The Surly Writer

FB Photo Montage

2012-02-08T10:36:00.004-05:00

So today's post is brought to you from Facebook, where a conglomerate corporation wants you to spend real money to buy fake cash to play free games.

While trolling around on my Facebook page, I sometimes come across a funny/thought-provoking picture that someone placed as their status update. Today, I thought it would be good to share some of these. Normally, I would give credit where credit is due, but some of these pictures turn viral to the point that I'm not sure WHO was the first person to post it, and I'm not sifting through all my FB friends' status updates to get that information. I thank those who post it, and that's good enough for me. "Thank you, FB friends!"

So, without further ado, my FB collage of status update pics.

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"Not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." Martin Luther King

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My blues name is officially "Jailhouse Liver Rivers."

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"Stop Clubbing, Baby Seals"

Once again, punctuation makes all the difference...

What I did on My Birthday Yesterday

2012-02-03T08:00:00.000-05:00

Well, mommy woke up early to get some writing work in. I woke up and mommy fed me. Then she cleaned our home and we went out to pick up my birthday cake.

Then we came home, and mommy gave me a bath.

After the bath, mommy dressed me in my clothes given as a present from author-friend Kathryn Magendie.

We lit the birthday cake with the pretty words. Mommy helped me blow out the candle.

Yummy cake! I ate some and really liked it. It tasted a little like carrots, but there was also raisins in it. And the cream cheese frosting was scrumptious!

Afterward, I took a nap. Thanks for looking at my photos for my first birthday. Love, Jaq!

Thursday, 02/02/2012

2012-02-01T12:30:00.001-05:00

My Human Minions!

Do Not Worship The Groundhog!!

This is I, Overlord Jaq, with a simple command to the humans under my reign. Do not worship this strange large rodent tomorrow. There are much worthier causes for you to celebrate. For tomorrow will be the 1-year anniversary of my arrival here on your planet, as my mommy calls it, "My First Birthday."

I do not understand this thing called "Groundhog's Day" that you wish to celebrate on My First Birthday. What does the ground hog have to offer you? A foretelling of the weather? Pshaw! How can this giant rodent tell you of the coming weather with more accuracy than what your human weather forecasters tell you? Has the rodent taken meteorology classes? Has it graduated with a degree? This "supposed" mystical creature has the power to tell you whether Spring is coming early, which --last time I checked -- Spring is an unmovable seasonal event of the Earth.

Never worship something you can't slather in barbecue sauce. That is my decree. Just look at the thing. I'm waaaayyy cuter.

So I ask of you. Instead of donning on your groundhog headgear, take up your arms and follow my rule of this world. I shall not disappoint you with strange weather forecasts or chew on your furniture like the large "mystical" rodent. At least, I won't chew on it much before mommy stops me. I'm still getting all my baby teeth in.

Son, if you act ghetto, you BE ghetto.

2012-01-09T10:24:00.001-05:00

What can I say? I get angry. I want to punch things. I want to break things. I want to take out the world with my fists and make the ground quiver in fear of me.

So what if I hit on my wife? It don't mean nothing. I's tell her it's not my fault. It's her fault. She made me angry and she got whumped on. Or I tell her it's the other woman's fault. It's the neighbor's fault, or my other baby's mama's fault, or just the woman driving her car who cut me off on the street.

It's her, and her, and her fault. Yeah, it's always the women. See, they fear me. If they don't give me the props I want, the attention I want, the fear I want, that means they be scared of me. Simple as that.

What? Don't give me that moral, psychobabble crap about I'm inferior to a woman, so I beat them down to be a man. Shi-at! No woman can compare to a man. They need to know their place. They need to know I'll go out and be with any woman I want. This ring on my finger don't mean nothing but fast cash at a pawn shop. I got my wife and I got my girls. I get what I want and they take care of the babies and collect the food stamps. They ain't getting my money. I won't even give them $20 to fill up their gas tanks.

What you nagging about now? Naw, you didn't see nothing. I wasn't sneaking past our place with no other woman. Gerl, you just be trippin. Give me lip and I'll give you a busted one. Where you going? You ain't leaving me. No, I ain't letting go of your arm. I ain't letting you drive away.

Stop bi-atching at me about getting a job. You know I can't. They won't let me get one. I go in, and they take one look at me. Yeah, they give me the look that says I'm "ghetto." And you know it's a woman manager who does that. Ain't no one else who'd give me that much disrespect.

Woman, you collect what you need to collect from the state and change the baby's diapers, and I'll do what a man does to enjoy his life. I put my wife in her proper place. I make some booty-calls with my other women, and I'll punch you out if I need be.

Don't look at me like I'm ghetto.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T14:07:00.002-05:00

Celebrate the arrival of the New Year,

but keep yourself safe while out.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

2011-12-21T23:47:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas,

Happy Holidays

and Season's Greetings, Everyone

Those Old Shows

2011-12-12T14:59:00.001-05:00

This post was inspired by my friend, Suldog, awhile back when he posted those old shows that he grew up with as a kid.

Since we grew up in different generations -- he has a good 50 years more added to his lifespan, or maybe just 20, I always forget -- we watched entirely different shows as children. The shows he watched never extended into my generation, as I know the shows that I watched as a kid will never be known by my daughter unless I buy the DVDs.

Let's begin.

Hogan's Heroes

During my time range as a kid, there was a mixture of shows that were in color and black-n-white. I remember watching this show before the Channel 4 noon news. My brother enjoyed it immensely. I remember it as a war captive show where the prisoners ate good, did whatever they wanted and helped "our" side beat "their" (meaning the bad) side. The technicalities of the Second World War were still a bit too complicated in my mind.

But I was quick enough to know that Captain Klink and Sergeant Schultz should never have had those jobs watching those prisoners. In fact, I kept patiently waiting for the scene when the firing squad would put those two out of their misery. Sigh... never happened.

