Reckless Abandon

I just dropped an abandoned cat off at the Humane Society. It was a long drive; the cat cried the whole way. I had to drive around back, away from the visitors' lot. In retrospect, it brings to mind a clinic where pro-choice mothers-not-to-be can sneak in and out the back.

Two pages of paperwork and 20 minutes later, I was seen. The couple ahead of me had to have their one-year-old dog put down due to extreme seizures. They were pretty torn up. I felt whacked out of place by their raw emotion contrasted by my cool detachment.

Upon entering the check-in room, I plowed into a conversation regarding "kill-free" shelters. The employee argued that they simply were not feasible considering the population explosion of unwanted pets, especially cats.

Despite my explanation on the paperwork, I was questioned by a very young girl who looked strikingly like my sister. I explained that this cat had been snooping about outside in the freezing weather for roughly two weeks. That he was friendly, but despised being picked up. That apparantly I wasn't the only person looking after him, considering how good he looked. That one of the complex's tenants had moved out about the same time this cat appeared.

One of the four employees gathered around me posed the apt question: "Who could do such a thing? Abandon such a beautiful cat?" I agreed; but I know the answer.

I am a cut-throat survivor. I can leave a friend behind. This is why I figured I'd be better off as a mercenary, rather than in the Army where no man is left behind. The cat was my cat. I decided to pop his cork after he began breaking rules important to me. Namely, don't steal my foil-wrapped beer bread off the counter at night; I feed you to damn well for that.

How's my wife feel about it? She hates him; he destroyed her furniture set, despite the hundreds--literally, hundreds--of dollars we've spent on varying styles of scratching utensils to cater to his needs.

So, I'm home now; the deed is done. No tears from me. Just the satisfaction that must come over a shrewd business man after a decision well-made.

As I was taking my meds, I thought I saw my cat walk under the kitchen table. I looked, no. Our other cat? the pleasing one? He was still fast asleep on the couch. Perhaps dreaming of survival. Of friends abandoned.

Deathwish Dusk

I'm not sure where to take this life of mine. On Friday, August 22, I walked out on my job and drove to the beach with the intent of drowning myself.

Melodramatic. Extreme. A cry for help. I'm a big pussy. Whatever. I don't want to inflict pain on myself, nor allow life to any longer.

I don't want to blow my head off, nor use my knives to cut off my life. Nothing quite like that. I just want to float away. Have the water ripple over me. Carry me down. Down. Down. Much like Holden Caulfield wanting to sink into the street as he crossed, now that I think about it. (Catcher in the Rye)

I was interviewed by Mobile Crisis. Packed into an ambulance, and escorted by police cruiser to the nearest hospital. There, they subjected me to mind-bending boredom, as well as hunger, before interviewing me again. They came to the conclusion that I was not a threat to myself, nor others. Sent me home.

In the meantime, I had called my sister to have her convey my salutations to my mother. Idiot. Now everyone out West is tripping out over me, and there's an even larger riff between my wife and them due to one side not informing the other. I had been blabbing about my fears and frustrations to my sister in the hopes that she'd talk me down. Convince me to soldier on as a loving husband. FAILED. She would rag on my wife until I shut her up, then turn to some other subject. Typically literature. Clearly, no help.

My mother... I can't stand to weigh her down now that she seems to be getting somewhere on her spiritual sojourn. In my stupidity, I overlooked the fact that her and my sister would be discussing such things without my ears or opinions present.

What was different? What provoked me to this? Pretty much, I was closer than most anyway. My back injury and my despicable job were the final straws. I wanted desperately to get out of that job. Since February, when it began. Circumstances (usually my wife's wishes) prevented that. She wanted a house, I was making good money. My back was injured, they paid great medical coverage. But I couldn't stay.

