A Little Vacation

Beginning Friday I'll be taking a short vacation, having a total of five days off from going to work. Looking forward to it. I just wish vacations went by as slowly as the workweek. I've stocked up on canned soup and chili, which I'll be taking along with me. Good eating in them cans!

And here's a little bit of vacation fiction for you.

More Than A Little Vacation

Henry sat at the table, a dirty mug in his hand. "Where's my damn toast!"

His wife looked at him and screamed. "Toast! Again? How many pieces of toast for you will that be today? 40? 50?"

Henry drank the last of his cold coffee and stared into the empty mug. "No, but you like to make me feel guilty for enjoying toast on my vacation, don't you?"

"Vacation! Ha! All you ever take are staycations and then sit around the house all day eating toast!"

Henry got up and walked to the breadbox. "Well, if you had a problem with my love of toast, you should have said something before we got married." Henry reached for a slice of bread and headed for the toaster.

His wife watched him with a look of both amazement and disgust on her makeup-free face. "Oh, so now you're gonna make me look like a bad, lazy wife by making your own toast? No way, Jose!"

She ran to where he stood by the counter, snatched the bread from his hand, and inserted it into the toaster slot herself. "I suppose you want peanut butter on it again."

"Of course. You know I always have peanut butter on my toast."

She went to the cabinet where the peanut butter jars were lined up ten wide and five deep. "All this peanut butter. It's ridiculous. And you even have to spread it on your toast thick when I serve you eggs for breakfast. Who ever heard of peanut butter and eggs going together? Who do you think you are, William F. Buckley juniors?"

"Just one. It was William F. Buckley junior, not juniors!"

The toast popped up and she snatched it angrily from the toaster. "Yeah right, I happen to know there were at least three of them, so you're not pulling the wolf over my eyes, motherfucker!"

For a second Henry looked shocked, then he laughed. "It's wool, not wolf!"

She opened a jar of peanut butter, retrieved a knife from the silverware drawer. "A normal man would have jam on his toast once in a while, but not you!"

"That's because I prefer peanut butter, jam is too damn sweet, and besides, we don't have any decent jam in the house."

His wife held the knife in an almost threatening manner now. "No good jam? I can tons of jam for you! The basement is full of it, jars and jars of fruit jellies and jams."

Henry lit a cigarette, he only smoked when he was on vacation, and only his favorite brand, Winston, which he first saw on television as a child while watching the Flintstones characters Fred and Barney smoking them during commercial breaks. "Like I said, no decent jam in the house."

"How dare you! I slave over that jam and by golly you're gonna have some on your toast!" She reached for the jam cabinet and pulled down a large jar of strawberry.

Now Henry was getting angry. "You're not spreading any of that toxic waste on my toast, bitch!"

She spread the peanut butter, then brought the plate with his toast on it over to the table where he sat again. She brought the strawberry jam with her, and then, while he sat watching, she defiantly opened the jam, and took the knife and spread big gobs of thick jam over the layer of peanut butter. "Eat it!"

As she strutted way, her back turned to him, her nasty fat ass wiggling in a "fuck you" movement, his fury rose like an exploding volcano and he picked up the jar of jam and hurled it at her, striking her on the back of the head. She fell to the floor with a thud.

He knew she was dead when he turned her over. When he fully realized what he'd done, he calmed down, and even though it had been an accident, he began to think it wasn't an unfortunate one. The problem would be disposing of the body. Thankfully he was on vacation and would have a few days to work it out. Perhaps he could bury her in the basement where she could be with her precious homemade jam forever. He went back to the breadbox, pulled out another slice of white bread, put it in the toaster, then lit another Winston.

beep beep beep, Beep Beep Beep, BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I went to Mom's for supper, which she fixes early, around 2pm or so, the other day. She was making spaghetti and meatballs. "This is gonna be the best spaghetti sauce I've ever made" she confidently crowed. Why it was gonna be the best was never completely explained, but it had something to do with the fresh garlic, onions and peppers she was adding, I think.

 She also had some "gourmet" meatballs she was going to use. They were raw but pre-made from the "fancy" market, not that "dump" down the street where the poor people shop.

She was also using whole wheat noodles, which, although I now prefer gluten-free pasta (pasta made from both corn and rice seems to me the most like wheat in taste and texture), I would have to go along with it, as I had failed to bring my own spaghetti noodles with me yet again.

As she prepared the meal, I waited patiently by reading a book and glancing at the television in the living room. Then a strange but somehow familiar burning smell reached my nostrils. As smoke began to fill the house I ran to the kitchen.

Mom has an electric smoothtop stove. There are no electric coils on the surface. This makes for easier cleanup, naturally, but also makes it possible for someone such as my mom to place another appliance atop  one of the stove burners with relative ease, as the stove top is as flat as a table.

I've seen her do this numerous times, mostly when she uses an electric skillet with a plastic bottom. She'll place it on the stove top along with whatever else she cooking on the stove, right over one of the burners, I guess so she'll have all the various parts of the dish she's making at hand as she works. Not that she doesn't have counter space, but most of it is is taken over by other small appliances or containers, all of which have a "red" theme going. She is currently missing a microwave, because she had to have a red colored one, and, not finding one at the local stores, ordered one by catalog, and though it was by some no-name manufacture, and only 900 watts, the important thing, I think you'll all agree, was that it was red! It stopped working within 6 months. Mom has yet to get a new one, and though I offered to buy her one, she went crazy at the suggestion, telling me not to dare get one because it wouldn't be red to match everything else in her kitchen.