I Love Lucy

"Rickkkyyy! Waaaahhhh!" If you never seen "I Love Lucy," then you truly missed out on a show. The antics of Lucy and the gang are memorable. Walk up to someone and mention Lucy working the the candy-factory assembly line. I bet you'll get a chuckle and a nod and even the word, "Classic!" out of them.

The Andy Griffith Show

Did you start whistling when you saw this picture? I sure did. Good old Mayberry with the watering hole and the inept deputy Fife. Sure not like today's cop shows. The worse you would have seen is someone tossed in the drunk cell. No body dismemberment like CSI or NCIS or any other show that simply goes by an acronym.

Mork and Mindy

"Nannu-nannu" Boy, did I hate this show. Of course, I never said I was listing favorite old shows that I watched as a kid. Just old shows.

My sister loved this one with Mork, Robin Williams debut, playing the alien who is observing humans and his human confidant-turned-wife, Mindy. The fact that he landed on Earth in a giant egg tells you how half-baked, or soft-boiled, this show was. And it's origins came from another old show, "The Happy Days."

I think I'll end the list here. There are, of course, other shows which I'll list.

WKRP in Cincinnati
The Odd Couple
Laverne and Shirley
Three's Company
All in The Family
The Jefferson's
The Partridge Family
The Brady Bunch
The Honeymooners
Moonlighting

Any shows you remember watching as a kid? Or adult?

The Overlord's First Thanksgiving

2011-11-28T14:27:00.001-05:00

Walking into my sister's apartment, the Overlord's grip tightened with wide eyes. The table was set with place settings, and an old black and white movie was on the television (I believe it was the classic "A Miracle of 34th Street"). The Overlord stared at the tiny, papillion/chihuahua dog that laid its ears back in shyness and scurried into the kitchen.

I took her over to the couch. She sat there quietly, staring at the four legs with fur coming bounding over. A cat. A real cat. Something more than the 2 stuff animals the Overlord has as she nibbles on the tails. This very friendly cat moved in close, giving the Overlord sniffing kisses on the cheek and ear. The cat then laid beside my leg, purring and rolling onto her back.

I rubbed the cat. When the Overlord built up the courage, she reached over and yanked out a fistful of fur. The cat jumped up, startled, but still stayed close as I showed the Overlord the proper way in stroking the fur.

Dinner was served at 2:00. I sat down with the Overlord beginning to make her cooing noises for something to eat. She ate turkey, stuffing and a bit of potatoes au gratin. After she had nibbles of all, she settled back against me and joined into the conversation with her aunt and cousin, her "da-da-ga-da-ga" filling the apartment air.

After dinner, we settled down on the couch to watch a little tv. The Overlord placed her head against my cheek, closed her eyes and fell asleep. She woke up briefly when I placed her into the car seat as we left my sister's place. We briefly visited another friend's house, where we had a bit of ice cream before walking home for the evening.

And this were the events of the Overlord's first Thanksgiving.

Gobbler Day Wishes

2011-11-24T09:46:00.001-05:00

A Happy Thanksgiving to Everyone!

Blogoversary Come and Gone

2011-11-14T13:28:00.001-05:00

I wouldn't have even remembered if Teena from Toronto hadn't stopped by last Friday and reminded me in a comment on the last post.

Oh, how the time flies! Has it actually been 4 years? Four years that this blog was conceived, all shiny and new and just going through its first growing pains?

Things have changed so much. I write less here now than before, when blogging was the new, exciting social media thing that people merely enjoyed reading without wading through all the advertisements. I think back during that time, surprised for all the things that happened in my life.

Here is a brief breakdown of all the changes:

I gained a writing job that I enjoy waking up to every day.

My old apartment building has a gigantic hole in the side covered over with plastic where they tore down the brick chimney. It's soon to become an extension of the Thai Restaurant.

The Overlord arrived in all her galactic glory. She has been here for nine months now, planning her world domination and placing ads in the help wanted page for evil minions.

(I'm going to have to keep an eye on that one.)

So, there has come and gone 4 years of my life from the time of this blog's birth to the time of the birth of the Overlord. I'm surprised it has lasted this long.

Thanksgiving Comes First... Again

2011-11-01T10:55:00.001-04:00

Well, my friend Jim would like it for everybody to remember there is a worthy holiday to celebrate in-between the holiday of Halloween and Christmas. One that shouldn't be forgotten by people, especially those in the corporate world. This holiday is called Thanksgiving. Jim has an elegant way in explaining his emotions, and throughout the years has made a multitude of posts. Here's a bit of one from the previous year.

When I was a kid, Christmas was magical. The lights were colorful and amazing, making the night a warm, bright, wonderful place to be, even if it was 20 degrees outside and the snow was up to your waist. If you're old enough, you'll recall that Christmas carols gave you the same sorts of butterflies in your stomach that would be associated with love at a later time in your life. Cities and towns put up decorations on the main streets, with the larger municipalities erecting lovely Christmas trees in central spots.

All of the above worked, on a spectacular level, because it happened at an appropriate time. No retailer (or city, or homeowner) dared breach the unofficial line of demarcation – Thanksgiving. It was an unwritten rule that one holiday would play out completely before speaking of another was allowed.

Now? Nobody cares. Whatever you can peddle, whenever you can peddle it, is the mantra. It matters not a whit how many people’s memories are trampled, nor how irreligious the displays and advertisements. The only thing that counts is that ledgers get into the black. Restraint and taste are passé. The more outrageous the spectacle, the better for the bottom line.

Make no mistake about it: I’m a capitalist. I’m all for everybody making as much money as they can, as fast as they can, in whatever way they can, so long as nobody is physically hurt in the process. I’m not looking to enact laws against early Christmas advertising. What I am in favor of is standing up and being counted. That's fair. Opinion can drive a market in the right direction without resorting to the force of government intervention. If you decry this incursion upon our holiday ground as much as I do, I hope you'll join me in raising a slight ruckus. My hope is that we make enough noise to affect the situation. If we can’t, then I suppose we deserve this despicable state of affairs.