My supervisor, he reminded so much of my grandmother. Always having so much for me to accomplish to start with, then throwing more on top of that. All the while ridiculing me incessantly. Bunch of cunts, him and my grandmother. Friday, he kept pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me... I wanted to take the two foot socket wrench and beat him across his back with it until he was more crippled than I am. I ruined three jobs in about 30 seconds with him standing over me. He growled for me to take my break. The frustration and disdain in his voice was on par with a disapproving stepfather's. I walked off the production floor and just kept walking.

I haven't gotten to where I'm going just yet. Don't even know where I'm going, how to get there, or if I'll want to be there once I've arrived.

At the hospital, the psychiatrist on call labeled my state of mind as Death Wish. Sounds pretty cool. Wish it was as liberating, or carried as much significance as that in all those Charles Bronson films. But it's just another strange glint in the cold granite of my perception of life.

Speaking of my skewed take on things: As I sat strapped to the gurney in the ambulance, I noticed that the car number of the police escort was 711. You play craps with dice? Firstly, it's called craps. Secondly, those two numbers can mean the extreme opposites of either winner's good luck, or loser's bad luck. That about sums up the general impression of seeing cops pull up to your locale. Crap. And some form of extreme luck or another. As I chuckled inside at this silly revelation, I realized, too, that I'm probably one of the ONLY people who'd think of such a thing. Especially in such a situation. I feel so lonely.

Invisible Fence

When I lived in Lake Havasu, I had this back pack I carried all my mugetike (Gear in Sezjeghnin). It's always something. My blue coat, the black back pack. Currently my man bag.

I think I liked the back pack best, although my man bag is more compartmentalized and things are readily accessible. The reason my back pack was my favorite is because I had either my Junglee knife or my K-Bar clipped to one of the straps. The K-Bar was more visible, for when I wanted to intimidate. The Junglee, being in a black ballistics sheath, blended in with the pack; you hardly knew it was there. It was good for traveling outside of Arizona, where knives aren't so legal.

One evening, as I was walking to the book store, I was nearly accosted by two large dogs. I had walked by a home at which the family was slouched on the porch, drinking beer. Nothing wrong with that. Except their dogs were on the porch as well. There were no chains, leashes, nor fences. Being dogs on their own turf, and their masters present; I being a stranger upon the dogs' "territory" (dogs don't understand our borders), they saw fit to attack.

The owners had this white-trash, smug look on their faces. I'd seen it plenty before: Anyone who travels via car or bicycle is inferior. They just sat there with smirks as their dogs worked themselves into a frenzy, climaxing in their charging me.

My response? I whipped out my K-Bar, crouched and lunged. You'd be amazed at how fast and far those fat bastards leaped to their dogs' defense.

No animals were hurt in the making of this memory. Neither dogs, white-trash, nor Creature.

The Proposal

My girlfriend had all the investigative spirit of Lois Lane. She was quite aware that I had received the ring. Thus, my creative genius and intuition was put to the test.

It was February. Being Arizona, it was not cold. The rain that falls rarely hits the ground, and that which does is almost as warm as you'd shower in.

In Lake Havasu, where we met, the London Bridge was reconstructed brick by brick to lure tourists to McCulloch's desert oasis at the hub of Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Barstow. To complement the bridge, The English Village was erected. A quaint series of authentic looking buildings containing myriads of shoppes.

It was here that I invited my girlfriend to spend the evening with me. I had borrowed my giant roommate's (6' 5" tall) raincoat to conceal a large package. My girlfriend was more excited than suspicious.

I told her not to worry, that I was a bit lost and was going to ask the gentleman in the strange costume for directions. After a brief conversation, I called her over to begin our evening. The man was no stranger, and he wore the garb of a gondola driver. Package still concealed beneath the coat, we cast off onto the lake under an Arizona sunset. The man's skills as a gondola driver were surpassed by his skill as a singer of fine Italian love songs.

We drifted beneath the lit bridge in the falling darkness. The gondolier's voice rang off the arched walls. As we glided out the other side, the warm rain commenced, dappling us along with the ever-brightening stars in the near distance.