The spot on the counter formerly taken up by the microwave is now occupied by a very large (red) toaster. It is where Mom should have had her electric skillet thing plugged it. This time she was cooking the meatballs in it. Only instead of the meatballs, the skillet itself was "cooking", burning and melting. As I got to the kitchen Mom had begun yelling. Now, when I first witnessed the mess that the stove top had become, I wasn't exactly sure what was going on. There was running, oozing red stuff all over. It could have been spaghetti sauce, but it was a little too standard red to be something edible. Then I identified that smell as burning plastic. Instead of turning on the skillet, Mom had turned on the burner below it. 

"What's going on?" I asked.

Mom was in quite a state. "I turned that on" (pointing to the knob for the burner) "not that" (pointing to the electric appliance sitting on the stove, in which the meatballs sat). As poisonous fumes surrounded us, she moved the electric thing to a back burner. That's when the smoke alarm went off.

The beeping seemed to get louder and louder. Choking on deadly smoke, I did as Mom instructed and began waving a placemat around the smoke detector. When that didn't stop it, I opened the back door for some more air. Mom stayed by the stove, seemingly immune to the toxic chemical cloud that now filled the kitchen and much of the rest of the house. Finally, the beeping stopped.

After a few minutes outside in the backyard, I decided to risk going back inside. The smoke had cleared enough for me to return to the living room and resume my lazy afternoon of watching Brady Bunch reruns and reading a stack of old Richie Rich comic books. 

Soon however that smell returned. As smoke once again filled the house I ran to the kitchen once again.

"Dammit to Hell!" Mom screamed.

She had done it again. Melting red plastic once again spread over the stove top.

"I don't understand it! I've never done that before!" she shouted.

Technically she was right. Except for that time she set the inside of the oven on fire, and that time I let myself in, saw smoke everywhere, ran to its source, saw a tea kettle that had run out of water burning on the stove, actual flames shooting up all around it, and found Mom in her bedroom, oblivious to it all as she watched television while laying on her stomach.

The smoke alarm was beeping again. Nothing seemed to stop it this time. I finally had to remove the battery to get it to shut up.

After the meatballs were done cooking, Mom took her red electric skillet and threw into the trash bin.

"I'm never using one of those again" she declared.


I took my food into the living room. Mom doesn't have a regular dining table, not one she'll let you use, anyway. The official dining room table is decorated with fancy place settings and she doesn't want anyone, especially me, messing it up.

Mom asked how I liked the food. I didn't mention the meatballs I had hidden under the couch after taking one bite. They were awful. Later, as I snuck them outside and into the trash, I swore to myself that I'd never eat those again.

Big King Gets Bigger

No, I'm not talking about that creepy, giant-headed, very weird "King" mascot. Burger King rightly got rid of that horror a few years ago (though it was still way too late). So, no, this isn't meant to scare the shit out of you (anyone else have nightmares and refuse to eat at a Burger King until that monster was gone?)

Well, no worries, that's all in the past (and whatever ad agency that was responsible for those disturbing commercials should NEVER work for a fast food company again). I'm here today to cheer you up. So get happy, because Burger King is making their Big Mac impersonator bigger, that's right, BIGGER!

The two beef patties in the mock Big Mac will now equal a quarter pound.

All I can say is, it's gotta be an improvement, because on New Year's Eve I took a walk up to a local drug store to purchase some chocolate and other non-essentials (well, chocolate actually is an essential) and on my way back, though I had vowed to stay within my small budget on this walk (aborting a trip to the dollar store that was to follow my drug store visit) there is a Burger King right next to the drug store that was beckoning to me. So, I went inside, lured partly by the poster in the window that advertised a two for $5 deal that included the Big King. That's when my fake "Big Mac attack" (fake because these weren't actual Big Macs we were talking) took control and I ordered two Big Kings to go. I ate one immediately upon returning home, and decided to save the other one for later.

Later turned out to be the next day, but as the microwave wasn't working, I had no convenient way to heat up my second Big King. I ate it cold. It was an unpleasant experience, not even close to eating cold pizza or chicken. But even hot, the Big King did not compare, in my opinion, to the Big Mac, starting with the fact that it didn't come in a little cardboard box, and did not stack up to what I'd come to expect in a two beef patties sandwich.

Let's hope Burger King's move to add beef to its ripoff burger makes it less of a ripoff.

Tuna Time

My mom thinks it's all from the same fish and chunk light tuna is "the scraps they collect on the deck of the boat and turn into cat food". She says a tuna fisherman told her that many years ago. She will only eat albacore. "Why do you eat that crap tuna" she'll ask me (I only buy chunk light). I explain it, but it falls on deaf ears. For one thing, chunk light is much cheaper than white meat tuna, has more flavor, and, a big plus, less mercury (if it's from skipjack; yellowfin has almost the same mercury levels as albacore, but I've noticed while shopping that yellowfin seems to be labeled as such, so it should be easy to avoid).

