged our bags up to the cabin. Inside I fought to get a fire going then we settled in for the night in hopes of getting a better handle on our situation.
The morning revealed a temp of 31 degrees and the ground was frozen. Mud puddles on the driveway were turned to blocks of ice. I was actually pretty happy with our chances of getting out since the ground was so hard. Here's the drive:

Monkey and Peanut waned to hike up the back of the property and we found a bit of that white stuff:

We decided to head into Asheville and check out an indie book store called Malaprops. Neat place, the kind you want to support so we bought a few books and a coffee mug.
As the wife and I were looking over a few more books Peanut came up to me and said "This is what we do all the time." Then she handed me this fridge magnet:

I in turn tell the wife what she said and handed it to her. We both started laughing.
What Peanut was referring to was this:

Then Peanut says "Actually, I guess that's what Grampy (my dad) always does since it is wrong."
This of course leads to tears rolling down the wife and my faces. My dad can't get his arms to bend around to make the face Peanut does, so he just makes the OK signs and holds them up.
After a good hard laugh we headed out into downtown Asheville and enjoyed all the architecture.

The day was going great and got better when the owner called the wife to inform her he was having a truck drop of some gravel and he was headed over to the cabin with his tractor to repair the drive.

The next day we headed up into the mountains to do some tubing which was great for the girls, but a bit cold since there was a slight rain. After getting a bit wet and cold we headed back into town for some Starbucks.
The wife punches in Starbucks into the GPS and we proceed as directed. The British lady tells us to turn right. The British lady tells us to go left. As we head in the directions by order of the Queen we pass a Starbucks on the right. We scratch our heads but continue only to discover that apparently the British don't know the difference between Starbucks and Bank of America.
As the trip goes on the damn GPS gives us poor direction, telling us to enter the wrong way down a one way street, and never giving us the proper coordinates of Starbucks.
In a fit I decide to take matters into my own (not like the Pope picture). Having driven by Starbucks several times I had a pretty good idea of where I was going. This contradicted the directions of the British lady and she starts getting snippy with me yelling "Recalculating, recalculating!" like I'm some kind of loser on The Weakest Link. Coffee in hand we headed back to the cabin.
The rest of the trip went well and I'll leave you with some of the waterfall pics we took at Looking Glass Falls. I think I found a place to retire...

Fathers of Daughters - Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 20:12:00 +0000

One of my greatest accomplishments in life is being the father of two wonderful daughters. Monkey turned nine in October and Peanut will be seven tomorrow. My experience is vast and very narrow all at once. My wife has commented several times that it takes a special man to be the father of daughters. Something I have always prided myself on. I am a good father. I love my girls very much. I look at my counterparts without girls and laugh inside knowing that they are missing out on something special.
As of late there has been a change in the air. Monkey, a usually loving and happy girl, has been very emotional. She cries at the slightest criticism and seems to toy with a sort of depression from time to time.
My fatherly response of “Come on, suck it up and let’s go” doesn’t have the typical reaction of a “I know you’re right” smile and us moving on. Now it seems to be lost in translation or makes the matter worse.
There are whispers of hormones developing and it being age appropriate. That is fine, that is the way life is. But then there is talk that this is just the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
That is of me being the awesome dad. My little girl still loves me and gives a mighty mean bear hug. But to be perfectly honest I’m scared.
Not scared of the changes that my girls will go through. Scared that I will not be able to adjust to them.
Last night she lost it over nothing and I found myself scratching my head. This is not me. I am easily adaptable and quick on my feet. But not last night.
It got my mind wandering as to what the future will hold and how the father who was always there wanting to help, may now be hiding in the corner. I don’t want to be that guy, but I’m scared. And it hurts.
It kills me inside to think that I might fail at something so important.

Christmas Photo Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 18:25:00 +0000

It's Christmas in Florida, not exactly a winter wonderland. In fact the mercury didn't dip below 70 degrees for Christmas and its eve. So I decided to have a little fun taking pictures of a few decorations and ornaments...

I didn't use the flash on any of these shots, just turned up the ISO to 800.

Also, I used a tripod and the timer setting on the camera. This eliminated any blur.

For these last couple I used a technique called bokeh. I focused in on a figurine and had the tree in the background. Using a quick paper cut-out over the lens created the heart shape effect on the lights.

Pay the man!