As we finished the cheese and cider in the gondola's basket, unwrapped the chocolate and wrapped our legs in the blanket provided, I saw fit to reveal the mystery beneath the coat. In truth it was not one package, but three. Each was smaller than the last. I explained that they represented the past, present, and future.

The largest, past, contained our cards and love letters to one another. The dried first flowers I gave her, the rocks she collected from her visit to the Canyon as a gift for me. Our $1000 cell-phone bill!

The middle one, present, contained the most precious thing of all to me. Upon opening it, she found herself looking into a mirror.

The last, future, was to symbolize the most precious thing in my future. In it, she found the ring. As the gondolier stated after regaining control of the craft: "I suppose the bouncing means yes?" Indeed!

I asked our host to guide the craft to the shore near the town's fanciest restaurant, to top the evening off with an equally romantic dinner. Here is where my intuition paid off. Entering the lobby, my new fiance found all her friends waiting. See, I knew the first thing she'd want to do is show all her girls.

Few things have gone as perfectly in life as I plan them in my head. I'm happy that this most important event is among them!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, MY LOVE!

One of My Own Spider Stories

While living with McCoy, I had the experience of tending to his tarantulas.

He had a pink-toed tarantula of his own, quite cute actually, and a desert tarantula from his deceased father-in-law.

We fed them crickets. The gore of their feasting was legendary. The power of their jaws would spew guts inches up and down the sides of the tank. This gore had to be periodically cleaned.

Over the months I progressed form exiting the room to walking the individual tarantulas over my gloved hands. From there, I learned to appreciate the fuzziness of their hairy barbs on my bare hands.

One day as McCoy and Solaris were cleaning the pink-toed tarantula's cage as I held it, it became agitated. Perhaps because my hands were sweaty. It kept increasing speed as I, faster and faster, spun my hands as if preparing pizza dough. Finally the spider jumped.

I always knew spiders could jump, especially tarantulas. But, mercy! How far they can jump! McCoy was around four feet away, bent over the tank as it rested on the floor. When I yelled out in alarm, he looked up in time to see a pink-trimmed black hairy mass flinging itself at his face! It's front legs grabbed his nose, but lost their grip dropping the monster onto the floor. The damage was done. McCoy was peeling his lungs and dancing about like a girl who's seen a mouse. His horrific screams set his fiance and me into histaria all our own.

Meanwhile, the spider had made his way across the carpet and was making his way up the drapes! I threatened to expire if the spider made it's way to the strategic advantageous locale of the ceiling, and so, in a moment of brave brilliance, McCoy hefted the semi-clean tank toward the drapes and slapped the spider home.

We never cleaned the tanks the same way again. We bought a third tank. For prisoner transfer and holding.

Fast Driver

McCoy's father, before opening a couple restaurants in SoCal, was a detective for San Bernardino County. In Arizona, McCoy never ceased to find amusement in seeing his retired dad get out of countless speeding tickets, traveling between his homes in Arizona and California. He'd flash his old badge and use the same excuse every time: "It's tough getting out of the habit. I used to have to speed all over this county. Sorry, officer! Thank you for your concern. You're doing a fine job!"

Work it into the Mix

Crap. That's what seems to be going on most of this year so far. I don't care if we have an ice storm on December 31st, so long as it marks the end of this god damned year.

At the end of April, I had my car serviced for its 30,000 mile tune-up. Of course, this was the first time I'd ever rotated the tires. Last winter, I replaced the front tires for the first snow. Those were moved to the rear and the original, balder-than-I'll-ever-be tires were put on the front! At first I was miffed. Bald tires on the front of a front-wheeled drive? But then, what the hey, it was practically summer. I'd get better traction. But first we had to get through the thaw. Then the heavy rains. Then a vain fist-shaking from Old Man Winter. Then, More rain. We survived.