I’m going to give it a try. I hope you'll help.

If you believe, as I do, that Thanksgiving should play out fully before Christmas season begins; that Christmas carols should not be heard on the radio before at least Thanksgiving evening; that advertisers who dare to encroach upon Thanksgiving - or, God help us, Halloween - should be told in no uncertain terms that you despise their hideous advertisements and that you will not shop at their establishments unless they cease and desist; that malls who put Santa Claus on display before Veterans Day should be ashamed of themselves; then please consider doing something about it.

Should you be as incensed as I am concerning Christmas schlock, please post a "Thanksgiving Comes First" entry on your blog. Write from the heart. Everybody who visits your blog will find out how you feel. My guess is they'll agree with you. Perhaps they'll also write about it, and so will their friends, and so forth. I hope that, if enough of us do this, we might make some small impact...

You can read his new post concerning this topic. If you want to join his cause, then make a post yourself or place an icon on your sidebar in support.

The Ending of a Legend

2011-10-25T10:32:00.001-04:00

If you are unfamiliar with Pittsburgh landmarks, this picture is the Mellon Arena. Some people may still remember it as the Civic Arena. Commonly known as the "Igloo" or "The House that Lemieux (Mario) Built," the Arena was built back in the 1950s and became a major sports venue for first the Pittsburgh Hornets and then later the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Arena also hosted concerts and the Ringling Bros Circus.

The walls are coming down.

The Arena was set for demolishment on September 26. With the new Consol Energy Center built, it was decided that the Arena was no longer needed. The demolition is set to end on June of 2012.

I hear it will be sooner than that.

My older brother is working for the company that is demolishing the Arena. The things they have found have been interesting. It's not every day you locate a secret tunnel under the arena that leads under the roadway and toward the nearby buildings.

They have found other things. Secret locked rooms filled with mystery stuff. Couches. Chairs. Computers. And truckloads of copper pipes that can easily pay the all the workers' salaries if they were demolishing 20 Arenas. The work will be ongoing for the next several months, although my brother sees it ending before the set June date.

The Arena will be gone. A landmark for many. Many people want souvenirs, such as the man who approached my brother asking for the season box seats he had. Yes, the seats. What would he possibly do with them? I suppose it could become a conversational piece for a few months. But then what?

How about you? Was there ever any landmark that was going to be torn down that you wanted a piece of? What did you do with it? How much did you make selling it on eBay.

Spam Folder Modgepodge Story

2011-10-20T10:49:00.000-04:00

Well, this was one hell of a situation he found himself in.

It all started when he was trying to get a quote for repairs on his HOT TUB/SPA. The spa technicians were laughing and joking over his ENLARGEMENT PILLS on the nearby sink counter. Hey, even the best bodybuilder guy could use a little more help down there, and he had some pretty hot women judges he had to please to win those titles.

The man went into his bathroom and went to beating 30 years off the spa technicians' lives until both would need to register for AARP MEMBERSHIP and COBRA medical insurance. The man told the technicians that if he found rumors floating around town concerning his "bathroom goodies," he would send MYFUNCARD sympathy notes to the technicians' next of kin.

The man started to get ready for his date that he found on his LINKEDIN UPDATES. She was the hottest judge on the panel for the Male Bodybuilder Of The Universe With The Fattest Ego Competition. She arrived early, talking POLITICS and not about yours truly, so he did his basic "nod your head like you agree with the woman" routine that every man knows well.

He handed her a small jewelery box holding GOLD earrings as she squealed in delight. He sneered, sure he would get some tonight with his pants buddy making her squeal even more. The man told her to wait in the house as he began pulling the car out the driveway to take her to the restaurant.

Wham! The back end of his gas-guzzling hummer rammed into the side of a garbage truck. The man swore a blue streak, pissed over letting his AUTO INSURANCE run out. As the man got out of his hummer to beat up the garbage men, OIL squirted everywhere, drenching the man's pants. The man kept walking forward as the garbage man on the passenger side threw his lit cigarette out the window.

Whoosh! The oil ignited. The man began beating at his pants, hotter than he ever claimed to be in his nether regions. He ran into the house where the woman stood, tapping her foot angrily and pointing at his LAPTOP. She had read his Facebook status about his plan to woo her for the bodybuilder championship trophy. To add insult to injury, he bragged about finding cheap gold-painted earrings on eBay.

The woman picked up the laptop and threw it at the burning man, knocking several TEETH out. The running man stumbled on the laptop cord, falling backward into the bathroom and plunging into the spa.

His last thoughts, as the fire became extinguished yet the plugged-in laptop submerged into the water to send large volts of electrifying electricity into his body, was how much of an INJURY LAWSUIT he could take out on the garbage man and the woman.

The last noise the man heard was the woman laughing at his bathroom goodies.
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Every CAPITALIZED word in this story is a spam email I found in my gmail spam folder this morning.

Repost: Snowy Fun

2011-10-03T10:06:00.000-04:00

After doing the Reblog Challenge post, I decided to go back into my archive and dig out those long ago stories that didn't receive as much exposure as I had hoped. So, rising from the depths, is this long-ago post that I hope you will enjoy.

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White flakes drifting from hazy skies like feathers from angels. The mercury lines sinking fast on barometers because of wind chills. It’s wintertime, and it is the ski season.

I was 14 when I latched on those slick sticks for the first time. A member of the school ski club, I had been drawn to swishing down the powdery substance because it gave me a legitimate excuse to get out of the house in the evenings. I didn’t mind hurtling uncontrollably along the mountain slopes. The enjoyable part of going there was the ski lodge. I could sit by the fireplace and sip hot cocoa while lewdly eyeing the male snow bunnies as they bent over to put more wood on the flames.