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 22:00:00 +0000

“Pay the man!” That’s what Deion Sanders said in reference to Joshua Cribbs performance in the first half of the Cleveland/Pittsburgh games last night.
“He’s only making $600,000 a year. Pay the man!”
For some reason that statement didn’t sit well with me as I brushed my teeth and watched the halftime report on NFL Network. I’m sure Cribbs is one darn good athlete, heck he's been on my fantasy team several times. He can run and throw and catch and puts up decent stats. I don’t want to take anything away from the young man. Sure there is the question of his contract with the Browns.
But Neon Deion Sanders on the other hand? I actually found him to be an entertaining analyst for the NFL. Sure his insight isn’t the greatest (He claimed my Dolphins would be fighting for the first round pick this year, yet they are actually fighting to get into the playoffs), but he is entertaining. That is up until that comment last night. Is this really what he thinks the fans want to hear? That some player making six figures deserves more?
Maybe Deion should step out of his mansion in Texas and take a look at the world around him. Maybe he should step into the local unemployment office and look at the people who would be happy to make $600,000 over the next 20 years. Maybe Deion, and his like, need to step away from their compounds and enter the gates of the Dallas/Fort Worth National Cemetery and stand by while a mother and her children lay to rest a husband/father who sacrificed his life for $34,000 and a belief in freedom.
Now I know that we have to be cool and have our little catch phrases and maybe this year’s phase is “Pay the man!” And I might have dismissed this as Neon Deion trying to flash once more, but at the end of the report Marshall Faulk jumped in and used the phase asking Deion “Who hasn’t paid the man?” I think Faulk is a pretty darn good analyst and I usually enjoy his perspective on the game. But to join in and ask the question as a form of entertaining the American public was ludicrous.
Maybe this is just a sign that the NFL truly doesn’t understand the fans who make football the sport it is in America.
Or maybe it is America spitting in its own eye. Sports players continue to make hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars while the men and women of our armed forces make considerably less.
This, of course, is nothing new. The argument of movie stars and athletes riches versus the salaries that cops, nurses, teachers, and firefighters make has been made before. And it has bothered me before as well, but I guess I just never heard an athlete come out and say that an organization needs to “pay the man” because he’s only making over half a million dollars a year.
I guess what I’d like to see is if anyone is getting paid around here it is the American public in the form of respect. Pay some respect Deion and retire that ridiculous phrase and don’t rub in the fact that somebody who isn’t fighting to make minimum wage to put food on the table for his/her children makes $600,000 and should get more because he can entertain. Don’t ask America to pity Cribbs for making 12 times the median income.
Pay some respect!

One Fish, Two Fish, Redfish, Bluefish: The Old Man and the Bay

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 02:46:00 +0000

The jolt through the line was unmistakable.
"Reel it up!" my Dad said.
I cranked on the handled and retrieved a small fish out of the churning olive green water.
My dad held the line in front of me and the fish twisted and flipped on the end of the hook. "That's a littler snapper," he said.
My five year old heart pounded as we stood on the bridge in the Keys and I was hooked.

Thirty some years have passed since that earliest memory of fishing with Dad. There were many trips early on and more fond experiences, but now neither one of us has a boat and it had been a couple of years easy since we last soaked a line together.
My brother and I haven't fished together since double that easily and the three of us probably not since we lived in Homestead together 19 years ago.

So for Dad's 60th I figured what better way to spend it than the three of us on the water again. I got a hold of Capt. Goeff Page and after a laborious schedule matching with my brother and I a date was set.

Of course Dec. 2nd would have to have a 60% chance of rain and wind expected at 30+ mph, but still Capt. Geoff said we could have luck if we get out early. Considering that Capt. Geoff has made quite the name for himself doing what he does I put my faith in his judgment. And it paid off!

We slipped into Joe Bay and it didn't take long to see why Capt. Geoff picked this spot.

First cast and my brother, Chris (AKA Weasel) had a fish to the boat.

And then another.

Dad chipped in with a catfish.

And I with a flounder.

Capt. Geoff was pretty impressed with Chris's hot hand and joked about teaming up for the Redfish Cup.

Chris definitely had the hot hand for the reds.

Dad was the only one putting bluefish in the boat. He landed three or four like this.

Dad and his two sons enjoying the water.

I was a short but productive trip. We probably boated 10 reds, 3-4 blues, 3-4 trout a flounder, and a bunch of other stuff. We lost a bit more. All but one blue were caught on artificials. It should be noted that even though Chris put on a good show it was Dad who caught the slam: catfish, jack, ladyfish. A trash can slam!
Happy Birthday Dad!