I don't have tuna every day, I try to limit it. My main concern has been the mercury content. Apparently the FDA says no worries unless you are pregnant, going to get pregnant, will be nursing, or you're a young child. Otherwise, consume all the mercury-filled fish you like. Well, I don't listen to the FDA much, so I stick to my limits on fish. I've never cared much for seafood in general, but what kid wasn't raised on canned tuna growing up? You get a taste for it that sticks with you when you grow up.

Lately I've been buying Starkist chunk light tuna in extra virgin olive oil almost exclusively. It does cost more, but the olive oil makes it taste better, and I'd rather not buy tuna in soybean oil, if I'm buying tuna in oil rather than water. The great thing about the olive oil tuna I've been eating is that I don't have to drain it, the oil is so well absorbed by the tuna. I can eat it as a snack right out of the can, add it to salad, make a sandwich by adding a small amount of mayo, or have it with crackers, with or without adding mayonnaise.

One thing about tuna is the smell. It can be offensive and strong. That's why I always dispose of my discarded tuna cans by first placing them into a bag, sometimes a sandwich bag, but, as I don't like to waste those, usually just a grocery store plastic bag (don't know what I'll do when the Nanny State outlaws those) before tossing them into the trash can. I'm wary of eating tuna straight from the can at work. I don't know if anyone can really detect it or not, but as I often eat at my desk instead of in the lunch room, I'm cautious.

Many years ago, my mom and sister lived briefly with a middle aged cat lady. They were renting a room from her. Her name was Ruth and she lived in an old neighborhood. The entrance to the house that she always used opened into the ancient kitchen, where the smell of tuna was overwhelming, almost an assault as you walked in. She fed her cats (at least a dozen of them) tuna instead of cat food, and there were cats and open tuna cans all over the counters and floor. Needless to say, mom and sis didn't stay there long, but while they did, I got to visit a few times. Ruth was a writer, or so she fancied herself (really, though, anyone who writes is a writer, you don't need anyone's approval, or be published, to call yourself one; if you love to write, do it) and Ruth really had been published once. It was decades ago, and as I let it be known that I had authorial aspirations of my own (I wrote nearly everyday, and even foolishly sent my juvenilia off to publishing houses, sure I was a junior genius who would soon be rich and famous) she let me see the one book she'd had published all those years ago. It was a children's book, and though torn and stained, the dustjacket still enclosed it. I vaguely remember that it was about a boy and a girl solving a minor mystery of some sort. I recall I didn't think it compared well at all to my works of imaginative wonder. It seemed pedestrian and dull, a hack work.

I didn't say so, of course, playing along with the idea that I could learn something from the published master, even though I was really thinking that if she could get published, anyone could. It turned out that in spite of the many years since her sole book had come out, Ruth was still writing. She even had a completed manuscript of her latest effort that she kindly let me take home to read. I read it, becoming more inspired with every page I finished. If this crap had any change at all, I was going to have no problem wowing publishers with my prose.

On her bookshelf in a bedroom she'd turned into an office, Ruth had a copy of my bible at the time, the Writer's Market, and I wondered who she'd been sending her novel to. It didn't matter, I was a children's book writer, too, and who better to write a children's book than a child? I had my Market at home, and I was prepared to send out my masterpieces to every book publisher I could find, as long as I could get the money for envelopes and postage. At least the pantry at home (I lived with my dad) was well stocked with canned goods, among them lots of tuna. A young writer needs energy, and doesn't have a lot of time to prepare meals.

Damn, after writing this I'm getting hungry. I think it might be tuna time.

image by Xavier Romero-Frias published under Creative Commons

Be Prepared

For anything, like getting stabbed in the back by a blogger you once believed in, a blogger who you called "friend", a blogger who then continues with the snide remarks, the deliberate attempts to insult and hurt, the blogger who...Oh, sorry, I was distracted thinking about Bret Alan.


I was just going to do a little post on my day yesterday, and how I planned it out so I wouldn't get stuck with nothing to do. My mom did a really stupid thing (not for the first time) and so was forced to refinance her car loan (a result of a different, earlier stupid thing she did) and I had to drive her because she is still recovering from the results of an accident (that happened because she made a stupid decision to go on a trip she shouldn't have) she suffered back in October (more on that later, in fact, it will be a whole series of posts on the whole stupid affair).

So, to cut to the chase, I brought with me the following items:

1. A bottle of Arrowhead water.
2. A packet of Emergen-C
3. A ripe banana (you didn't think I'd bring an unripe one, did you?)
4. A book (for reading)

So, I drove my mom to the place. There was a minor incident when some old bitch came around claiming, from at least 20 or 30 feet away, and from the other side of her car (so that in actual fact, she couldn't have seen anything), that she saw her Jeep "move" when we got out of Mom's car, and that we put a mark on her precious, ugly lime-green rear fender! I told the old hag matter-of-factly that no, we did not, that I was watching the whole time (I wasn't, of course) and that nothing of the kind occurred. Mom kept saying "She's gonna take down my license plate number and say we hit her car, I know it" and even after the nasty wrinkled whore was joined by her stupid, dumb ass husband, and the two old farts got in their Jeep and drove off, Mom was asking "are they writing down my license?"

