Is Barack Obama a Fagin?

This is just meant to be a laugh, so please calm yourself. I am not democrat, republican, or independent. I am codependant.

Today, a man forced himself into your children’s classrooms and attempted to touch their…hearts. Who is this man? Who is vying for the attention and affection of your children while you are working for your hard earned American dollars? The man is someone called Barack Obama. Where were the teachers and school administration during this molestation of your children’s minds? They were acting the part of the Artful Dodger to Obama’s Fagin. Obama is like Fagin. Look at the facts.

Fagin corrupted the minds of youths by convincing them it was alright to steal from hard working Ameri…Englishmen. The money was then given to Fagin so he could redistribute the wealth. In other words, Fagin was a socialist just like Obama.

Don’t let your innocent children be swept up into Obama’s army of urchins. You have to act now because Obama is very well spoken and we all know the lure of the hip hop culture. Rappers have been known for their “ability” to change the meaning of words. Just remember how the word “bad” came to mean “good” because of people like Michael Jackson. Obama, like rappers, has this gift, so you should read his speech with a discerning eye to find the code words.

Let’s begin with the overall message of responsibility and trying hard. This is obviously enlisting your children into the socialist party. He is saying that you will be rewarded for your hard work by your government. He is replacing parents with government. Government will tuck you in at night and read you a story. Government will pack your lunch for school. Government knows what is best for you. Government will always love you. Do you want your children raised by the government? Picture a bright Orwellian day when your child turns you in because you say something disrespectful about the government. It could happen tomorrow.

Next, let’s look at the role model children that Obama gave as examples. Jazmin Perez couldn’t speak English when she started school. Now she is on her way to being Dr. Jazmin Perez. Try to read between the lines. First of all, Jazmin is an illegal alien. Second, her becoming a doctor means she is taking that job away from honest Americans. Third, she is in graduate school studying public health which means she is getting ready to work in the new Obama Care system. Sounds like she knew something before the rest of us? Yeah, well you missed the information because it probably wasn’t said in English.

Andoni Schultz and Shantell Steve are examples because they sound exotic. This is real trickery on his part. Don’t let the example of these two overcoming obstacles such as cancer and gangs persuade you to be a socialist. Be vigilant.

Towards the end, Obama attempted to reach the youth by invoking the name of J.K. Rowling. Don’t think that this was just an attempt to share a story of overcoming obstacles. Instead be aware of the blatant attempt at dark magic. Everyone knows J.K. Rowling’s books are about kids and witchcraft. Don’t let your children be swept up by this American, non magic, black Dumbledore. Let your schools know that we will not tolerate witchcraft in American schools.

What was missing from Obama’s story of perseverance is all of the white men that made this country great. Why didn’t he mention just one of them? Perhaps it is because he is a socialist.

I ask that each of you do the right thing. In response to Obama’s speech, you should take your children out of school the next time he decides to give one of his speeches. No test or class is so important that your children should have to hear his socialist rants. I had rather they fail. You are responsible for your children. It is not up to the president to inspire your children. Inspiring your children is your job. Inspiring other people’s children is typical socialist behavior. Remember, it is better to prevent other people’s opinions infecting your children rather than arming them with the ability to decide for themselves. Anything else is socialism.



“Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the somber colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.” Charles Dickens

The Unlikely Triathlete

When I was in both the seventh and eighth grades, I was on the basketball C-team. I made the team for three reasons. One, I out hustled the rest. Two, I was a decent 3 point shooter. Three, only two people got cut that actually tried out.

It is a treasured memory. For all my awkwardness, I felt like it was something I was pretty good at. I spent countless hours practicing. I was selected by the coach to go scout games with the older kids. It was great.

Due to financial reasons, my basketball career ended abruptly and my work career began. Kirsten never knew me as a basketball player, but I swore to her that I could play. My chance to prove it to her came in my senior year with the highly anticipated senior/junior basketball game. As class president, I put myself on the starting team.

I was tripped in warm-up and fell. Not knowing I had fractured my elbow, I tried to play through the pain. Kirsten, not knowing that I had fractured my elbow, thought I was the worst player ever. I was embarassed. Although, I had the sling to prove it, Kirsten thinks I would have sucked anyway.

So, when I decided that I was going to enter a triathalon, she scoffed. She has some good reasons to doubt me. First, I swim like a brick. Second, I don't currently run anywhere. I would move to the third, but I just covered two thirds of the race.

Despite my athletic short comings, I will enter and finish a triathalon. I have to enter into training to mold this body into that of a triathelete. It may take me a while since apparently the triathalon season is almost over. I still plan to make it my goal to be ready by next year's races.

If I fail, I will say my arm still hurts.

Something real special at Lake Merriweather

I know this is two posts about bike trips in a row, but please bare with me. Until last week, I really had not ridden a bike in, let's say, 14 years. On Memorial Day, the young adults of our church had the opportunity to go to the coast. We took a boat ride to Black Beard Island. I think that is the right name. If that is not its name, it should be. On that trip, I trekked into the island and around its paths. I know other people have been there (it was a path after all), but I still felt a little closer to nature and peace with myself.