Thanks, but no thanks! - Dealing with rejection.

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:10:00 +0000

So my main hobby (wish it was my career) is writing. I wrote and self-published a novel and it did okay. The main reason it was self-published is because of the 30 query letters/e-mails I sent out to agents none came back wanting to represent me. Of those that did respond it was usually a form letter the gist of which said Thanks, but no thanks.
Years ago my wife gave me an article that talked about how tough it was to get published, but not to fret Grisham's first novel "A Time to Kill" was rejected by 30 agents before it was picked up (I still have that article).
Once again I'm trying to find an agent for my latest novel and once again I have received a few rejections. And just like last time I'm keeping them all.
Instead of getting down it just fuels me more. One day it will be my name in an article and my book that too many agents passed over. And I'll have all the rejections letters/e-mails and the last laugh.
The best way to deal with rejection is not to let it beat you down. You need to use it as fuel to say "Okay, if that's what you think I'll show you." Then you go out and get better and stronger and they'll be the ones with the second thoughts.

Shutterbug Junkie?

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 14:53:00 +0000

Well if you haven't noticed from my earlier posts I kinda like taking pictures. The wife says I'm addicted (just like I'm addicted to all of my hobbies). so for this post I've decided to post random shots I've taken over the last couple of months. I hope you can see the beauty that I see...

"I Will Kill You!"

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 16:51:00 +0000

Most people will never have those words directed at them in the manner in which harm is intended. But day in and day out that and worse is spewed towards Corrections Officers; in a lot of cases multiple times a day.

Imagine willingly locking yourself inside a building furnished with concrete and steel surrounded by deviants whom sit around all day plotting their next crime, which could include smashing your skull in or driving a pencil, spoon, or a piece of scrap metal into your spleen. And when you’re not the subject of their threats your spouse and children are; the threat of someone killing you quickly becomes welcome.

For the general public the closest thing I can imagine is driving down the highway while all the other drivers suffer from road rage. Now make that drive for 12 hours.

Well, at least we get paid.

Love, the Fountain of Youth

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:54:00 +0000

I rolled over to see my wife lying on her side. I could tell from her breathing she was awake, so I snuggled up behind her.
“I’m almost 40,” she says defeated.
“No, you’re almost 36,” I said and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Today is her 35th birthday. She looks great and in my mind she looks no different then she did 17 years ago when we first started dating.
“Close enough, might as well start making funeral arrangements.”
I chuckle and she asks what.
“You remind me of Billy Crystal in ‘City Slickers’.”
“Or Meg Ryan in ‘When Harry Met Sally’,” she counters.
“Yes, or that. You’re 35, no where near dead.”
Today is her birthday, October 25. And she is as lovely as she has ever been.
I think of myself and picture 24-25 year old. I’m not getting any older, so neither is she, right?
We get up and go find our girls making birthday cards. My joints pop with each movement and my elbow has been hurting for a month now. She tells me I need to get a cortisone shot and in my head that’s what old people do when they can’t heal. Are we getting that old?
No, we’re just getting close enough to that age we can see it on the horizon and I think it scares us.
But I look at her and she’s no older then the day I asked her to marry me.
My aches make me feel old. Watching my kids grow makes me feel old. But growing along her side makes time stand still. As long as she is with me I will always be young and I hope she feels that way too.
Happy Birthday, Baby!

Shred some Foam - Homemade Skimboards.

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 21:54:00 +0000

My nephews are into all kinds of sports and in turn like to decorate their room as such. Well, one of the things they are into is skimboarding. When I was a kid down in Homestead we used to make our own out of plywood, so when their mom asked me if I'd do some custom paint on a couple she bought I figured I'd do better and make them.

So here's the deal, since they're going on the wall you want to use luan plywood, thin and light. The quickest way to get your template? We bought a skimboard, traced the outline on the luan, and of course returned the skimboard. Hey, sometimes it pays to be lazy!

Jigsaw works just fine on these.

For the tail I used a scroll saw. You can use the jigsaw just as easy, but I've got a scroll saw and wanted to play a little.

You want to be as close as possible to your line, but don't worry if it's a little wavy, luan sands real easy so you can knock those out.

I started out using the airbrush, but that became too time consuming.

So I opted for the good old original, spray paint.