After that it was simply a matter of waiting, and luckily I didn't have to bring my own bench and water fountain, they were already sitting out in front of the building, where I settled myself in the shade (though the stupid bench was designed with a ridge that stuck right in your back, making my rest there less than completely pleasant) and listened to the water falling while I first opened my powered vitamin C and poured it into my water, drank it down, peeled my banana, ate it, threw the peel onto the walk, hoping another nasty old bag would come along and slip on it, changed my mind, picked the peel up and tossed it into the garbage can next to the bench, then finally opened my book and had a relaxing read until Mom emerged from inside the office she'd entered and I could drive her back home, then spend the rest of the afternoon reading, watching television, and eating.

All in all a pretty fine day, but think how it might not have been if I hadn't been prepared.

Elephant Ears

When I was growing up, I thought that "Elephant Ear" plants were elephants. How wrong I was you say? But, could I have been right after all? Reflect upon that!

image by Tobyotter used under Creative Commons



Now that you've reflected on that, go water your elephants!

Oh, I suppose I should go into more detail. My mom has always been a fanatic about her yards (it would be nice to say "yard", but she's had too many houses for me to count), constantly fussing with and changing the landscaping. When I was barely out of diapers (well, maybe a couple years after that), in what I believe was already my third home after my birth, she decided to add some pizazz to the side of the house by the garage. So, one weekend (I'm sure it must have been a weekend) I wake up to hear my parents up early. Mom is saying something about "The elephant ears are on the back of the truck, he's ready to unload them". I guess she was talking to my dad. I only know what stuck in my young brain, and that was the word "elephant".

Perhaps, due to the literalism of a child, and being, at that tender age, unfamiliar with the adult use of familiar terms to describe something in another category altogether, I only heard "elephant", the "ears" part hardly registering at all. Then mom mentioned they were little, so baby elephants immediately popped into my head. Boy, was I excited! Baby elephants were on the back of some truck, right out in our front yard! I hurriedly got dressed, ran to the front door, and stepped outside into the sunlight. I looked all around, but no elephants, just some stupid plants in pots being carried by the guy from the truck and Dad, while Mom supervised the scene.

It was one of my bigger disappointments up to that point in my life.

Pineapple Joins The Crew

No, not a new contributor here at Skeptical Eye, though it would be as useful as most of the contributors listed.


I have two small toy cars on my desk at work. I also have a small brass Buddha. In addition, I have a wooden top, that I spin while I'm "working". I like spinning my top. It's more satisfying than my blue glass cat, that sits, dignified, the way a cat should, observing all the other knickknacks with disdain. But I'd rather give up my top than my blue cat.

I have a plastic dinosaur, but I haven't added him yet to my desk. I feel he's a little out of place, and though small, still much larger than the other objects he would join. Well, he is a dinosaur, so I guess he should be the biggest thing there.

I've wanted to buy a small indoor plant for my desk for the longest time, but haven't found a suitable one. I don't want a plastic plant, though such would fit right in.

My mom threw out a bunch of stuff, mostly old papers and junk mail, recently. I discovered, upon finding out about this, that she included in this pile of what she considered trash, a small plastic pineapple. I asked her why she was getting rid of the pineapple, but she had no answer. She also had no clue as to where it had come from. Ah, a mysterious plastic pineapple. Just what I was looking for to add to my desk. I'm going to keep it. It's kind of a plant, though plastic, but at least it will fit in with the other members of my work crew.

Cold Milk

Damn, I didn't realize how much better really cold milk is. I mean, I've always been a milk drinker. I'll admit I can't drink large quantities of whole milk without having serious intestinal distress, but I'm fine with several large glasses of 1%. The thing is, until recently, I had a pathetic little underachieving mini fridge that didn't know the meaning of the world "cold". My milk was closer to room temperature than it was to cool.

But now that I've got access to a real refrigerator, my milk is ice cold and delicious. Maybe the hot muggy weather this week has something to do with how good that glass of milk I just drank tasted, but whatever, I'm having another because, yes, I've got milk, cold milk (they should change the line to that; Got cold milk? )

The Blustery Day

Last night, by the sound of things outside my window, I thought a major storm had arrived. But no, it was just extremely windy. Call it a wind storm if you will, though not a powerful enough one to knock a tree down. It's still windy this morning as I write this, and so I thought I'd discuss the wind with you all...

Oh hell with discussing the wind! I'll just half-remember an old story that happened when we lived in Florida. My sister and I lived with my Mom and her second husband, Ray. We had our own (rented) house at first, but Ray was a sign painter and work (he worked only out of the trunk of his car) must have slowed way down. So, we ended up living with Fat Annie and her two teenage boys. She had rooms to rent, so we rented one, and all four of us shared one small room. It was like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. Anyway, that's another subject.

One weekend Fat Annie was going to take her boys to a little carnival, mostly just booths with various games. I think she asked Mom if we could go along, and Mom said sure and gave us some money. We arrived in Fat Annie's beat up old Chevy, and the whole thing was setup in a large parking lot. You had to but those little tickets to play the games, so we did, and we were actually having some fun when suddenly (and I do mean suddenly) the wind went crazy! My sister's hair was blowing like mad and mine, being a bit longer than hers, was blowing even wilder! Everyone seemed to ignore it at first, as if it was nothing, but soon the wind got stronger and then it started to rain. Just a few light drops at first, but within minutes (and just as I was about to win a stuffed bear) it started pouring. It was suddenly a heavy rain, and then the wind picked up even more. I'd never been in anything like it before, when shockingly (to me) the booths and their tent coverings took off into the air! It was wild and crazy! We ran to the edge of the parking lot for shelter under Fat Annie's huge body, and from that limited safety, we watched our wonderful afternoon and stuffed bear dreams blow away into the dark, rainy sky. Soon the whole lot was empty, with debris everywhere, but all the game booths and any prizes worth playing for had disappeared.