While riding back from the library today, I saw a dirt road and took it. In just a short while I knew I was on to something special. The path split into several different paths. Paths that I will be going back to try later. For now, I stayed on the main course.

The path opened up onto a big man made pond. I would say bar pit, but this is the nicest bar pit I have ever seen. The area becomes very hilly (real word) and rises in some areas to create mini cliffs above the water. There are paths all around the bar pit and it looks like a dirt bike trail with big hills were sculpted out as well.

Due to articles of clothing, beer bottles, and abandoned coolers, I know this place is no secret from the kids and the party people. Somehow my brain has held on to the idea of discovery and the dream that something could be new. In other words, my heart felt like I had discovered the place regardless of how many people had been there before. In your mind, hear the kid opening his presents in "Christmas Story." A big hill, "oh boy, that's mine." An old bridge, "oh boy, that's mine."

The trip was eventually tainted by a couple of young ladies who apparently drove out there for some under age drinking/smoking. I continued on my path with a little bit of resentment. They were proof that this place did not belong to me exclusively.

Still, I invite you all to my new secluded get away in the heart of Pooler. I have dubbed it Lake Merriweather.

Bicycle Diaries

Today I decided to ride my bike for an actual trip as opposed to my unusual (unusual because it is far from normal) ride for exercise. Kirsten left me with the task of getting stamps. So, I decided I would ride my bike to the post office. This is not a short distance, but I remember when I used to ride my bike as a kid to the tune of 10 miles to go to the country store. I quickly realized that I am not a kid anymore, and I am not in shape. I had to take a few walking breaks along the way. Here is some of the adventure.

I passed over a canal that I have driven over a million times. This time I stopped to look at it. It is surprisingly beautiful if you take away the litter left by irresponsible people. I saw a turtle jump in the water.

While riding, I saw a beautiful yard that had grass that was too high for a yard that had been so sculpted. I thought to myself that this seemed odd (my marathon runs of House have taught me to look for clues everywhere), so I thought it was old couple that was feeling sick that lived there. When I rode back by on the way home an old man was riding the lawnmower. I think he sensed my lack of approval and took action.

On the way to the Post Office, I noticed a cross and some flowers in front of a tree that had some debris around it. I wondered what happened. On the way back, I crossed the street and ended up walking and talking to a either a person that works for Western Sizzlin, or is an ex employee that still loves to wear the shirt. He explained to me that it had been a motorcycle accident. The driver died on the spot. Then we talked about a hit and run involving a little boy last night. One of his friends called out to him and he left me.

I was passed by a fire truck responding to a call. On the back of their rig was the Tasmanian devil. I thought to myself that is exactly want I want in a fire crew. I want the Tasmanian devil coming in to save me. Fire be damned.

I stopped for a water at the gas/washer&dryer/hair salon/convenience store. I was standing next to my bike when a child came up to me and asked "who are you?" I laughed and said, "I am Jonathan, who are you?" The boy's grandmother threatened the boy with a beating for "botherin" me.

On the way home, a group of school girls commented that they liked my sunglasses as I rode by. Aside from making me uncomfortable I find that funny because they are Liz Claiborne sunglasses that Kirsten got free with purchase like 10 years ago. Durable and still stylish.

Finally, a school guard stopped traffic for me. She was a little old lady. I told her that I wasn't quite a schoolboy, but thank you. She just smiled and said, "that's alright."

Quite a trip. It may seem boring, but I enjoyed myself. I believe I will have to go on more bike rides.

Before I was nine

Before I was nine I was a preacher, ninja, magician, disc jockey, leader of a rebellion group, and all around hero.

Daddy sang bass, mama sang tenor, and a young Jonathan Mullis took the message to Frasier Street. As a young one I learned about Revelations. I was convinced that I was to be one of the two in the end time that would be preaching the return of Jesus and would probably, ultimately, give my life for the work. It was with this knowing that I dressed in my Sunday's best outfit that included a vest that would make a banker envious, picked up my Bible, and began to walk the streets of my neighborhood. How many souls were saved? How many baptized? It is hard to get an accurate number because I didn't really talk to anyone. I, instead, just walked up and down the streets holding my Bible and thinking good thoughts. I don't know how many adults I worried into a frenzy over the fear that I might knock on their door.

My dad took me to see David Copperfield. David Copperfield wore black. I decided that David Copperfield, in addition to being a highly skilled magician, was a ninja as well. I decided that I would be too. I dressed in black jeans, my David Copperfield t-shirt, and a bandanna that I wore like Karate Kid. Once I was dressed in a manner that would make it easy for me to disappear, I practiced moving around the neighborhood without being detected. I went through the neighborhood, running from tree to tree and pressing myself against walls. I did this in broad daylight. Impressed?