The finished projects focused around their names. I then painted and drew in various surf brand names and symbols to try and make them look authentic.
The boys seemed pretty stoked (I think they still use that) and they should look good hanging on the wall. The boards that is.

15 Years and Counting

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:53:00 +0000

Today marks the fifteenth year I have been with the Sheriff's Office. Oh the stories I could tell, but those will have to wait another ten years. You know, to protect the innocent and all.
When I started this gig I made a mental note that I wanted to make it fifteen years, and now that milestone has been reached I feel kind of funny. It has become more of a reminder how life goes by and slows down for no one.
I've been watching the calendar, waiting for this day to come, excited at making that achievement, only to become saddened with the thought of time lost. I used to say that nothing makes you feel old like watching your kids grow up. Well, I guess watching your career go by does that as well.
I'm saying it now, I wont stand by and watch life go by anymore. Of course whether or not that will happen, only time will tell.

Fresh Life

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 16:26:00 +0000

Went to the Sarasota Farmer's Market today. Always a busy event on Saturday mornings and yet the snowbirds really haven't made they're way down.
Of course I had my camera on hand so here are some pics...

This guy was working a harmonica outside the Gator Club in hopes for some spare change.

Here's Peanut "Stopping to smell the flowers."

Peanut wondering if the circus would be for her. I wonder sometimes myself.

Good fun with lots of interesting characters, food, and deals. Makes for good photos.

The Cowboy in Us All

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 13:38:00 +0000

Photos from Bull Bash IV at the Manatee Civic Center. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

You can see all 100+ photos at: facebook photo album

Modern Day Ozymandias

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 18:30:00 +0000

My wife loves a blog by the name of Sweet Juniper, and I have to admit it's pretty damn cool. In the blog this guy documents the decaying of the once great Detroit city. He is very artful in his musings as well as his photography.
One section of Sweet Juniper is photos of abandoned houses that have been reclaimed by nature.
Inspired by this, I thought right away of a property by my folks. This place sold for $2.2 million a couple of years ago. The entrance is now chained shut with a rent sign jammed in front. The wife and I decided to jump the fence and go exploring... I mean, looking for our dog.

The weeds and grass are so tall it looks like the house is sinking.

At least the birds have turned this house into a home.

This is the back of the house. The blacktop area is big enough to land a helicopter. So many homes have a one car garage, I can't imagine having six bays.
Beyond the house, down a dirt road is a massive metal barn.

Lo and behold the side door was open and inside is where it got very interesting.

Apparently, we were not the first to find our way in.

Up stairs, into the loft, we made a discovery.

These are rolls of blue prints; the things the American dream is made of.

The person that lived here and built this place was an architect.

We made our way back to the road and I looked back at the house and property and thought of the dreams the man who built it must have had. And then I thought of Percy Bysshe Shelley's poem Ozymandias, it goes like this:

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

The Boogeyman Wears a White Coat

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 15:18:00 +0000

The Boogeyman is said to be the embodiment of terror. In fact he lives off of fear. So what better way to make sure you survive other than creating fear.
Maybe I'm the Boogeyman. I love scary movies and Halloween. I love scaring people. True fear is a real emotion that people cannot control. To look into their eyes at that apex of emotion is to look into their soul. But in order to instill fear into somebody you must set it up perfect. I go to great lengths every Halloween to set the stage and peer into the soul of those who would cross my path. But that is only once a year. A true Boogeyman scares people year round.

Throughout my life I have not been the luckiest of individuals when it comes to oral care. It started young, around 8 years of age, that I met Dr. Pains. The tell-tale sign of this venture, other than his name, was the fact that he worked out of a strip mall in Homestead. This sadist had a thing for needles and thought nothing of poking you a minimum of 10 times. And that was just for a cleaning! Dr. Pains had a devilish grin that curled above his goatee each time he drove a hypodermic onto your flesh. To say that I feared the man is to say that I think coffee is okay.