The storm died as suddenly as it had been born, and Fat Annie kept saying to herself that she shouldn't have brought my sister and I with them, and what would she tell our mother (Mom had been a little reluctant to let us go).

I had a pocket of very wet and deteriorating tickets left in my pocket, but no money. Annie pulled into a McDonald's and she kindly "traded" us the worthless tickets for a few dollars to buy a couple of hamburgers and some fries. That hot, cheap food almost made the ordeal worth it, and I think we went home to our room pretty happy.

Childhood memories also make me think of all those television specials and cartoons we loved so much, even when we'd seen them many times before. The Winnie the Pooh cartoons were favorites, especially, The Blustery Day.

The Sweet Smell of Fresh Paint

image by basykes used under Creative Commons


"I can't breathe out here in the hallway!" That's what I said just the other day when I arrived at work and made my way down the corridor to the department where I slave away for my capitalist bosses. Apparently they've decided to spend some money sprucing the place up a bit (hey, the recovery is here and it's safe to spend that extra cash now!) so they hired a painter to redo all the interior walls and repaint them. All of the evidence of the late night painters activity was visible; tape on the doorways and trim, tarps on the carpet (which they really shouldn't worry about, it's so worn and stained that paint droppings could only improve it), rollers, paint cans and brushes, all along the walls.

The smell, though, it was nearly unbearable. The fumes were choking me and a lot of others, but our manager said she liked the strong odor, loved it in fact. I told her she must be kidding, but no, she replied she was being completely truthful, so much so that she longed to have her own place repainted just to breath in those lovely paint fumes and enjoy the richness of fresh paint smell.

What strange smells do you enjoy? I knew a kid who loved the smell of gasoline, and he would stick his head out the window whenever his dad drove into a gas station (that kid is no longer with us, by the way; some kind of "accident" involving a combustible). I had a cousin who as a kid loved the smell of cows and also was prone to sticking his head out the car window whenever his family took a Sunday drive.

Jack and the Juicer

I didn't mention this when I wrote my Jack LaLanne tribute. I didn't want to bring it up right after the man had just died, but the very next day my Jack LaLanne Power Juicer broke!

It looked just like this one:

Yep, that's my juicer (or was, it's in the garbage can outside, now). We've had it for a couple years, but it was in storage up at the old winter homestead (if I remember rightly) and had NEVER been used (bought it from the damn infomercial and put it away and forgot about it). Then just weeks ago, I had the opportunity to take a road trip and visit the old place. There, amongst the clutter, was a box that had never been opened. As I'm currently on one of my periodic health kicks, I took it back home with me and for the last couple of weeks have been buying enormous amounts of raw carrots and celery from Sam's Club and juicing them every week (hey, it's cheaper than buying carrot juice from the store). So, there I was, having just written and posted about the legendary Jack LaLanne, when my juicer stops dead right in the middle of a new formula I was trying out that had spinach added to it for extra Popeye power! (that exclamation point is not for the whole sentence, just for the Popeye power!).

At first I thought it was just another carrot jammed the wrong way down the hole, but no, there was nothing there. Thinking maybe I'd overheated it with my enthusiastic juicing, I unplugged and waited for a bit. When I returned for more POWER JUICING! however, it still wasn't working. I tore the thing apart and discover the thingamabob below the blade had broken. It had a huge split and was cracked beyond repair. Made out of plastic, naturally. Why don't they make a part like that out of metal?


I was so enjoying my regular juicing, but the juicer is now out of warranty. I would have written an angry letter to LaLanne himself, but he cheated me out of that pleasure by dying.


JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

Why Do Avocados Hate Me?

I love avocado. I can eat 'em as is, but mostly spread them on toast (nothing fancy). They're great in the morning, but I can eat them anytime. In fact, I had a couple of them waiting for me tonight. My problem is not knowing the perfect time to cut into one. Too soon, and you can't eat it (not soft), too late and it's going bad inside, turning black and ugly. I thought my avocados tonight would be fine, but when I got out my knife (yeah, it is my only one) to open one up, it was turning dark. I could still eat a little of it by carefully scooping around the bad parts, but to be honest, I didn't get very much avocado meat to spread on my bread. This has reached a crisis point, because I'm obviously doing something wrong. This avocado wasn't real soft, but was still past its prime.

All of the avocados I see in photos online, even the ones amateur avocado advocates have taken pictures of, look perfect in their sliced-in-half state, with no black at all showing anywhere. How can I too achieve such avocado perfection? I need serious avocado help, and soon. Otherwise, dear avocados, you force me to turn to store-bought prepared guacamole, when what I really want is you, my little green loves (alligator pears; good name for ya!).

Now Right Twice A Day!

I have a confession to make. In the age of the ubiquitous cell phone, I still wear a watch. You might think my watch wearing is therefore only a fashion statement, but believe me, that isn't really possible when you never pay more than twenty bucks for a timepiece. No, my reasons are purely utilitarian; I like to know what time it is. Sure, I could look at my phone, but I find it easier to check the time by just a quick glance at my wrist. I mostly use my watch at work, so I can keep looking at it during my breaks and lunch to make sure I get back to my wage slave desk in time. I even take it off when I'm working, but make sure to grab it and put it back on even for a bathroom break (don't want to get in trouble for being away from my desk too long), so, sure, I don't really enjoy watch wearing either, but I do find find it more convenient sometimes.