Well, first week of May, we pick up a screw in the college parking lot. In the shoulder of one of the newer tires. While removing the recently tool-tightened nuts, I threw my back out. This occurred repeatedly, on three of the five nuts. Serious Ouch Factor. Your sympathy is for once encouraged and embraced. OUCH!

Fast forward to Saturday June 7th. I had just gotten out of the bed. I sat in the desk chair and stretched. That level 7 pain from a month before that had died down to a manageable 4, it came back. Worse, it brought a couple kegs and strippers and every "friend" it could rally for its party. I choked it down and carried on. Even "snuggled" with the Mrs. for a couple hours. Probably didn't help. But worth it. Later, at my favorite restaurant, I leaned over to grab my hat... Next thing I know, I'm experiencing the second most physically painful event of my life. My wife about lost it. She almost dragged me to the E.R. But I'm Irish. That means I'm more stubborn than all your asses! I struggled through until Monday morning. Then I ended up in the hospital after all. At least I drove there and not some ambulance.

Now I'm taking so many pills I can barely keep track of which ones when and under what conditions-- with food, full glass of water, no machines, etc. Needless to say, I haven't had a drink of my savored tequila in quite a while. I think Heath Ledger was a rising star, but I don't wish to join him for tea any time soon. Which is interesting. See, I was courting suicide recently. I have it almost figured out. Just that it wouldn't look like an accident. So, if I was as intent on offing my sorry ass as I feared I might be, wouldn't overdosing be a more convenient way? I'd even get to enjoy a drink to go!

Obviously I wasn't all that suicidal. I'm worse than a suicidal person; I'm a survivor.

Here it is, Fire Day. My ALONE day to write and readjust. Screw my head on straight. This is what keeps me sane, this and music. And coffee. Sex and tequila aren't necessities like these.

I decided this afternoon to call my back's bluff. I'm going to work it into the mix like all my other aches and pains. Isolate it and accept it. Work just wasn't kind enough on me this week, despite my doctor's written plea for light duty. I just got hired on full-time with 100% medical and a second raise and I take a Monday off and return with a note saying I'm to be pampered. We are SO far behind now. My fellow workmates are QUITE frustrated. It actually exploded into a confrontation between me and Sean/Magneato, my supervisor, yesterday. He's catching hell from the owner and, in turn, looking for some one to pass the bill to. But, in my defense, I AM injured and it's not production's fault that we have too much work. "Production" is three people. If one of them is out, that's 1/3 of the crew! Might as well be having a strike! So why do we take on so much work? Whatever.

More worthy of our concern is the signs of the times, don't you agree? Natural disasters all over the world. I feel I need to "dust off my bible." Make sure I still have enough time and spirit to straighten out.

But to be frank, you know what I got on my mind? Honestly, this summer's movie line-up. I admire M. Night Shyamalan's work and look forward to The Happening. I'll see Hulk, just because it's a comic book movie. Already seen Indiana Jones 4, Iron Man, Chronicles of Narnia, and countless other movies. Refuse to miss Hellboy 2. Itching to see Will Smith's Hancock. Most of all, I can hardly wait for Dark Knight.

Black Cat

We have two cats. One black, the other white with a few large black spots. The black one, "Nick", was a wedding gift from my sister. He's mine, I like him. He's not shy with guests. He acts like a hunter, although he's really not. And best of all, he likes to be pet rough, like a dog. He doesn't like snuggles or being picked up, held, cradled. Unfortunately, the only displays of dominance he puts on is scratching the furniture and sitting on his "throne" above the throne. The bathroom window that his compadre can't figure out how to jump up to.

The white one, "Zach", (I hope you don't think these are their actual names/nicknames...) is quite a bully to Nick. He chases him, cleans him, beats him up, pushes him aside at the food dishes, scares him off the couch and steals his warm spot. He also scratches ONLY the scratching post, cuddles my wife better than I do, and knows that it is HIS job to wake her up in the morning.