Z-102 was THE radio station growing up. I had a Z card. Inspired by my sister who was a teen in the 80s, I learned all of the DJs names and wanted to be them. I gathered a couple of the kids in my neighborhood and we formed a radio station in my room. The radio station was a keyboard that often just played the dog barking when you pressed the keys, a microphone that didn't hook to anything, a guitar, a harmonica, a ham radio, and the best item which was a radio/cassette/vinyl/eight track. Our show times were not consistent, but it can be argued that it was some of the best stuff on the waves at the time.

Kirsten's favorite story of that time was when I led a small platoon in the legendary battle of Frasier Forrest. My platoon consisted of myself, my friend Trey, and his little brother. We were constantly under attack from a boy named J.R. and his over sized friend. We decided to stand up for ourselves and prepared for battle. I was inspired by a combination of Rambo, Macgyver, Tour of Duty, and GI Joe. There was a small wooded area that we planned to lure our enemy into and then, by leading them through a series of booby traps, defeat them completely. We began well. They chased us on their BMX bikes. We led them into the woods through the spot of where the first trap was supposed to work. It was pretty simple. It was a line tied to a tree. Trey's little brother was hiding at the other end. He would wait for us to pass and then pull the line up on the angry youth chasing us. For reasons unforeseeable, Trey's brother being too small, our enemy rode right over the line. The following traps did not work so well either. The swinging "battering rams", objects tied by rope to the trees, swung wildly off mark. The final trap was a young sapling tied to the ground that was supposed to fly up and unseat our following foe. Our calculations failed to consider two points. One, the sapling's spirit was broken by it's incarceration resulting in its half hearted flight upwards. Two, the tree wasn't close enough to the path, so it would have missed even if it had flown with the vigor we had imagined.

When I think back on those times, I remember my mind feeling completely comfortable and completely unaware of the absurdity of my actions. It is the glory of childhood.

Eighth Grade O.G.

Eighth grade was an interesting time in my life. In eighth grade I found Snoop Dog, Warren G, TLC, Dr. Dre, Eazy E, Bone Thugz N Harmony, and many more. In eighth grade I was convinced I had soul. I even changed my friend circle to include a nice mixture of folks that although ashamed to admit, I felt were my gang. Yes, I was a young gangster in a rural southern community. Next to a paper plant and a military base, agriculture was still the main job source. Yet, hip hop found me. I was uncomfortable in my skin, so I adopted a new persona. Never even able to fake being a bad boy I was basically the same old me but with drooping tapered leg jeans. I also added as much athletic clothing to my wardrobe as possible. My homies, as they were, included Fred (Black), Fred (White), Jared, Andre, Juan, and Demetrius. We were a fear invoking crew to be sure.

I don't know how this all came about, and I don't remember it being a real decision. One day I was with the friends I had grown up with and I was sitting with these guys the next. None of us had ever been involved in anything gang related regardless of the claims we made that were not even close to being true. We rarely ever called each other on the blatant errors in our stories. Jared, for example, claimed to have been shot. He had moved here, so it was hard to verify his story other than the fact that he lacked a gun shot wound.

It is painful to even think about. I was such a dork, but it would have took some convincing for me to see it that way back then. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a pretty fly white guy with tapered jeans pulled low (I actually didn't get straight leg jeans until my 9th grade year), a Tarheels jersey (Tshirt underneath as to not show skin), and some Nikes. I think the Nikes were the high top Force. I would also have worn a hat. The hat would have been either a Tarheels hat, or the very popular Miami Hurricanes.

I rapped lyrics about smoking chronic and acting like I could relate, but I never did. I never have. I don't think any of them had, yet, either. I also liked TLC's "Red Light Special" without having had any experience in that department either. I couldn't function well around the ladies. I had several crushes on black girls because they seemed to be somewhat nicer to me, not sure why, although I never had the courage to ask any of them out or make what could be deemed as a "move" on them. Looking back, I think it was pity on their part. Special call out to my old school shorties.

Surprisingly, I don't think any of my family knew that this was even going on. I was able to slip between my respectful country boy accent to the misunderstood gangsta from Compton during the long bus ride to and fro.


My gang life was short lived. I realized that it would lead down a pretty bad road. That precedent was set for me by "Boyz in the Hood" which was my favorite movie at the time. But for a short time at least, I was eighth grade original gangsta.

Anger and Outrage!

What is the one thing that causes you to flip and act like a complete lunatic? I mean mommy dearest, no wire hangers, kind of angry. I often get a little nutty when fast food establishments are mean with an extra side of rude. I consider it personal and fully believe it was intentional. I have driven the ten minute ride back to the restaurant for my missing burger or fries. True story, ask Kirsten.

I have witnessed my father become a screaming, red-faced, madman stomping and throwing his hat when Sam's failed to open the extra line. I have witnessed Kirsten...I have never witnessed Kirsten do anything but show kindness and constraint.

Tell me a time when you lost it and showed your ugly side. You kind of have to respond to this or it looks like I don't have any friends, and that really tees me off.