My current watch was a gift from my dad, and just a little more expensive than my usual watches. It isn't anything fancy, but did come with several interchangeable cloth bands. The bands get dirty over time, and the one I was using was looking quite filthy (so dirty I didn't want anyone to see it, so took to always wearing long-sleeved shirts while wearing it). Then I remembered I had one band left I hadn't used yet. Yeah, it was a strong florescent green in color, but what the heck, it was clean! I removed the old band and put the fresh one on yesterday morning. Hey, I suddenly had a brand-spanking new watch! I wouldn't have to hide it anymore (no, I would; that horrible green color). Oh well, it was clean! I put it proudly on and headed off for work.

On my way to work I kept looking at my watch. Damn I was making good time! I could even make a quick stop! I did so, then got back in my car, glanced again at my watch, and was amazed. I still had plenty of time and could drive the rest of the way without risking a speeding ticket. Shortly after, on the freeway, when I again checked the time on my watch, I knew something was wrong. It still said it was ten minutes before the hour. What the hell! It was ten minutes before the hour ten minutes ago! Then I noticed something was wrong with the second hand. It had fallen off and dropped away from the other hands! The watch was stopped.

I pulled into work a few minutes late. Maybe I should have checked the time while I was driving by pulling out my cell phone, but that would have risked a ticket for illegal cell phone use.

I guess it's off to Walmart tonight to buy new ten dollar watch.

Black Thoughts on Black Friday

Didn't think I could do it, did ya? HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! dIDN'T THINK i'D WRITE A BLACK FRIDAY post, DID YA? hahahahahahaha!!! tHINK i'M SO CRAZY i don't know when to turn off Caps lock, don't ya? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Think all I'm good for is posting videos, don't ya? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! WELL YA COULDN'T BE MORE WRONG!!!! I'm posting it the following week, that's how sick I am! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Yes, I've been DRIVEN mad by the aftereffects of Black Friday! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, to calm down a bit here, I listened with interest to a co-worker on her Black Friday Walmart experience. To sum it up, she is never going to shop there again. She went in at midnight, and was shoved down an aisle by an crazed shopper. Now she's on her own personal boycott of the retail giant, and after my Black Friday Walmart nightmare, I can't say I blame her. I went to get a popular item in the electronics department, and being the inexperienced greenhorn in Black Friday shopping that I am, I took it seriously when Walmart claimed that the sale in electronics would start at 5AM. What a fool I was! I set my alarm for 4AM, got dressed and made plans to arrive "early". When I was driving down the street to the nearest Walmart, a pick-up truck zoomed passed me and cut me off. What a jerk, I thought. Where would he need to be going so fast so early in the morning on nearly empty streets? I got my answer when I saw the truck turn into the Walmart parking lot just before I did. Another thing, the lot was almost full.

I parked and as I walked toward the entrance an older couple also approached the front doors. They seemed out of place among all the young faces, and they stopped to ask someone who had already made their purchases and was pushing their cart to their car if the HD televisions were going on sale at 5AM like the ad they held in their hands stated. The guy looked at them and announced loud enough for me to hear that all of the TVs were "gone" and also the laptops. I went inside to take a look at the frenzy anyway. There weren't actually too many people up front, but as I made my way through the maze of the women's clothing section to get to electronics, I emerged into a crowd of wall-to-wall people. They were all lined up every which way down the narrow aisles, waiting I guess for 5AM, and who knows how long they'd been there. Every aisle, in fact, was blocked with these streams of human flesh, so that you couldn't even browse at any of the items. The staff, as usual, were nearly worthless (I still can't comprehend that the world's largest private employer and retailer has such shitty customer service). Sam Walton burns in Hell!

So, unsuccessful on my cheapo quest at that Walmart location, I headed for the exit, which had some old fart Walmart employee standing there with a hand-printed cardboard sign that read: "Entrance Only". Yeah, like I was gonna pay attention to that and walk all the way to the other side of the building (where my car wasn't parked) like all the other stupid, fat sheeple that turned back and made their way to the other entrance. No, I just brushed past the guy and went on my way. He didn't even protest my action meekly (I guess you can't expect much from someone making slave wages). And screw you Walmart for telling me I can't leave by the same door I entered.

However, I wasn't giving up at that point. There was another Walmart not far away, and I decided to try there. It was the same scene, with the same fat, ugly, greedy materialistic people pushing and shoving and acting like assholes. It made me sick. I also got to thinking how much I hate people. I almost concluded that anarchy was a pipe dream, cause if these were the representatives of the common man, forget it, it would never work. I didn't go that far, for lots of reasons, but I did realize that any form of communism where there is no money and anyone can just walk in and take what they "need" from the "abundance" that the socialist paradise will produce ain't ever gonna happen, not in 10,000 years.

I left depressed, and wondering what's become of America. These were relatively young people caught up in the shopping mania created by our capitalist overlords (they've turned the day after Thanksgiving into a new "holiday" that represents the opposite of everything the day before should stand for) and so, I suppose, are the future of the country. Fat, greedy bastards growing up in a land where most of the major businesses don't know the meaning of the words "customer service" anymore.