As the years passed, I became skilled at the sport, which really meant that gravity had given up trying to knock me flat on my back because I was moving too fast. The easy bunny slopes with their green circles were left behind as blue squares and black diamonds called for this skier to try out the goods along steeper trails. Now and then, I attempted the bumpy paths marked with double diamonds. Yet it was only to get away from more crowded peaks and their less experienced speeders.

By this time, I had forsaken the duct-taped splinters found in the rental shop and had bought some serious hardware: a pair of Rossignols that were hard to turn. Eventually, I graduated myself up to a pair of K2s when in highschool. These lasted through many gouges and an unfortunate run-in with the chairlift’s cement landing when the suspended seat I sat on unexpectedly swung backward and bent the hell out of the ski ends.

I hit those slopes every time that the white powder appeared in the air during the next 10 years. Waking up at dawn, my brother would come by the house with his snowboard strapped to the car roof. We’d get to the lodge before any of the lifts opened, as we would head toward the ski instructors’ desk. There, I would beg the manager for a simple slip of paper that would cut the cost of my ticket by half.

Gleefully heading away with the not-quite-legal ski sticker, we’d sit for a breakfast of syrupy flapjacks in the cafeteria. Afterwards, we would do our stretches (always remember to stretch before starting any serious exercise). Then I would leave my brother behind when the chairlifts opened, since he had to work off my ticket scam by teaching snot-nosed kids how to fall without breaking their necks on newly purchased snowboards. With eyes latched on the mountaintop, I would disappear in the blizzard to find the one trail that had deer tracks across it. This showed me that the path had been undisturbed by human wildlife and was the perfect place for my first run of the day.

Later in life, my lust for the slopes waned slightly. Going up and down the mountain became a lonely adventure. No one else in my family enjoyed the sport and my brother got married to a summer person, so his days of teaching snowboarding became nonexistent. Yet I still hit those slopes even by myself. It became a pride thing, because I could proclaim that, for all this time, I never broke a bone. Maybe a scrape or two, but I never hobbled away on a split limb even when I once slipped off a trail and into the rocks.

That was memorable. Imagine this: After taking one last run for the day, I was rushing down at breakneck speed along an intermediate slope. In front of me was an elbow turn that I had made around often at my Warp 9 propulsion. However, it was at the end of the day, with many ruts from other skiers along this path that had become a patch of ice.

All of you experienced skiers are aware of what happened. My skis entered the one particular rut that lead right to the ice as my hips swivelled to take the turn. Boom! I slammed on my rump in an uncontrollable slide and disappeared off the trail into forbidden territory.

Now, I guess you’re expecting to hear a bloody account of my body cracking against rocks during my death defying flight only to miraculously stand up without having ruptured my spleen at the end of the tumble. Actually, I never got that far. With my skis turned sideways when I went over the embankment, they created the perfect barrier as the long plastic sticks wedged against two tree trunks preventing me from going further along the treacherous ground.

Sheepishly, I managed to get both skis removed. I climbed the hill, clicked the skis back on, and went at a much slower pace down the mountain. When I neared the ski lodge, a runny-nosed kid came out of nowhere and cut in front of me as we slammed into each other. He got up relatively unscathed. I got up hopping with a pulled muscle in my calf.

It was then that I took a long sabbatical from skiing. Still, that doesn’t stop me from staring out my livingroom window during those cold wintery days, a mug of cocoa in my hands, reminiscing about those cute bodies by the lodge fire.

Reblog... If You Dare

2011-09-26T11:19:00.002-04:00

This little blog challenge has been floating around like a virus. First it started with Suldog (and he claims he is sick with a cold--so I'm not making this up). Then during his fever-induced coma, he picked Craig to join in the challenge. Guess who Craig picked?

Yep.

But I decided to go ahead with this "Reblog Challenge" since nobody's asking me to donate a kidney or run a triathlon. (Although I would if the two gentlemen above asked me too. They're wonderful guys so make sure to visit both of them.

Anyhow, on with the Reblog Challenge. The rules involve choosing links to posts regarding the following conditions:

1 - My most beautiful post

2 - My most popular post
3 - My most controversial post
4 - My most helpful post
5 - A post whose success surprised me
6 - A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved
7 - The post of which I am most proud

Then I'm suppose to pick five people to do the Reblog Challenge. But I'm not one to enforce the rules. So if anyone wishes to do this challenge, feel free.

Here is my list of past posts that I believe fit into these categories. I'm sure your tastes will vary, and a post you may remember would fit better into the category. Let me know in the comments section, if you wish. Well, here goes...

1 - My most beautiful post: The Walk

People seemed to dig it. And I enjoyed writing it even though it was a simple post about an average day.

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2 - My most popular post: My Comeback Post...or...guess who got tagged with a meme

To think a meme post would garner so many comments. Or perhaps it was the nature of the post that got people laughing.

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3 - My most controversial post: a question and a story

This post could also compete with #2 when it comes to comments. The nature of the post is controversial due to its content regarding race relations. I actually closed down the comment section for some reason, I think I was taking a blog break or something, so there would have been more comments. This story also spilled onto other blogs with people talking about their own experiences.

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4 - My most helpful post: The Great Hook

This story was to help writers concerning the lengths we have to go through to seek agent representation. Never give up, my writer friends!

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5 - A post whose success surprised me: In the mood for a little something...

I was surprised over this post. Perhaps because it's a darkly fiction piece, which isn't something I normally post here on this blog. But it got some comments, which is all good.

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6 - A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved: Going Down Memory Lane

I have some old, neglected posts when I first started blogging. I wasn't visiting other places, which is how you get people to visit YOUR place to comment. I was still going through my "lurker" phase. So this post didn't get much attention. It's about doing something you may not want to do--in my case, returning a dog with the fear of being bitten to a woman who I almost got into a fistfight with.