No Paris in France

"What do you think?" Kathy Hilton asked an inquiring reporter. "This is pathetic and disgusting, a waste of Tax Payer's money with all this nonsense. This is a joke."

Weitzman didn't disagree. "To sentence Paris Hilton to 45 days in jail to me was uncalled for, inappropriate, and bordered on the ludicrous," the attorney said. "It was clear that she's been selectively targeted in my opinion to be prosecuted because of who she is."



It took the accusations being thrown out into public by Miss Hilton's attorney for the media to finally begin looking into the wide spread conspiracy against Paris Hilton, but it is amazing what they have found out since the investigation began.

Investigators have uncovered that the conspiracy actually goes back to the birth of Paris. The trusting Hilton's were first led down the wrong path when a naughty nanny actually placed a silver spoon in the then innocent mouth of Paris. Doctors are still not sure of all the ramifications, but it is clear that being born with a silver spoon in your mouth leads to a sense of entitlement and general unpleasantness. Although it was quickly discovered and the naughty nanny was relieved of her duties, the damage had already been done.

The next person in the conspiracy, one who is deeply interwoven into this story and the same person already fingered by Kathy Hilton, Tax Payer. Tax Payer has been a silent business partner with the Hilton family for a number of years by being a regular customer of the various Hilton businesses and by supporting the career of the younger Hilton with viewership of her reality show. The once hidden trail of Tax Payer has now been picked up by creative journalists and the truth brought to light. It is actually Tax Payer, not the well meaning Hilton parents, that raised Paris to be the poor child now sentenced to a heart breaking 45 days in prison. Yes, Tax Payer has been the one to destroy this young soul by not teaching her manners, the difference between right and wrong, a sense of accountability, respect for others, or enough respect for herself that would have allowed her to refrain from being a skank. Now Tax Payer, according to Kathy Hilton, has wasted money on the prosecution of the same Paris Hilton that Tax Payer helped to create.

Finally, the legal system is to blame. It can be proven by Someone that many years ago, laws were put into place to punish crime breakers regardless of wealth, or race. Now the legal system is trying to enforce those laws on Paris Hilton, and that is just not fair.

I am asking whoever reads this to stand up and voice your disgust about what is happening to Paris Hilton. You need to ask yourself what will happen if we start to treat the rich and famous like regular citizens. Are you prepared for the consequences? Can you live with Paris Hilton being in jail for 45 days?

In memory of my car lighter and porcealin goat

As a kid, there was no such thing as an unusual toy. It was just a toy. This is how I don't think it at all odd that at one time, I had both a car lighter with outer casing and a porcelain goat as toys. I also don't find it odd that they were my prize toys at the same time.

I often carried my favorite toys to school in my pocket, and whipped them out at the first hint of free time. That was a practice that I kept until fourth grade, when Mr. Davis caught me with two G.I. Joes and said I was too old to still be playing with toys. I was ashamed and devastated. I knew I had to give up my toys. The toys that I let my imagination run wild with, and had never made any formal plans of giving up. I played with my toys one last time and then donated them all to homeless children.

Three grades prior in first grade, before the Mr. Davis' toy holocaust, I suffered my first real embarrassment concerning toys. I have already said that I could make a toy out of anything, but I could see that my toys didn't always match up with the conventional toys of my peers. Let's start with the car lighter. I probably came across it in the auto junk yard owned by one of my uncle's friends. It was a prize possession for sure. It had lost all ability to cause a spark, but my imagination found other uses for it. It was my defense against the booger lady. The booger lady was a black girl with pony tails who was given the title for no particular reason, but seemed to embrace it anyway. At recess she would chase us with booger on extended finger, reaching to us like a marathon runner handing the baton. Being touched by the booger finger was a fate too horrible to imagine in the first grade. I would push my car lighter into its casing in the same manner which a smoker would to warm up for a light. By pushing my lighter into the casing, it became a grenade waiting for my release. I would then chuck it at the booger lady, never really aiming and never hitting her. I would then scramble back to where ever it landed and pick it back up. It was often at times a magical button, and sometimes it was just a lighter for my candy cigarettes. It wielded great power in my imagination, and rose high in the ranks of my toy kingdom.

The porcelain goat was probably retrieved from a dumpster. My family had money, at least enough to not dig in dumpsters, but my crazy uncle had a passion for the dumpster diving. I think he was too young for the depression, but it must of had an effect on him. I don't remember ever taking anything to the dump without bringing something back. You might be thinking of a few dumpsters in a row. Sure, we went there most often, but we also hit the big landfills. Now it seems strange and unsanitary to me. It also helps to know that I am completely aware of how nutso my family is, but back then it was a treat. I mean, we are talking hidden treasure. Toys buried. Toys waiting for me. Cars with three wheels (obviously blown off in a high speed car chase), decapitated action figures, rain worn transformers, and, yes, porcelain goats.