We often joke that Zach always eats and never craps. And that Nick always drinks and is a poop factory. Seriously. We never see Zach use the litter box or the water, unlike Nick. But, also unlike Nick, Zach is always demanding to eat. "NOW!" he screams whenever you get within ten feet of his food bowl.

So it came as something of a surprise when Nick had to go to the emergency vet at midnight (we got home late from Urso and Luna's), because he has, we were later informed, FLUTD. That's Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease. Disease. In other words, it's chronic. The couple hundred dollars we spent to get him better is to be a recurring event. How'd this come to be? Apparently, dry cat food is only to be used as a supplement. A snack for cats, if you will. They, being solely carnivorous, can't process all those carbs. But why Nick? He hardly ever eats and drinks plenty of water. If anything, Zach should have FLUTD, not Nick. Not that I'd wish that on cute little Zach. But it would have been better.

My wife all but hates Nick. He doesn't cuddle, he doesn't accept her affection (only mine :) ), he scratches the furniture, and whenever a stench comes from the litter box, he has just come from the litter box. She's not exactly comfortable with the prospect of spending small fortunes on a cat she'd rather give away to her aunt.

And, to label this as a rant, let me tell you about Doctors... I had noticed Nick licking his crotch too often. I mentioned it to Glass. We looked up cat websites. Urinary tract infections are signified by excessive crotch licking, howling in the litter box due to painful peeing, and sometimes blood in the urine.

Not long after this research, he started to cry when he peed. We decided to track down a vet. What the hell! Everywhere you go for ANY kind of treatment (for any creature, human or otherwise) has a "new patient fee". I think it's a bullshit fee. I paid one last year to my dentist, and doctor. This year, I've paid one to my eye doctor and...THE FREAKING VET! The receptionist, upon hearing our reason for appointment told us to bring in a urine sample. What? A urine sample? What, am I to ask my cat to piss in a cup? She responded that we could bring it in clump form. Alright, whatever.

Before his appointment came to pass, though, we came home late one night to find blood spots leading form the litter box. Damn. I swapped the litter while my wife called the vet's listed after-hours emergency number. They insisted that it was a bona fide emergency and that we should bring him in immediately. By the way, it's $100 just to have the Doctor take a look. Plus any fees for any treatment. Oh, and there might be a slight wait to see the doctor demanding on the urgency of the cases at hand. Holy shit! Is this the vet we're talking to?

We wait for Nick to pass fluid, scoop it into a GLAD tupperware, scoop him into the carrier and haul ass. Thankfully, he was considered urgent, so there was no real waiting time. After a bit, the Doc calls us in. He's not real sure what the problem is. He can give an empirical diagnosis, or run some tests. How about the sample? No dice. It's a dirty sample. Dirty? It can't be tested for crystal composition because of the litter. (Here comes a pisser) He could have gotten the sample there. He could try again, but maybe the cat has no pee to pee. He could do an ultrasound--or some scan-- of his kidneys to see if he does have any pee to pee tonight, for a sample. Unless we want him admitted. A scan. Of a cat's bladder. To see if he needs to piss. For a sample. Another sample. Because the one the receptionist at the regular vet (this is the Animal Hospital we're at, by the way) told us about was WRONG!

We opted for an empirical diagnosis. Nick was given a fluid injection under the skin, to help hydrate him. 'Cause, you know, if the giant clump of piss we brought in is any indicator, he's dehydrated. The injection cost? The fluid: $7. Cost to give any injection: $25. And let's not forget the pain pills and antibiotic serum, week's supply. As we going over our estimate, thank god my wife insisted on before treatment, we noticed another shot. Please recall, any injection: $25. This particular fluid: $30. What is it? A painkiller. How long does it last? Just for tonight. Aren't his pills painkillers? Yes, but... NO THANK YOU. We'll start him on his pills tonight. Only his serum must be taken with food.