I drove home, the memory of the digital camera riot (the Walmart girl kept shouting "There's plenty for everyone", but to no avail) fresh in my mind, and vowing never to go out shopping on a day called "Black" again. Well, at least not unless I get to the stores by midnight or earlier. JUST WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I'm In A Bad Mood and It Has Nothing To Do With Bret "Ginx" Alan

And I'd tell you why I'm feeling this way, except even though I do write personal posts here, I've never used this blog as a diary or journal. So, can anyone guess what has me upset? No, you can't. Don't even try, cause I'm in no mood to respond to your lame comments.

I'm really pissed off right now...

I'm really angry...

I'm really getting depressed too...



There, that feels a little better. Not much, but a little.


I'll be back soon, but first I should go get drunk or something. And for some reason, I suddenly wish I had a cat. A dog would probably be as down as I am, but a cat, it would be the same as always, and as happy as ever while I sit suffering. Yeah, a cat, that would be good. All I've got now are a few roaches and a rooster that wakes me up every morning. I need to get a cat.

Light Posting

I may not be posting much until this weekend due to a computer problem and other things. Thanks to Bret and Radio and all the other contributors for their continuing dedication to posting here at SE.  I probably need a little break anyway. I do have some interesting things planned, so stay tuned. In the meantime I may even need a new computer. More details to come...

If You Can Reach One Person...

I have a habit (a good one for a change) of taking a little walk at lunchtime. I've been frustrated the last few weeks because I've been forced to do other things at lunch, like eat, because I had a problem with my foot, but it's pretty much better now and I'm relieved I can take walks again. I not only love getting out into the fresh air and sunshine (I also like getting out into the clouds and the rain, but then, I'm a fresh air fanatic), I also enjoy the light exercise of a short walk. I take long walks, too, when I can, but of course not at work, where we only have a half-hour lunch.

At my previous job I had an hour lunch, and almost every day I would take at least a thirty minute walk around the long block we were on. It was in a pretty quiet industrial area with lots of trees and I usually had the wide sidewalks to myself. I really enjoyed that walk. I didn't know when I started my current job if there would be anything similar for walking, but I soon discovered a street around the corner that I found was actually a cul-de-sac. It also has lots of trees and well maintained foliage (in fact, I often see the landscapers doing their thing) and almost brand new industrial/office buildings, but in this case they are spaced far apart and set well back from the street. There is quite a steep hill to climb to get to the top before you turn around to come back, but once you get used to it, it's not that bad. I took to calling my daily adventure "walking the loop".

So, one day recently, I met a co-worker, Mike, crossing the parking lot to get into his car and make a run to McDonalds. He saw me coming back up the drive and asked what I was doing. I told him I'd just "walked the loop", so we started talking and he said maybe he'd try it some time. Yeah, right, I thought. People are always saying things like that. Plus, Mike is a rather large fellow, and while I wouldn't call him obese, he is heavy.

So, yesterday, as I came back from my walk, who did I see starting down the drive? Mike! We passed and he said he was going to "walk the loop". "I'm learning from the master," he told me.

We sometimes think we don't have any real effect on other people, or that our off-hand comments or actions won't influence anyone else, but obviously that notion is wrong. You have opportunities all day long to do so, so when you can, use that small power in a positive way. Make someone smile, give them hope, tell them a secret you have of improving your life in tiny ways. Who knows, they might just really be listening. This goes for talking about liberty, too. Mention Ron Paul and End the Fed when the economy and the Federal Reserve's actions enter the discussion, or just slip in a pro-freedom comment now and then. You don't want to be pushing your ideas at work like you're some kind of fanatic (that turns people off, anyway), but you can plant little pro-liberty seeds from time to time when you have the chance.

Which brings me to blogging, where you do have the freedom to look like an obsessed nut. We had such a nut here recently, our former contributor Bret "Ginx" Alan, who acknowledged his obsession with attacking anarchism and anarchists. It was sad, really, but YOU don't have to fall into that same trap. You can instead be reasonable and well-balanced like me. I have often wondered if blogging is anything but a hobby and a therapeutic outlet, but you never know who you may reach, or what life you may change, with even one little post that you send out into the blogosphere and the wider Internet.

So, happy and influential blogging (and walking) to you all!

Invasion of the Pot People

I posted before about a new tenant at the building where I work. Seems something strange was going on inside the suite they occupy. A shiny new sign on the door read: Healing, but no one came in or out, except for odd odors, one of which smelled like dirty diapers. Was it a front for a diaper fetish sex club? Well, the mystery deepened when shortly afterward, a security guard showed up at the front entrance not to the new business, but to the whole building. He sits on a chair most of the time, doing nothing at all; a useless, unarmed idiot. He gets up and opens the door for everyone, whether you're leaving or entering. During the week he is there only after dark, but he now appears on the weekends too, though he is there all day on Saturday.

I leave the building to get fresh air on my breaks and lunch, so every time I exited, the jackass got up and opened the door, repeatedly saying "have a good one" like I was leaving for the day. What a moron.