Nap time was an everyday event. Even as a kid I would zonk out. I would sleep so deep that it scared me. I was always afraid that I would wake up naked and strapped to the wall with the whole class laughing at me. I don't know where I got the idea that this was a logical threat faced by all first grade deep sleepers, but I had it. I would wake up in a panic, and check my surroundings.

Clothes? Check!

Toys? ….

Toys? …

When I went to sleep my toys were secure, but where were they? I was frantic. Had someone stolen my prize lighter and goat? Who would do such a thing? Who would…my teacher was looking at me. Double check clothes…Check! My toys? My heart stopped. She had my toys!

She thought my lighter was an inappropriate toy for school, and the porcelain goat…What can you say about a porcelain goat? It might not be the toy of choice, but it can't be described as inappropriate. Odd maybe, but not inappropriate. The class laughed at me. I promised not to bring them back to school, if I could just please have them back. It wasn't fair to steal my toys while I was sleeping.

Maybe she felt sorry for the poor kid who has to use a car lighter and a figurine as toys. Maybe she didn't want to upset the odd kid. All I know is I got the toys back at the end of the day, and they came home to stay.

I am not sure when I eventually parted ways with my lighter and goat. They might have went up in the same blaze that burned my house down (not started by my car lighter). I like to think that they found their way back to their respective junk yard and landfill only to be found by some new, strange boy that sees them for the wonderful toys they are.

Follow the herd to the Golden Corral

I want to clarify right at the beginning that I don't consider myself better than the people I am going to tell you about. I guess I am making a bit of fun, but I am also keenly aware of how close I come to joining their ranks.

I, totally honest and trustworthy, had never eaten at a Golden Corral until September of last year. I have saddled up to quite a few buffets in my food driven life, but never the GC. I liked it. As my debit card receipts will bear out, I often have a hankerin' for it. It is not a fancy spot with menus. This is the kind of place that toothpicks are offered after the meal. It is a place of value for the buck.

I usually only eat here at lunch times. I join the ranks of other hungry workers who want to share a dollop of mashed potatoes, fight for the last piece of chicken, and enjoy some ice cream out of the machine. These are my people. We communicate without words to form single file lines and obtain our selected meals without harm or danger to others. We fill our plates high like mountains that need to be conquered. We might get mighty portions, but, perhaps due to time constraints more than will, we usually only get two helpings.

Tonight, I went for dinner. These are not my people. These folks are professionals. They are the reason that it costs more to eat buffets at night versus lunch. I watched as three heavy hitters all sat on one side of a table so they could fill the other side with piles of plates. It looked like their imaginary equals were filling the chairs opposite them and devouring plates while they were eating only a normal portion. They sat in silence, staring ahead, and just ate. It didn't even look like they enjoyed it. They just ate.

One row up was a similar group. I don't know how many plates they knocked out before I got there because they were on dessert by the time I arrived. Picture yourself going to a local bakery and pointing to the entire showcase of desserts and saying, "I will take that, please." To make it worse, I could almost testify that I heard them talk about diabetes. These are true warriors. Not even the threat of amputation slows them down.

Looking around the "corral", I couldn't help but to notice more of the night crowd. They were easy to pick out due to their uniforms (sweatpants and loose shirts). It reminded me of the Friends episode where Joey wears maternity pants.

I sat there looking at all of these night people when it all started to connect in my head. Just as Bruce Willis realized he had been dead the whole time in Sixth Sense, I realized that the night crowd must be my people also. I am here with them. I am a threat to the buffet's existence.

I will pick up my uniform at Wal-mart tomorrow.

As honest as I can be.

I have been a worker for as long as I can remember. I have worked hard and always accepted the extra responsibilities and opportunities that have come from that hard work. I am so very thankful for all of the blessings and rewards that have come to me, but my heart, I think it is my heart, is uneasy.

Quite a few changes happened within a year's span. Media Play closed. I know from a Wall Street perspective it came as no shock, but from the perspective of someone who spent a major portion of time...I guess "sucked" is the only word that comes to mind. Closing was the outcome we worked so hard to prevent, and then it just happened. Powerless. That is how I felt. Without direction? That too. I started to think about the point of it all. It seemed to me that I spent a lot of time working. I had often said that work was my hobby. It dawned on me that I don't like the way that sounds. In fact, I hate it. Being honest with myself, it is not like I was saving lives, but I did enjoy the community of it. It was quite the experience and I grew, I hope, quite a bit while I was there. It still ended.

What came from the closing was a realization of reality. I realized that I spent way too much time at work. I realized that I do have more to me. Most importantly, I realized that I had been, simply, a bad husband. I regret saying the last line, but I know that it is true. By being always at work, I wasn't present. As Dylan says, "You got to serve somebody." It can be this, or it can be that. It can't be both. My abundance of time spent at work was a dashboard indicator of priorities and one that I regret. Our actions really are how we say things best.

The combination of the company's closing and some untimely passings laid a solid foundation for the overwhelming sensation of the grandness of life.