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7 - The post of which I am most proud: Color-Blind

I will always have pride in this post. It allowed me to meet MLGF and show that not everything in life has to be black-and-white.

Well, that's it for my list. Hope you enjoy reading my past posts.

Fiction piece: It was a dark and stormy night

2011-09-08T12:11:00.001-04:00

A dark and stormy night.

This is a story prompt I am writing for my Blog Chain group posted on my other blog. I liked the story and decided to post the story here as well. I hope you enjoy it.
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The dandelion sat alone in the grass, spotlighted in the silvery pool of light from the shining street lamp hovering above. I watched as a drop of water slid along one petal, a single tear cried from the passing storm clouds above. Grass was moist under my one cheek. At least, I suspected it was.

The numbness invaded every inch of my body. This happened. More than once. I had a medical condition. I forgot what it was called, some long medical word formed from a dead language that's supposed to be indecipherable to all patients so they feel inferior to the doctors who treated them. Nobody likes to have competition to their profession. Nobody likes to have the patient know more than the doctor.

I felt it happening on my way from Rachel's house. We had a few drinks. We had a few laughs. I tried to sneak a kiss in and she pushed me away. "Time to leave, Mike. My boyfriend will be back by midnight."

I wish I could roll onto my back. It's not to stare around the place. I knew where I laid. It was a shortcut in a patch of field behind the apartment building. I always came this way, hurrying toward my car parked in the alley a street away. No way I wanted Rachel's newest boy-toy to catch me with her. He was a bouncer at the local club. I didn't want his fists bouncing off the side of my head. As I had reached the field, the numbness happened all at once. It started from my toes and ran all the way up to my hair. I flopped to the ground like someone had shot me in the back.

I would have been happy to lay there, musing on my own thoughts until the numbness went away. It usually took several hours. Laying there on my own, on the grass, watching the rain cry itself out on me and my dandelion. But...

Oh god...

I never told Rachel about my condition. I could hear her nearby. Sobbing as the wail of sirens sounded again a few feet away. Several black shoes walked by again, small moons showing on the leather as they reflected the street lights. If I had to make a guess, those shoes belonged to the detectives examining me. They talked with a professional manner. A bit hurried for my liking. They clamied this was the second dead body they had to deal with tonight.

But. I. Am. Not. DEAD.

I screamed and thrashed on the grass. At least this image ran into my mind repeatedly as a white pant leg bent near my head. The paramedic took an official reading. All his medical doodads telling him something not true.

Please. Oh god. Please don't put the sheet over me again.

My world turned silvery white as the paramedic covered up my body from head to foot. My only company was the dandelion, sharing this white-shrouded tomb illuminated by the street lamp. Another drop of water ran along the dandelion petal.

Cry for me, little dandelion. They will be taking me to the morgue. And this time, I don't think the numbness will fade before the coroner cuts me open to find out what had supposedly killed me.

Cable Wars

2011-08-29T12:53:00.001-04:00

So I tried to get cable last week.

You did see the word "tried." As in, "I tried to get cable, but this major tropical storm blew in a gaggle of geese that honked and squawked at the cable guy's truck, forcing him to swerve and drive off the cliff."

No, that's not what happened. But it would make the beginning of a great story. You'll just have to deal with my blah story over my attempts to get cable.

So last Monday, I called the cable company, Comcast, to get cable installed. The first person was extremely helpful. I had an appointment set up for cable installation on Thursday.

Let me back up for one moment. See, I haven't had cable in my apartment since I moved in back in April. Heck, I didn't even OWN a television in my other apartment. Double heck, I've gone for years without having the urge to go out and get television. The only reason why I have one now is because someone got a TV for me. A nice pretty brand new, 22-inch Samsung flat-panel TV with HD.

With this hunk of black screen sitting in my living room, I came to the decision to get cable. I suppose I could have gotten a converter box, for a whopping $50. But I figured the Overlord might enjoy watching cartoons in the morning while mommy worked. So I opted for cable television.

(The above says Comcast but it's written in black and I'll be damned if I'm changing the screen color to see it. Shows you my luck with this company)

Anyway, Comcast was scheduled to come in on Thursday between 5-7pm. The guy calls asking if he could come early to install the system. He came, hooked up everything, and NOTHING worked.

I should say the receiver didn't pick up a signal in the living room. He hooked it up in the cable outlet in the bedroom. Still nothing. He takes off the face plates for the cable outlets in the wall and checks the wires, loudly complaining that Verizon had a habit of messing with their lines. He didn't see anything wrong and reattached the faceplate. Then he went and checked the lines leading into the building. He picked up a signal.

So the cable guy comes back in and informs me, "Looks like the lines leading up to your apartment aren't working. I'm going to have to come back with maintenance and put in new lines."

All right. That was fine. He asked when I would be available and I informed him that I worked from home, so I am always available (get your mind out of the gutter-you pervs). He says great, tells me he'll come back tomorrow and leaves.

Tomorrow dawns. The cable guy rings the buzzer saying he needs to get into the basement. I buzz him into the apartment building. He enters... and disappears.

Seriously, I never hear from the guy again. He never came up to the apartment to tell me what was going on. After a bit of time passed, I went downstairs to see the cable box open, but no cable guy. His van isn't parked out anywhere outside.

Huhn? Maybe he needed to get more equipment? So I waited for the guy to return, figuring if I don't hear anything during the real scheduled time for the appointment that I'll give the company a ring.

Well, I heard nothing. I call the toll-free number and they ask for my information. I find out I have an appointment scheduled on September 2.

What the ....?

I get a hold of an extremely nice associate. Unfortunately, I'm ticked over the fact that I have to wait 2 weeks to get my cable service. I unleash my frustration, as the woman first told me that the cable box was the problem and they had to order a DVR for me.