Now the dentist's office is littered with paraphernalia just to cause fear. Pamphlets with decay and disease strewn amongst out of date magazines. Models and posters of teeth gone wrong prominently displayed.
But to set the stage for fear you must incorporate all the senses. Like the smell of a dental office; the fine powder of enamel and dentin and pulp cause a scent that cannot be duplicated in any other setting. The sound; in between the tinny crackling melody of Lite FM elevator tunes is the high-pitched shrill of the drill, a noise that is instant tinnitus to anyone not wearing scrubs or a white coat.
And you might as well throw in some victims who are ashen white and rubbing their jawlines as they stumble to the counter TO PAY FOR TORTURE! The receptionist is chipper as can be while she charges them and asks if everything is okay.
Okay? The poor sap is so juiced up with Novocaine he mumbles something that could be a complaint, but you can't understand him. Of course the receptionist smiles and nods and sends him on his way. Her gaze falls from him while exiting to you sitting with your leg pumping like a piston in a Ferrari.
She calls you up and directs you to a room or stall or closet or hostel with a strange looking recliner, metal trays, odd light fixtures, and a few items with hoses or cords slithering away from them. She tells you to have a seat and the "Doctor" will be with you shortly, which is a lie.
Come on, if we are going to set up the scene for fear then there must be some anticipation thrown in right before the Boogeyman appears. You're not supposed to expect him!
So, after you've read the same three little crappy signs ("Home is Where the Heart is" on a goose with a bonnet, "Live, Laugh, Love Often" on a heart, "Brush, Brush, Brush!" on a tooth) ad nauseam, you decide to take a nap, only to feel his presence behind you.
You turn with a jerk as he tells you to lean back and begins to lower the chair. Like you're not in a vulnerable enough position, he leans it back far enough that you feel you will slide out of it head first.
He tells you to open wide and comes at you with some metal pick thing and starts prodding around. He asks if it hurts when he does this, grips you by the face and jams the pick into the exposed nerve in your mouth. You flail helplessly on the chair attempting to scream, but the saliva that's collected at the back of your throat (now you know why they lean that chair so far back) stops it from happening. Pure genius, in an extreme evil kinda way.
Then he says, "Want to see something really scary?"
And you think "NO, I've seen that movie", but he shows you anyways. He shows you that the tooth Dr. Pains fixed all those years ago, yeah, that crap is no good and needs to be redone. These sickos are working together!
He then wipes a swab of Orajel around your gums to help with the needle he's coming at you with. Really, if Orajel was going to provide any sort of relief don't you think I would have jammed a tube of that crap in there before electing to enter the world of the deranged?
And of course you feel the needle and all its contents swelling in your gums. He injects so much of the crap it overflows to your taste buds.
He says he wants to give it a second to take effect and that's all the time he does. Next thing you know there's a DeWalt jammed in your yap and chunks of tooth are splintering across the room. And some insane assistant is slipping a soda straw hooked to a shop-vac into your mouth trying to suck your tonsils out!
Are you scared? Damn right you're scared! After the whole incident is over you tell yourself you're going to brush 5 times a day and floss after every meal. And you do! For about a week. Then six months go by and you get a phone call from the receptionist trying to schedule your checkup. She's talking to you like a siren calling to sailors and you think, sure why not, I've been taking care of my teeth. Haven't I?
But the Boogeyman knows better and he's waiting to scare the crap out of you. Hell, you're scared just at the thought of having to see the guy!

Something Winged This Way Comes

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 21:40:00 +0000

While reviewing the less than desirable debt/equity ratio of Bank of America someone threw something at my window, hard. The someone turned out to be Mother Nature.
The wife and Peanut had just left for a bike ride while Monkey and I stayed home so she could write “I will learn to use self-control” a thousand times (30 times).
Thinking it was one of the two bikers I stood up and looked to see what the missile was. It was covered in feathers and sprawled out perfectly still.
“What was that?” Monkey asked.
“It was a bird.”
“Really?” she said and shot from her seat at the table.
I was hesitant to show her because she is very sensitive when it comes to animals. She has a strange gift when it comes to them. Animals of all kinds are drawn to her, like Saint Francis. The idea of explaining why a kamikaze bird committed suicide on our back porch to a sobbing child is never appealing.
We stepped out the back door to see the small sparrow like bird attempting to move. I scooped him up and was surprised to see such vibrant colors on a sparrow.
“Is it going to be okay?”
“I don’t know sweetie.”
I set it down on a little table on the porch and we looked as it sat kind of funny.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure sweetie, but be gentle.”
The eight year old stroked the bird so lovingly and said “Get well pretty bird.”
It sat still and I thought for sure there would be a burial, so I decided to get a picture of him.

Shortly after, the wife and Peanut showed up and Monkey was quick to show off her little friend.
“Is it going to make it?” the wife asked.
“I don’t know, I’m shocked it’s still alive.”
After a couple more minutes the bird raised its head, looked around, then sped off into the woods. Later I learn that is was a Kentucky Warbler.
“Wow, didn’t think that was going to be the outcome,” I said.
“I knew he was going to be all right,” Monkey said.
I patted her on the head, “I’m sure you did.”
Such a beautiful creature and a pretty bird too.