At least we saved $60. Small victory. We locked Nick in the bathroom, with all his amenities for the week, to avoid bloodstains or uncontrolled urinating. To my dismay, Zach didn't miss him. my biggest argument in keeping Nick is that his friend Zach would be devastated by his loss. WRONG. How did Nick fare? He seems fine, now. Save for the hole he tore in the couch his first day out of "The Hole." Bah!

Rage-a-holics Anonymous

I've mentioned my driving habits and profanity problem. So has my wife. But get this, she's gotten to be worse than I am! Maybe I'm a bad influence.

She used to stick to 5 miles over the speed limit. Always. Not so much anymore. That, of course, doesn't stop her from telling me not to speed, as I'm doing a meager 65.

When someone is Driving Ms. Daisy in the fast lane, I'll pull up behind them and turn on my Left turn signal. Like a cop. My wife? She'll speed around them, then slow down to about 40 mph. You know, to make her point. :(

The other day, she gets down stairs on the way to work, and finds her car blocked in by someone else's car. Rather than coming inside and calling out for the owner, she screamed outside for someone to move the car. Think anyone could hear her? Apparently not. Her first reaction? Ram his car with hers. She didn't do that. Her second reaction? Leave a note saying "F___ You!" under his wiper. She couldn't find a pen. Her third reaction, the one she did go with? She dug all the trash out of her trash-filled car and dumped it on top of his, taking the time to tuck some under the wipers. Then, she carefully jockeyed her compact car around his clunker and sped of to work.

When I came down to get into my car, I saw a strange scene indeed, but WHATEVER. Later, at work, I get a call. It's Glass: Did I see her purse before I left? It's rather important. She tells me what the car-owner did, what she did, and that she thinks she left her purse on top of her car whilst she was perusing her garbage! Shocked, I can say nothing to allay her fears. I can only flash back in my mind...

A few months back, the nitwits kitty-corner to us were throwing a party on a week night. At 2:30 am, when we were still struggling top sleep, I suggested that I sternly, but with politeness, suggest that our neighbors consider their neighbors. My wife refused. She feared that they were deviant and would retaliate. Say, they might key our car or something...

Back to the present. Thankfully, her purse was safely in the apartment, where she left it in her rush to get to work on time. The car-owner? Apparently he was moving out that day. I recognized the car as belonging to the couple downstairs and across the hall. That morning, there was also a truck with a flat-bed trailer blocking some other nearby parking spaces.

Nice way to say goodbye to your friendly neighbors, eh?

College

I completed my first semester of college. My last final was Saturday the 24th. This semester, my wife and I attended classes together.

Last semester was a fiasco. I started out with three classes. All online. TERRIBLE IDEA. I dropped one, bailed on another and failed the last.

This semester I revisited the one I dropped, Basic Sociology, and shot for a passing grade in Advanced College Algebra. The results? Drum roll: I got a B in Math and probably in Soc as well. My wife? An A in Math and quite likely in Soc too. Smart girl. I dare say too smart.

She's decided to go for nursing, continuing this Fall after a Summer sabbatical. I intend to enjoy the summer with her.

Come Fall, I hope to have my career sorted. I came to the conclusion that any job in a hospital is not a job for me. I'm thinking that my criteria of mobility, job security, and income will be met by a career in plumbing.

I was inspired recently by our apartment complex's maintenance man. If not Plumbing, our desire for a house will provoke me to pursue Heating and Air Conditioning instead.

Now that school is out, I give myself two weeks to regain my sanity before looking into a counselor. Seriously. Also, Fridays are mine and mine alone. I should be doing most of my blogging on that day of the week for now.

Stinger

I know it's really creepy that I name my knives--that I even have them, but hey, I'm Dusk. I've earned it.

What started it all was Stinger. It has nothing to do with Lord of the Rings. It's a Police issue Spyderco knife with a 4" fully serrated blade and partially sharpened spine. That's three kinds of illegal in several states. When I was living OUT IN the desert, I didn't have the luxury of leaving valuables behind. So I took them with me everywhere. Including school. I have never drawn a knife (or gun for that matter) on a person. I have used weapons on vicious stray dogs. And I collected nearly a third of my knives from jerks who thought they could take me on with a knife.