Hold up. Don't get me started on THIS part. I had told them I wanted cable. The original sales associate never even mentioned the DVR. The cable guy offered the extra DVR in his van for, and I quote, "just a few extra bucks a month." When someone tells me, "a few extra bucks," I'm thinking maybe $5 or $6. Not frick'n $15!

I inform the associate that the cable guy had said the problem was with my lines, not the receiver he brought in. Then the nice associate puts me on hold, several times, to find out what's really going on. The next thing I know, she's telling me they have to drill into the building to set up the service. And they can't do this until I get permission from the landlord. This is the reason they keep bumping the installation date.

What??? Why didn't the cable guy go downstairs to check the lines? Why didn't he come back upstairs to tell me this? I could have gotten the permission right then and he could have started the work.

WTF???

I was majorly ticked at this time. Instead of getting my work in, I had been wasting time trying to find out why my cable isn't turned on and getting several different reasons for the problem. I tell the lady (who sounds upset herself) that I have to decide whether I even want to go with Comcast as my cable provider. I hang up. My next call was to the other cable company, Verizon.

Now, I already have my phone and my internet through this company. I call the sales rep, hoping he can offer me cable. Supposedly, the only thing they have is Fios, which the apartment building doesn't allow (something about it needing its own power source) and Direct TV, which the apartment building doesn't allow dishes installed.

So it's either Comcast, or a $50 converter box.

This means I have to call the landlord, get permission for them to drill and hopefully reschedule for an appointment that's sooner than September 2. Throwing up my hands in defeat, I take out the trash. On the ground, dusty in it's pinkness, is a little Comcast tag that they place on the cable lines to tell you which apartment it leads to.

Well, looks like the cable guy was here.

So today, I call the landlord's office. The assistant says that I have permission, and asks if I want them to email me the letter for Comcast. Email. Letter. Which I could print out. Which I could have done on THURSDAY or FRIDAY if the cable guy had just told me he needed the letter.

I call Comcast today. They were able to pencil me in a sooner appointment. Tomorrow. Between noon and 2:30.

We'll see how things go...

Aunt' Mary's House: Part 3

2011-08-19T10:19:00.000-04:00

So you have a general idea that my aunt's house was no run-of-the-mill, sunshiny place. It held secrets that it didn't want little kids finding out about. There were two floors to the house (heck, there could have been three but we never ventured higher than the second floor.) And it sat on top of a hill that was too steep to play out in the yard.

You might be wondering what exactly did kids do there while visiting. Well, not much. There wasn't any toys to play with and we sort of blew the whole "trust" thing about our outside activities when we began picking up glass off the street. So we usually milled around, standing in the room as the adults talked (there wasn't that many pieces of furniture to sit on) as we spooked ourselves by the pictures that stared back at us and into our souls.

Then, one day, my brother asked if he could do something. He asked to do a chore. You truly realize a kid's boredom when they do such a thing.

Aunt Mary stared at him and suggested, "Why don't you sweep the floor?"

My brother went looking for the broom as I tagged along. We searched the kitchen and dining room, peeking into the large china cabinets and the dishes that must not have been touched since Hoover was president. No broom. We came back into the living room, shaking our heads and holding out empty hands.

"Maybe it's in the cellar?" My aunt mused.

Cellar?

Even my mother looked surprised to hear this new information. Aunt Mary stood up, her 5-foot hunched body shuffling toward the kitchen as her gray slippers scuffed cross the floor. Right by the kitchen entrance was a second door we NEVER noticed before. She unhooked the latch and flipped on the switch.

Hidden rooms. Can anything else in this world spark a child's imagination? A hidden room speaks of mystery and intrigue and unknown adventure.

Yet this was also a cellar, known as a basement by my generation. Cellar, basement, that below ground room that sends evil trembles of fear from clanking old furnaces grumbling every single time they flicked on.

I was never too keen on basements. We didn't have a basement at home, since we lived in a ranch-style house. But we DID have a furnace room. And while our furnace itself never frightened me with its noise, I had the shivers whenever the pump for our well water kicked on.

The problem was you never knew when it would turn on to send its banshee wail of EEEEEOOOOOO throughout the furnace room. Someone had to turn on the faucet, flush the toilet or use the outdoor hose somewhere else in/outside the house. Or it turned on automatically to fill up the pressure tank. You could walk by, going to put something up into the attic as you walked toward the creaky, cobwebby back stairs that had NO light, and the damn thing would just pop on, scaring the bejeezus out of you.

So, no fondness for furnace rooms, which I knew was simply an aboveground basement.

My brother and I ventured into Aunt Mary's cellar. This was a bright place and packed from wall-to-wall with stuff. Neat stuff any kid could lose themselves into with their imagination.

"What was that noise?" My brother said suddenly. I jumped in place, straining my ears for the noise. I hadn't heard anything, but that one phrase sent all the fun out of exploring. I was back in reality, remembering that despite this being a warm and bright room, it was still Aunt Mary's House! And we knew her house didn't like kids snooping.

We both hightailed it back upstairs. We claimed we couldn't find the broom.

Aunt Mary's House: Part 2

2011-08-17T11:37:00.000-04:00

We only ventured up in Aunt Mary's upstairs once. Dimly lit, smelling of dust and age and dark old wood baking in the summer heat. I'm sure you smelled that smell before, of aged wood, like someone had ground overly ripe orange peels mixed with potpourri into the seams of the wooden boards. There were two rooms and a bathroom, at least from the brief glance I got of it.

I couldn't tell you what any of the rooms looked like.We never walked into any of them. I never even used her bathroom once -- so I couldn't describe it to save my life. I always made sure to empty my bladder before leaving the house. My mother didn't like making restroom pit stops during our trips.