To Whom it May Concern

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 12:46:00 +0000

Working in a jail provides a writer an abundance of material, everything from characters to situations to catch phrases. The trick of course is to figure out how to use them without being too obvious and pissing off the people you work with. And then sometimes you have to be careful not to upset your wife.

One day we were cleaning out some files and came across a letter that was sent to an inmate, but the writer didn't list the inmates name in the address and no return address. Why it was kept I don't know, but being curious in nature I decided to read said letter for some clues.
The letter was from some love sick girl who babbled on about how she couldn't wait for the unknown inmate to get out so they could live happily ever after in some single-wide. Okay, she didn't say single-wide, but I think it's a pretty safe assumption especially considering...
At the end of the sappy ramblings I hit gold! This would be something, somehow I would use in my writing and it goes like this:
"I have a little something for when you get out. I got some of those edible panties and can't wait for you to use them. Unless I get a case of the munchies and eat them myself."
What?!!! That is awesome! Up to that point I had never heard of anyone getting the "munchies" so bad that they decided to break open their edible panties. I would have never in a million years thought of something like this.
So I decide that since this is headed for the trash I might as well hold on to it. When I get home there's the junk drawer that I empty my pockets into, keys, wallet, eye drops, letter, chap stick, etc.
Days go by and I forget about this white-trash correspondence. That is until my wife decides to clean out the junk drawer and comes across it.
"What the hell is this?"
I turn to see her waving the letter at me.
"Isn't it funny?"
"No!"
Then it dawns on me that unless you know that this thing was sent to a jail you're not going to know who the intended recipient was. "No, no, no. That's not for me. It was an old letter that had no names or addresses."
The wife still giving me the evil eye says, "And why do you have it?"
"You gotta read the last paragraph, it's priceless."
She does, still doesn't find the humor in it, and tosses it on the counter.
"What? Come on, munchies, edible panties. That's good stuff!"
The wife walks away shaking her head.

I still think it's funny.

Crack's List Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 10:08:00 +0000

So remember the couch and Eight Ball Annie? Well, I guess I can't lump all Crack's List sellers as deviants. The wife found a big free standing mirror and decided it would make a great item for the girls. We load up and head to an apartment complex to view said mirror. Of course I'm ready to meet another skunk mouth freak with track marks, but instead found what appeared to be a normal family a little down on their luck. Father, mother, son, and daughter; all who dressed, talked, and acted normal.
They were crammed in the little apartment that was clean and organized. The father explained there just wasn't enough room for the mirror, he picked up as a project.
It was what the wife had in mind, so I kindly parted with the $40. In turn the father handed it to the wife and told her to go buy dinner. Win-win situation.
So let the project begin...

Here's the mirror. A little rough, but nothing bad.

A little separation from a crack in the frame.

A little wood glue...

A couple of clamps and all's good.

Remove mirror from stand and...

Lightly sand. I used a foam backed 320 grit sand block. Flexes just right to get into all the details.

Time to paint. I tried this new Rust-o-leum product and gotta say I wasn't too impressed. Seemed like a lot of waste and a huge mess.

It did, however, cover pretty good.

The fumes were so much that I had to move the project out onto the yard with a tarp.

Thought about removing the back and taking the mirror out, but that would have been the easy route, so instead I covered it with tape and newspaper.

Time for part two of the wife's vision turning the back of the mirror into a chalkboard.

This stuff worked pretty good.

Here's the finished product and the girls acting silly as usual.

Flip it over and you can hold class.

Sorry, no crack heads, or incontinent dogs, but had to show off my white trash handyman skills. Note them skills with the spray paint, we don't need no stinking brushes.

ZAP!

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 10:44:00 +0000

Let me tell you something. I have a high pain tolerance. I know there are plenty of people who say this, but for me it is true. Some examples would be: I’ve been Tasered three times. I’ve had my face dowsed with pepper spray. I once slipped and ran a bow saw over my arm. I went two years with a torn bicep tendon hoping it would fix itself. When I was a kid I suffered through the night with appendicitis thinking the pain would just go away. Through all these things and many others I never cried or screamed or curled up in the fetal position (though the appendicitis was close). I’ve always been able to control and deal with pain. That was until…
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.