Being "on the road" has allowed much time for thought. I have mostly thought about being present, or living life. I don't mean for living life to be defined as doing the extreme, or even travelling to the unknown. I mean being present for my life. I want to stop and take inventory on a daily, even hourly, basis. I want to truly be present in my life and not let it slip past camouflaged in the everyday of it all.

I confess I made a mistake in thinking I was made for the kind of travel I am currently doing. At least, I know I am not made for it without Kirsten. Perhaps I would be better suited for it with my best friend along with me. I pray something, somehow brings me home soon.

To the point, I am on a quest to go forward. I am trying to be honest with myself. Honest enough to say what I really want, and I pray that I will have courage enough to go for it. I pray I will be smart enough to lay out sound plans to get there, and flexible enough to scrap those plans to make new ones when necessary. I hope to be a better...just better will do for now.

Well mannered frivolity

It was close race between my current "memoirs of a jovial caucasian male" and "well mannered frivolity". I just like it.

I have had a couple of strands of ideas in my head that don't really amount to much, but out they come.

Who actually calls the numbers on bathroom stalls? Who writes it on the stalls? Sometimes I imagine a guy sitting by the phone just waiting to give a good time to the next lucky caller. Why did he opt for the stall over a newspaper ad. Perhaps it is because the newspaper wouldn't allow him to specify how he would give a good time, and the stall is more romantic anyway. I would like to read a love story that begins, "We met by chance. I looked up, saw his number on the wall, and knew this was the man for me. Our love grew from that lonely day in the stall to 40 years of bliss and good times."

BEIJING, Dec. 19 -- Asian Games silver medallist Santhi Soundarajan of India has failed a sex test and will be stripped of her medal.

The report calls it a sex test, not gender test.
I feel sorry for this lady. There is no proof or even beginnings of proof that she did anything wrong. She has too many of the wrong chromosome. She is how she is. It just doesn't seem fair, and I feel so sorry for her that reporters are hounding her and her village.

I did a double take in Spartanburg last week when I saw a pregnant woman lighting up a cigarette. She doesn't believe the doctors. I hope nothing bad comes to the baby from her need for nicotine. It is hard for me to believe people still don't see the possible side effects it might have on a kid. My mom quit the cancer sticks in the 60's for my sister, but hey, who really knows!

Kirsten and I have been exclusive for 9 years. Almost a decade with my lady love. 9 years with the person who convinced me to come clean about peeing in the ocean. I am very thankful for my beautiful friend and wife. I hate being away.

I'm a Man

Spell it M-ahhh. A. N. I'm a man.

The Bo Diddley song played in my head this weekend as I attempted a little manly task with Mark (Kasey's fiance) and Stevie (nephew).

Sunday was the meeting of the families. Mark's parents came for lunch to meet Kasey's parents. Mark's car had a blowout as he, his parents, and Kasey drove in a caravan to her sister's house in the Ludo.

It was somehow decided that Stevie, now 15, should get the experience in changing tires, and this would be a great opportunity. I drove Mark and Stevie to the car stranded on the side of the road.

I want to pause to say that I have long been resigned to the fact that I am the least mechanically capable of the clan. I embrace it and know that I have some other, I hope, qualities that I bring. With that being said, I know how to change a tire and had felt pretty confident in at least that.

Things began a little slow. The car was jacked, and the old tire had been taken off. It was decided to jack up the car just a little...the car lurched forward and fell on the jack. I had a feeling something like this might happen.

None of us attempted anything. We accepted defeat and Stevie called Keith (his dad) to come help us. Mark, Stevie, and I threw rocks at a log protruding from a dirt pile until Keith came to the rescue. The tire was finished in about 5 minutes, and we were able to return home sans dignity.

8 miles to Prosperity

I actually passed through Prosperity this week. I just like that. I hope to pass through it on the way home.

I love the Pass It On billboards. I have attached a few. They make me smile. Dolly Parton also makes me smile. I hope to drive through Prosperity listening to Dolly sing 9 to 5 and then see a Pass It On billboard.

If you're going my way

My Thursday was the opposite of Brandi's.

Wednesday, about 9:05, I received a call from my boss. She wanted me to go to the Spartanburg store in the morning to help the store's manager with a visit from the CEO, President, and VP of operations. The visit came on quick. We knew they were planning a visit, but were not sure of time line. Due to weather, Spartanburg had moved from one of the first on the visit to the last. Jody wouldn't be able to make the last leg due to another trip she had to go on. So, I was just a filler to help with the visit. Now, my role wasn't big, but it is still the CEO, President, and VP coming. I had seen them at the meetings in Orlando, but they were always on stage. Plus I only had jeans packed because I am helping to build a store this week. The phone call came after 9 which meant all the clothing stores were closed. I happen to be staying in the only place that doesn't have a Wal-Mart/Target within tobacco spitting distance.