A few of us discussed what it was all about. Had there been a break-in recently that compelled the building management to take action and put a guard at the door? Didn't seem likely for several reasons. Then it occurred to us that the "natural healing" place was really a medical marijuana dispensary. Were they afraid of being robbed? Is there a state law requiring such places to have security guards? Actually, the "guard" is more of a doorman, and needed by any business that has customers arriving after regular business hours or on the weekend, for at those times the building's front glass doors lock and cannot be opened without one of the cards issued only to employees of the various businesses in the building. This place is open after six in the evening and on weekends, so they have to have someone standing by to open the door for the "patients".

It was later confirmed that it is indeed a pot store. It shouldn't be too long now before many of my co-workers get their medical marijuana cards and take advantage of the convenience of being able to get their medicine without having to make a special trip.

Chicken Soup?

The Commentator just posted about not feeling well, so I was inspired to write this little filler post. I love filler posts because they're so easy, and because they also help confirm Bret "Ginx" Alan's opinion that I'm a lazy bastard. Good, Bret, keep thinking that, but pretty soon I'll be blogging rings around you!


I was going to post today about not feeling well; I write such a post every few months, it seems. I use it as an excuse for my lack of blogging sometimes, too.

Question: Does chicken soup help when you're not feeling well, or is it just good for the soul?

My girlfriend is a vegetarian, but she can make homemade chicken soup. She also once ate a turkey sandwich that a take-out place made her by mistake (she had ordered a veggie sandwich) but she still ate half of it because she didn't want to waste it. She said it made her sick, though. Then she gave me the other half to eat.

My Ghost Stories

It's Halloween. Another year has flown by, like a witch on her broom in the shy sky above where you're never looking, until it's too late, and the doom is upon you. I have never seen a "ghost",or least I don't think I have. I could be wrong about that. I've seen strange things, that's for sure. For example, one time I saw this guy buy a non-alcoholic "beer" at a bar I was at for an Elvis impersonator contest. My Filipino friend was in the competition, and though he had once been a professional cruise ship singer, and was fantastic at the piano bars I used to frequent with him, and even had one hell of an Elvis voice when he sang Elvis songs, he refused to dress in a white sequined jumpsuit, preferring his rather pedestrian dress pants and sport jacket. Needless to say, I thought his sound was the best Elvis imitation, but a white guy in full Fat Elvis regalia won the popular vote (maybe his sideburns helped too).

The Winning Look


But as I was saying, I still don't think I've seen a ghost, not even the ghost of Elvis Presley. But, one Halloween, when I was in Florida (I lived down near Fort Lauderdale for a period when I was a child) my sister and I were out trick or treating with some friends, and as we walked down a dark street, we saw what appeared to be people dressed in sheets on the roof of a nearby house. I still swear to this day that one of them levitated and flew around and then landed again, and it wasn't no prop because it started to laugh real loud and you could see its belly moving like Santa Claus going Ho, Ho, Ho, only this wasn't a friendly laugh, it was evil, and we ran like the wind out of there.


I didn't think about ghosts on a personal level much until years later, when my sister, one evening when I was visiting her apartment and her two kids were running around like little devils, decided to mention some strange things to me. We were playing Scrabble and as usual I was winning spectacularly (or maybe that's just how I want to remember it) and we got to talking about the supernatural and paranormal. Maybe my Art Bell listening had prompted the paranormal topic, but when the discussion arrived at ghosts, she said that was the one thing she did believe in. I listened in wonder, because my sister is a near atheist and normally would dismiss anything that smacks of the spooky as nonsense.

So, I sat as she told her tale.

The place she had lived in previously was old and had the feel of ancientness about it. There was one extra room that was being used as a kind of playroom for the kids (two boys) and it was filled with toys that were scattered all over the floor. One day, as my sister was vacuuming, as she made her way down the hallway, she noticed that the door to the "playroom" was closed. Thinking the kids might be up to mischief, she went and slowly opened it. There on the floor sat a child, what appeared to be a young boy, and he had unusual, old looking clothes on and was wearing a strange hat. She thought at first it was the youngest of her offspring, and she spoke to him, saying "Casey?". Then the real Casey answered from behind her "What, Mommy?". She turned to him, then back to the room, and the child with the odd attire and head gear had disappeared!

She told of another time at the same location, when she was reading in bed and the kids were already asleep, when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway to her bedroom. her door was still open, and as she looked up from her book, she saw a man in overalls and a straw hat standing there in her doorway. As soon as she looked at him, he literally evaporated into thin air.


My sister them moved to Texas for a short time, and while there was renting a house. I came to help her get settled, and she started saying that lights and water faucets were coming on all by themselves. I didn't believe it, until one night when I was perusing a copy of Penthouse magazine in private in the bedroom I'd been given, when the lamp in the corner of the room came on all by itself. There was no timer or anything attached to it, so I was spooked. I then got up and hid my porn, went to the bathroom, and as I stood there, I thought I suddenly heard the water in the bathtub start to run. Maybe the kids had left it on, but I was sure I hadn't heard it when I'd entered the bathroom.

After that, we all slept in the living room together and kept the television on all night for the remainder of my stay.


No more ghosts entered my life after that, except for my dreams of my grandmother. She died after suffering a stroke, and at the viewing I cried my eyes out over her open casket. Everyone else was reminiscing of all the "good times", but the finality of it all struck me horribly, and for weeks afterward, I walked around looking at everyone I saw differently. I realized that we are all ephemeral, phantoms without solid reality. That we are all, in fact, ghosts.