Melt-In-Your-Mouth Pancakes

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 10:48:00 +0000

My kids love pancakes. They must since I am the best pancake maker ever (according to them)! Here's my recipe for keeping the little ones thinking I'm awesome:

First thing first. Coffee.

Make sure you have at least two cups before you start, that way you can handle the incessant "Are they done yet? Are they done yet?"

Next is your ingredients.

1 1/3 cup soy milk (Just shut up and go with it. If you want to use whole or skim do it)
2 cups Bisquick
1 egg
2 tablespoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Add and mix ingredients in that order.

When you mix them (I use a fork instead of a whisk) you don't want to go gangbusters, just turn it nice and easy until the lumps are no bigger than peas. Don't mix all the lumps out (that's waffle batter).

Pour the batter into 4-5 inch circles on a hot skillet. Go with 325 degrees.

When the edge curls up and you start to see bubbles coming through it's time to flip.

While the other side is browning go ahead and rub butter on them. Go with salted butter. It's pancakes, are you really worried about your health?

Finally, slap them on a plate and dowse them in syrup. And make sure the syrup is heated. Cold syrup is for losers.

If you didn't quite understand my directions you can always look on the back of the Bisquick box. What, you think I came up with this on my own?

Crack's List

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 23:19:00 +0000

Like I don't put up with enough crap at work, my wife has struck once again!
I love the fact that she is our CFO and does a fine job at making sure our money goes the distance. But sometimes it's just not worth saving a buck. I think sometimes she gets a little too frugal. And sometimes I'm the sucker in the whole deal.
So she's doing her thing trying to make sure we don't spend the inheritance that the kids won't get by shopping on Craig's List. You may have heard of this thing. You know where people list items for sale like cars, furniture, jewelry; and sometimes they list services for sale like handyman or yard work or sexual favors or serial killer victim. I'm pretty sure those last two might be one and the same.
On this particular occasion my wife has decided that she is going to save us a bundle by finding a leather couch for dirt cheap. She calls me at work to notify me that we need to go look at a sleeper sofa. Are you freak'n kidding me?!
"Babe, it's been a long day (a 12 hour day)."
"Yeah, but this is a really good deal. $350 for this Lazy Boy."
"Babe, really."
"No, seriously, it's leather and lists for $900 new. The lady said that she's desperate, that they're going to come get her car if she misses another payment."
Sirens are now sounding in my head. "And where is it at?"
"Nokomis."
Sounding like Jim Mora I say "What's that? Nokomis? You talking about Nokomis, are you kidding me? Nokomis?"
"Listen, I've dropped the girls off at my folks and grabbed my dad's truck. Meet me over at Five Guys for dinner and then we'll go check it out."
Damn it! She knew she'd get me with the Five Guys offer.
I meet her there, down a burger, fries, and a hand full of roasted peanuts. Then we hit the road. I ask her what the directions and she reads me something like this:
"Go to Blackburn, but not the Blackburn you're thinking of. Cross over it and take your first right. Follow that road and it will be the first condo on the left."
And I'm like what?
"You don't know where that is?"
"It's frig'n dark out and that doesn't make sense!"
"You don't have to yell. Do you want me to call her?"
I jerk the truck off the road. "Call her."
We get somewhat better directions and as luck would have it we're right around from her. Pulling in, I see the first condo on the left and a piece of crap 1990 Cavalier in the driveway. Are you catching these signs?
I back the truck in and say into the steering wheel, "This is not going to be good."
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Pitched right down the middle. "But if it is, you figure out how to get us out of here."
How it became my job to develop an escape plan from a place I didn't want to be in to begin with is still lost on me.
As soon as we step out there's some little piss ant dog yipping at us.
"Come on baby, it's okay. Stop barking."
I follow the voice to, yep you guessed it, a crack head! All skin and bones and jittery. She waves us in. My wife catches my look and starts to giggle. As we step in the "smoke-free" home (yeah, smoke-free since the time my wife called you)it gets even worse in the light. This chick's hair has been died and fried so bad it's more of an orange color with a green sheen in the light. She looks like tarantulas are crawling out her eyes from the caked-up mascara.
So Eight Ball Annie begins her spastic impression of Vanna White telling us what a great deal it is and how bad she needs to get rid of it. She convinces my wife, and therefore me, to have a seat. My wife to the left and Eight Ball Annie on the right. At that point her Rat Terrier/Chihuahua/Pomeranian/ whatever ankle-bitter mix jumps on my lap.
"Oh, that's my little Pipsy. I had to rescue him. He's incontinent so they were going to put him down."
My wife once again manages to keep her giggles to an undetectable level from the rock monster whose skin is obviously irritating her to the point of scratching it off.
"So you said it's a sleeper?" my wife asks just to keep this freak show going.
Apparently my gaping jaw was enough to cause a Cheshire's grin to stretch across her face.
Eight Ball Annie leaps from the couch and begins to rip the cushions of the couch. I step back out of the way and just when I didn't think it could get any worse I suddenly feel the need to gouge my eyes out.
See, the lovely Eight Ball Annie is wearing this soft nicotine stained linen sundress. Of course the benefits of such a garment are its light and airy feeling and in some cases its sheerness, but this was not one of those cases. Because as Eight Ball Annie bent over in front of me she gave me a not-so-lovely shot of where that pink t-back disappeared. This, once again, amused the crap out of my wife. I thought my burger would join the pillows tossed across the room.
Fruitlessly, Eight Ball Annie tries to pull out the "never-slept-on" folding bed. It keeps binding on her and I figure this is the out we needed, but my wife is enjoying this entirely too much tells me to give her hand.
The thing opens to reveal a sheet stretched over the "never-slept-on" mattress. All I can think is Luminol and a black light would set this thing aglow.
Just as I'm about to say something bounding in from the front door that was left open comes a screaming three year old who begins jumping on all the furniture.
An exhausted elderly man steps in and tells Eight Ball Annie that her child, once again, came running into his place to hang out. He waited fifteen, twenty minutes but mommy never came to get her (and he couldn't take it any longer).
Now instead of irritating the old man the little brat is irritating me. Eight Ball Annie does a fine parenting job of ignoring her and keeps looking from me to my wife for one of us to whip some cash so she can run out and get her fix and turn the scream'n demon's shrieks into a lullaby. And just as I'm about to break her dreams I'm interrupted once more.
"Hey, hey, hey! Quiet down! Pot Head Pete says as he comes out of the bedroom apparently just waking up from a nap... At 8:30 pm? "Wus up," he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen type area looking in the variety of chip bags open on the counters. Must suck waking up with the munchies and a screaming kid. Oddly the strangers in the house didn't seem to phase him. Hmm...
"Well, I don't think it's gonna work. It's uh, too small. Too small for the space we're looking at," I finally get out and grab my lovely wife's hand.
"You sure? I'll take $300!"
"Yeah, sorry, even at $300 it's not going to change the size."
"Well, okay guess it's not going work," the wife says, finally showing me some support.
We show ourselves out and load back into the truck.
"Babe, what the hell?"
"Okay, okay you were right."
"There's a reason they say 'No shoes, no shirt, Nokomis*.'
"Look at it this way, at least you got some new characters," she says with a smile.
What could I possibly write and use that chick. I guess my blog.