My day began at dawnish (5am). I went downstairs to get directions to a Wal-Mart. Some kind of other clothing would be needed. I received my directions from the breakfast lady (given her name because she makes the breakfast at the hotel). I started on my way, but I began to feel unsure as the trip took me further and further from civilization. I started to curse myself for having ever trusted another soul with directions. I ended up on the interstate headed to Atlanta. I could not find a road to turn off on. I turned off when I finally found an exit. Miracle o' miracles, it was exactly where she had told me about (she had left out the highway part). I got my clothes, and took this as the first omen of a good day.

Next, I took a trip to Starbuck's. The people were the most friendly in the entire world. I truly believe that completing my order was the highlight of their day, and they were uplifted by the opportunity to help me. At least, that is what they made me feel like. I have said it before, but tres cheers for Starbuck's enthusiasm. Second omen of goodness.

The executive trio flew in (private jet--apparently we time share a jet to save cost) and I greeted them as they came in. We weren't expecting them yet, and I just happened to be at the front when they approached the store. I greeted them, and they were very nice. The visit was quick, and they were encouraging. I was surprised by how much info they had scraped up on the staff. I gave Doug (Spartanburg GM) the nickname Pappy in Orlando, and it stuck. Bruce (president) comes in and refers to him as Pappy. They knew about my travel situation as a bench GM, and they asked me how it was going. It is those little things that make you think that you are actually on the radar. All I can keep saying is nice. They were. At times, you almost forget that you are talking to the folks that make the decisions. Usually you make suggestions that push uphill. We were making suggestions at the top of the hill.

To top the whole day off, it was a Thursday night line up of Earl, Office, and Scrubs. I worked until 7:30, picked up my dinner, and made it to the hotel room at 7:55. Clockwork in the hizouse.

Love is good, and today was a good day.

Superhero

I would like for DJ Qualls to play a superhero. Why do pretty people always have to get the roles? (No offense DJ) If you had supernatural ability, would you also have to have good looks?

They have not done one in a while, but I always enjoy watching the 20/20 special on ugly vs. pretty in job interviews. Without fail, the pretty people are always preferred. The interviewer seems to find qualities that just don't exist in the pretty folks. The interviewer wills those talents to be there.

I have been listening (not to be confused w/ reading) a book about Abraham Lincoln. It describes how unappealing he was when compared to some of the other candidates. People were awe-struck by his presence when they actually met him. They just didn't expect it. Do we really put that much weight in looks when judging personality?


Similar to how Lincoln was judged, Grant was considered too short to be a general. His height made people question his ability to lead. No wonder Napoleon was pissy.

It is amazing how much we critique the things on others that can't (w/out surgery) change.

No particular incident has caused this line of thought. The text in the book just made me think about how much weight we put into looks.

Let us all be more tolerant of the ugly.

Rainy day for the Husky one

Have you ever watched the reality show that has the high speed car chase? You are usually watching from an aerial view, and you can see the car speeding towards a busy intersection. Your gut tells you that the car isn't going to make it. You see the dump truck coming from a side street, and (boom) they hit just like you predicted. I had a similar experience this morning, but it was an aerial view of me fat tum busting through the intersection of my pants. I am a size hmphhrmmuhum, but I guess I am putting on a few "traveling" pounds. My eyes darted back and forth from the button to the whole it was supposed slip into. "Not gonna do it." I managed to pull them tight, fasten, and hold my breath for 5 minutes while I put my shoes on. I finally came to grips w/ my bigness, and decided I needed to try other pants. Luckily, that first pair was just a rebel in the midst of allies. I tried on a rookie pair of khakis, and thanks to Betsy they fit. I knew it would be an uphill battle to keep this day positive.

1. My bloated stomach was still hurting from a BBQ chicken pizza I ate the night before. I really should stick to a strong "Don't eat unlikely combinations" policy.

2. It is rainy, chilly, and windy.

3. I forgot my lunch upstairs, and had to go back for it.

4. I forgot my new hair cream, and will be forced to buy a substitute (I can't go around w/ my white mans afro).

5. My deodorant ran out. It is a gel. I did one arm, and then nothing else came up. Booooooh! Their should be a better indicator.

6. A "silkie" came in today w/ a mission to pee on everything, and succeeded. Her "grandmother" just laughed, and said "She left you some more at the front, I guess she was waiting to get inside." I have no idea how so much urine could be in one teency bladder. The first 2 times were normal, but she was just messing w/ me after that. I ask all pet owners to kindly clean up after your own mongrel....I mean pet.

Twas my day. Highlights included a lovely chicken pot pie. It just dawned on me that "fatty" here found his highlights in the food. No wonder I am gaining weight.

Haven't you always wanted a monkey?

It is amazing how many times the topic of winning the lottery has come up over my life. Just the other day a woman, un-provoked, told me her thoughts on the lottery and what she would do if she won. It took her a while to get to the point because she had to first tell me how she doesn't believe in the lottery due to statistics of actual winners, higher likelihood of blah blah, and it isn't practical (I guess). After the back story of what brought her to this point in her life, not believing in the lottery, she told me that she would continue to work, and maybe travel a little. She seemed to pride herself on how very little her life would change.