The weird part about it was that we never got a sense of adventure just to explore the house, like every kid does. We had already established the fact that THIS house wasn't the usual run-of-the-mill place. It wasn't a house where you knew every nook and cranny. It wasn't a place where you knew to not touch that vase/bookshelf/urn sitting on the mantle/china cabinet/end table.

The upstairs was just creepy. When it was suggested, quite unexpectedly, by my aunt to go exploring upstairs, I was a bit startled by the request.

There were times I went to her house with just my mother, other times when my siblings were with us. I believe I was the only sibling there for this time--or at least the one time who went upstairs.

Every time I thought about the upstairs rooms, the image of the photo album came back to me. There's a picture in it where the camera flash didn't snap as my cousin stood there in her band uniform. The picture in itself is spooky, with her standing there, like someone hiding in the shadows and you only catch glimpses of their outline from the small flashes of colors from their clothes.

I had that image in my mind when walking up those creaking steps. Had that image in my mind when staring at the half-closed doors. Had that image from the one room when the wind blew the curtains--and the house creaked when settling on the foundation. Ghosts in the shadows. Hidden things that don't want a little kid disturbing the atmosphere of the house from ages long past. The breeze, the creaking aged boards, the strange smells.

Yeah, that was enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. I let out a cry of fright as if my cousin's photo had come to life in that house and something lurked there in the shadows, telling me by the creaks that they walked toward me.

creeeaaak.... creeaaakkk.... CREEEEAAAAKK

I hightailed my butt back downstairs. When my mother asked what the problem was, I shrugged my shoulders and did like every kid does. I bowed my head and mumbled that nothing was wrong. No kid wants anyone, especially not their teasing siblings, to find out your spooked about something. Because THEY will haunt you every waking moment with their taunts of being a scaredy cat.

Aunt Mary's House: Part 1

2011-08-15T09:08:00.001-04:00

Aunt Mary lived in Pittsburgh. It always seemed like a big trip. "We're going to the city."

Back in those days of my youth, it took a good hour to an hour-and-a-half to drive from the country to the city. Road congestion was a nightmare along the busy highway stretch of Route 22. Not like today with our four-lane highway. Back then, you tried to skirt the main thorough-way and stick to as many back roads as you could during the rush hour times. But it made no difference, time-wise, if every other motorist had the same exact idea.

The many cars my mother drove to take us there. The one I remember the most is the grey Vega. The compact car with 4 seats and if our family of five went anywhere in it, I curled on a blanket in the open trunk space. The smells of kids and McDonald's chicken Mcnuggets bouncing along the bumpy road until we hit the East Busway at the Monroeville entrance that lead us the rest of the way into Pittsburgh.

To Aunt Mary's house. We had many different frights and adventures there. If I remember correctly, her house used to be a store converted into a residence. The house sat on this big, small hill. Sounds like an oxymoron, or you think I'M an oxymoron for describing it this way. But the house sat on its own little mound of high dirt, which made the front yard slope down to the fence and sidewalk.

Anyway, as I delve into the foggy memories of this house, I remember at the back where the kitchen sat was a sliding metal door. You know the ones where the delivery truck would pull up to, as the worker stepped onto the cement ledge and opened the back to unload the shipment. The house was like this. All strange and fascinating and spooky rolled up into one big ball of faded memories.

This particular story will focus on the outside of the house. Why? Because a kid can find as much trouble to get into outside as well as inside.

Near Aunt Mary's house, and another reason why we visited, was the fascinating things outside that we found on the sidewalk. Glass.

This wasn't empty beer bottle glass. These were CHUNKS of glass littering the sidewalk like diamonds scattered in a forgotten mine. We had no idea how they got there. A story I remember from someone was that the glass came from a recycling center. The trucks ran during the night, bouncing along with tarps on, and occasionally a piece would bounce out and land on the sidewalk. If the image of a man walking along the sidewalk at night, getting his head split open by a piece of glass, entered your mind--that was the very first image (an image I continually have) regarding that particular story.

Anyway, my sister, brother and myself would take short strolls along the sidewalk down to the sloping bridge whenever we wanted to get out of the spooky house. We headed along, our mother's warning about NOT messing with any of the sparkling glass on the cement, ringing in our ears.

But there was this one piece. It caught the rays of sunlight during the noon hour, creating a rainbow on its surface. It looked like a large diamond with its many facets. My sister spotted it with all warnings that sharp glass just might be too dangerous to pick up flying from her head. She reached down and grabbed that glass, cutting open her palm.

Now this was my big sister. She had six more years to my eight-year-old existence. And sometimes little, but still big, kids do things we don't expect.

My sister didn't let out a scream. She didn't even cry. She released a surprised "ouch" of pain and carefully shifted the piece of glass to her other hand. We inspected the cut, mini-doctors examining the wound and giving our theories of treatment. We speculated she may need stitches. We had to go to our mother and hear her reprimand about not listening to her.

But my sister wasn't leaving that piece of glass. Like any intrepid treasure hunter who scoffs at the legends that certain treasure may contain a terrible curse, she kept that piece of glass. She asked for a tissue from my pocket, since I always carried extra tissues do to my sinus allergies, and we carefully wrapped the glass up.

My brother solemnly carried it as we walked back to Aunt Mary's house, my sister ready for the chiding with a serene demeanor that some things were well-worth a small moment of childlike shame.

It's how you remember that's important...

2011-08-08T11:24:00.002-04:00

On Friday, I attended my aunt's funeral.

Before I write anymore, I have to tell you that I'm not fond of funerals. I suppose no one is. But I don't like attending them. It's the whole -- seeing the person in the casket-unmoving-with scads of makeup on to make them look good but you know that this person isn't really looking good because they are, quite frankly, dead -- thing that sends a shiver through me. I don't go up to the casket to look at the person. Not anymore. I only did this once, when I was eleven, to see my "other" aunt lying there, that I knew I wouldn't attend many funerals for the remainder of my life.