*Just so it is noted, not all the losers in Nokomis are crack heads.

It's Not Just a Mug!

noreply@blogger.com (Signal20) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 21:35:00 +0000

So I’m walking into the pokey and one of the Pre-Trial Services girls stops me and says, “We were just talking about you… and your issue with that coffee mug.”
“This mug? You know they don’t make this mug anymore.”
“And that’s what we mean,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
See, when something is as important to you as coffee is to me then the mode of transportation needs to be equally important. If I’m going to spend good money on good coffee then I can’t risk loosing a drop (I have been known to drink java that’s several days old). When your only form of liquid intake in an eight to twelve hour shift is coffee, joe, brew, mud, tar, mojo, black magic, etc. you want to keep it hot, fresh, and protected.
Let me tell you about this mug. It’s a Starbucks travel mug that cost $20. “Twenty freak’n dollars for a coffee mug?” you might say, but hear me out. It’s made of metal and is stainless steel inside. It is air, or coffee, tight and will not leak. Not a drop. I can pour coffee in this bad boy and six hours later it is still hot! This thing could probably deflect bullets, cure cancer, end world hunger, and bring peace to the Middle East. That’s a coffee mug!
Now sure, there’s been a time or two when said mug has been misplaced. And on those occasions some people might have construed my behavior as threatening or hostile, but look at it this way: this mug is my constant sidekick, at work, on the boat, on road trips… Hmm, they may have a point. I might see this mug more than I see my kids.