Folks, I don't know what came over me. If I was in the "Golden Harp" episode of Duck Tales, the harp would say, "He is fibbing, fibbing, fibbbiiiiiing." I agreed with her, but did say that I would travel more. Upon further reflection, I must admit that I would be so far opposite of her version, even Hammer would tell me to slow it down a bit. Maybe Hammer is the wrong one to use as an example because it would not be gaudy, meaningless stuff.

My house is fine, but we would have to move to some place more secluded. The first step in being rich is to move away. I would quit my job in a Chevy heartbeat. Kirsten and I would travel like Brangelina. I would start charity programs, and try to do some actual good with the money. I ,unfortunately, don't have many specifics on the doing good part. I can tell you exactly where I would travel, but I am hazy on the whole giving money away part. I am sure that I would donate money though. I do have a heart. I would work, but it would be on my terms. It would probably be for charity (See how I worked charity back in?).

I don't buy in on the folks who would continue to live "normal". Most people who win the big lottos end up broke, and I bet they all said that they would continue to work. The issue probably is that we are concerned with what it sounds like to say we would stop working. Are we afraid of being perceived as lazy? Does it really matter?

The other part of this is her need to explain to me why she doesn't believe in the lottery. Do people think I will think them crazy for having unlikely dreams? If they only could see in my head. I imagine myself, if I ever got the chance, getting along smashingly with Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Angelina, Zach Braff, Jimmy Fallon, Tina Fey, and many more. Is it unlikely? Sure, but many things play out in my head. I can somehow imagine in my head the chance encounter with a famous type that ends in their realization of me being their long lost friend. I am not crazy, but I wouldn't be surprised if it happened.

I want to tell people daydreams are ok. I am pro-daydreams. They keep me sane, or at least mostly sane. I think that might be an upcoming blog.

It's a great day for a daydream. I hope you all have great ones today. Don't crush the dreams of folks who are only clinging to reality for the chance of winning ticket.

Jaime Garza (Hispanic)

I don't like to gripe, but I have one or two gripes to throw out right now.

First, I am quite irritated by one of my online classmates. He always puts Spanish words into his responses, and follows them by the English translation in parentheses. You might say he is helping bridge the divides recently highlighted by the discussions over immigration. I would tell you I don't care because it is annoying, and annoying me has never won me over. I am a fan of immigration. I think it is complete bunk to make English the "official" language of America, but Jaime Garza is single handedly driving me to the other side. If he signs one more response with Gracias (Thank you), I will personally start sealing the border myself. Jaime recently told us of his Tias (Aunts), Tios (Uncles), and other parts of his familia (family). I don't know why, but it just makes me enojado (angry). Jaime was born in America. Why, oh why, does he have to give everyone a Spanish lesson. Sweet pete it drives me bonkers.

Second, people who complain about the South, North, West Coast, East Coast, Mid West, Middle America, North America, South America, Canada, Europe, etc. Why? What has any of those folks really done to you. I had a lady going on and on about how people say ya'll in the south. On and on she went. I said, "Sorry about that." What was she expecting? Should I take on a roll similar to Jaime, and start saying, "Ya'll (you all--a southern expression meaning to incorporate many people at one time. Have pity on us poor southerners. We don't know much. Sorry ya'll)" Why get upset over it? Does it physically hurt you to hear "ya'll"?

So, I don't care that:
The south is slower
The north has more things to do
The west coast is more laid back
The mid west is the heartland
Canada and Europe have universal health care
People speak differently....EVERYWHERE! (it isn't polite to mock)Northerners are rude
Southerners say hello to everyone

I try not let things bother me. I feel that I can now face Jaime with armonia (peace) in my corazon (heart).

Get some orbits for that dirty mouth.

I met a young lady today who can't seem to figure out how to talk without peppering her conversation with cuss words. I have met many like her, and I find it very distracting. I will admit that I was pretty crafty with my foul mouth as a kid, but dirty words lost their "fun". I can't see how cussing is needed in common conversations. If anything it throws the rhythm of conversation off the track (at least it does for me). If you are talking to me and then creatively slip in a cuss word, I blink. I think, "Did you just cuss?" I wonder what has gotten you so riled up. Then, if your sentence doesn't match your cuss word, I wonder why you tried to use it. I completely slip off onto my on tangent in my mind. The point is that it is not needed. I know you are grown up, and can use "bad" words. As Shania would say, "That don't impress me much."

As for the lady I mentioned at the beginning, I think I must have blinked too many times. She apologized to me and said she doesn't know why she cusses so much. I didn't say anything to her about it, but she was obvisouly aware. So, she was conciously trying to cuss? Maybe I was supposed to be impressed by what a rebel she was.

I don't know what part of me is a prude, and what part just likes to keep things simple. Cussing is having to use too much of my brain. Why add the extra words into my day? I already fatigue so easily.