I usually attend the wakes. Those are more social gatherings where you go to the showing of the body and later arrive at a relative's house where there's tons of food and good talk about those wonderful memories of the person who just passed on.

Well, this instance, I couldn't attend the wake. So I went to the funeral. Funerals tend to be one of two things: they are either extremely somber occasions where we reflect on our own mortality with dreariness, or they can be celebrations where the person who passed on has entered a new existence that is now free of pain, hunger and sadness as she starts a new adventure.

The latter is the type of funeral I attended. We remembered my aunt as the woman who gave happiness to people. We remembered her with poems, reading of sympathy cards, a few jokes, and songs and praises that sent people up to their feet clapping and singing and calling "AMEN" to let God know to get ready to open his pearly gates for someone rising up.

Interesting. While writing this and remembering my "other" aunt when I was eleven, I also remembered special things about her, such as her house. It was haunted, or at least us kids believed it was haunted. We never ventured farther in the house without an adult present. It was always dimly lit, with a picture of her son, our cousin, lost while fighting in World War I. It was one of those old time pictures, black-and-white, where the person has that eerie stare that follows you throughout the room. Brrrr! I could tell stories about that house, and about the place where my aunt lived.

Perhaps I will during the next few posts.

The Freckled Schlong

2011-07-28T11:48:00.002-04:00

This post was inspired by an email conversation I had with MLGF yesterday. Most of you know by now who and what those letters mean and refer to, so no need for explanations. In a recent post of his, he made a poem talking about his freckles, one -- in particular -- in a certain spot mentioned in the title of this post. During an email discussion regarding a comment I left on his blog, he --jokingly-- talked about opening a restaurant with a name that matches the title.

Well, up popped a story regarding said restaurant, freckles and special desserts. I emailed it to him, then decided that perhaps it was good enough to share. So here, for your enjoyment, is the story.
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Dining at the Freckled Schlong

"Hmm, this seems like a good restaurant. Nice and clean exterior. No overgrowth of the shrubbery..."

I enter through the doors. Paintings of The Three Stooges hang on the wall. In the air, music plays as a Deep Purple vinyl spins somewhere in the background. I take a seat at the table as my waiter approaches, wearing a dusty, black softball uniform.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"Um, yes. Can I have a cheeseburger?"

"Sorry, ma'am. We don't serve that here."

"oh." I scan the menu, but the writing is all in Irish.

"Can I have a steak then?"

The waiter shakes his head. "We don't serve that here either."

I close the menu, getting impatient. "Well then. What DO you serve?"

"Spotted dick," the waiter said with a straight face.

"Excuse me?"

The waiter tapped his pen against the notepad. "We have spotted dick."

"Oh my God!" I lift from the seat. "I didn't know this was a bordello."

"We aren't a bordello. We are a restaurant."

"Then you're getting fresh with me? Look, mister... uh." I lean in close to read his name-tag. "Suldog. I don't care how freckled your penis is -- fascinating though that may seem. I don't believe this is the way to pick up a date."

The waiter laughs. "Ma'am, spotted dick is a type of dessert, like a pudding with currants."

"Oh." I flop back into the seat. "I understand now. Okay. I'd like to try some of your spotted dick."

The waiter blushes as red as a lobster. "Ma'am, I'm flattered, but I'm a married man. And it's only one freckle. I wouldn't say it's that spotted."

My forehead smacks into the table. I imagine one of the wall paintings faintly saying, "N-yuk, n-yuk, n-yuk."

The Many Faces of the Overlord

2011-07-05T11:58:00.000-04:00

THis post was inspired by MLGF who commented on a previous post on how BIG the Overlord looks now in her photos. Well, to get a better perspective on just how BIG the Overlord really is, you need to see just how small she used to be. Photo (and video) time!

February

March

April

May

June

July

Happy Fourth of July!

2011-07-01T14:43:00.000-04:00

Take this three-day weekend to enjoy life.

Find that most comfortable spot, with tummy full, and just relax.

Life will still be waiting when your eyes open.

So... Who likes to read baseball books?

2011-06-28T14:31:00.001-04:00

And what if those baseball books had a bit of mystery in them that involved the World Series? Well, author Allen Schatz has written just that kind of fiction novel. Game 7: Dead Ball will be out in print on July 1st. If you love baseball and thrillers, you'll be interested in this novel.
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COMING JULY 1, 2011…

Game 7: Dead Ball – in PRINT!

Indie Writer Allen Schatz is pleased to announce the launch of the print version of his debut novel!

The eBook version has been rated 4 & 5-stars at Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, and more…

“Allen Schatz, in his first novel, has proven a welcome newcomer to an overcrowded thriller market sadly diluted with average ho-hum fare… I would highly recommend this book to any thriller fan who is tired of the same old mediocre drivel that is plaguing our bookshelves… Schatz has proven he belongs in the writing game…”

“You might expect a mystery involving a baseball umpire in the World Series to center on fixing games. Schatz happily has chosen to go in a less obvious direction… Game 7 has a huge cast of characters - it is to Schatz's credit as a writer that they're reasonably easy to keep straight… If you like baseball and thrillers, Game 7: Dead Ball is a must read…”

“Simply put, it's a fun, entertaining book that I would recommend for anyone's summer reading list.”

Order your copy of the book beginning July 1 at: https://www.createspace.com/3619727

Additional sales outlets, including Amazon.com, will follow in the coming weeks.

For all the latest news visit www.allenschatz.com – you can also follow Allen on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AllenSchatzWriting or on Twitter (@raschatz).

UPDATE: Allen Schatz just let me know that the novel came out a week early and he is offering a special discount to everyone. Go to the CreateSpace link and type in the following coupon code: SG4Z85JL - for 10% off the price!