My few friends often joked about me and my formidable knife and "the unlucky fool who crossed my path". Somehow we got to referring to such a situation as me Stinging them, with my Stinger. I think it had something to do with the knife having the word POLICE etched into it.



When I was living in an abandoned van in the middle of the desert, Stinger came in very handy. It got quite abused. Even though knives are just another tool, you shouldn't use knives as screwdrivers or saws unless the need is dire, and even then... Thankfully, somebody actually tried to use a Leatherman knock-off utility knife on me before I got too stupid with Stinger.

Stinger was unfortunately sitting on the table out of reach the night Cruizer went possessed on me. I don't know, I just have a ton of memories with it. It's been a part of me for almost as long as my chain, Pacer. Yes, I named it too. I lost Stinger in late 2002, when I was just starting to excel in my studies to become, of all things, a minister.

On my visit to the West Coast, my sister returned Stinger to me. She was working with the son of the lady I rented a room from back then. He had stolen it. My sister took it back. How? Well, she IS my sister :)

It feels good to have it back. Between seeing all my old spiritually strong friends out West and getting back this virtual talisman, I feel I can really have success returning to the only job that ever gave me a sense of joy and purpose.

Anonymous said...

im not really sure how i feel about this...

a little scared, a little proud, a little shocked, a little scared....

how DID she get it back?? i never asked!

March 5, 2008 9:57 AM

Trip Out

We just got back from our trip out West. It was awesome. We really miss Arizona and deeply hate ourselves for having moved to New York. But all the reasons we had to move away from AZ are still valid. It's just that all the reasons we had to move to NY seem like thin broth.
My wife climbed my favorite mountain with me out in AZ. We fell in love with bulldogs. Then fell right back out. I came to have a new under- standing and profound appre- ciation for one of my wife's friends, "Porcelain"


I saw my long-lost brother for the first time in over ten years, "Eagle." He was sporting this wicked bite from a desert recluse spider on his finger. He was cool with it though. Taking the meds his doctor prescribed and having my sadistic sister scrub it clean once a day. I am proud that he's my brother. My two nephews seem to be miraculously shaping up quite nicely as well.


In San Diego, CA, we missed out on the seals. Heck, we missed out on the whole ocean experience all together. We were rushed. But the wedding was perfect. It was the second best wedding I've been to. Of course, being married, I have to say that! "Polaris" made an absolutely beautiful bride, like out of a wedding magazine. And the bride's maids were all knockouts. Including, and especially, my wife.


She actually got me to dance to all the slow songs at the reception, and a few fast ones. The bride felt compelled to don Skechers and have us dance the "Thriller".


I hopefully made some new friends there. There was this "you-had-to-be-there" incident we will conspiratorially refer to as the "Love Dove".


And then, back "home". Within minutes of setting foot on native Western soil, I summed up my hatred of the Northeast in one statement: Anything you want to do, you have to drive through SNOW.


Regardless, our cats survived their caretakers (or maybe it's the other way around) and my wife saw to it that we overwhelmingly enjoyed ourselves. Every time we ate out, it was REAL Mexican food. Every drink I was offered, I had two. Plus one I'd never tried before. Every old friend and associate got a hug, even the pretty ones. And I feasted my eyes upon the splendorous beauty that can only be seen in the mountains of the Southwest.

Jeannie said...

I love the west - only visited a couple times but I feel like I belong there. Coming back east, the first thing I notice is how crabby people are.

March 2, 2008 5:54 PM

Anonymous said...

YES. people are crabby.....i had a great time too, pacer!

March 3, 2008 3:15 PM

Kicking the Pennies

Wow. I've cried tears of joy only twice in my life. Once, when I saved my mom's life, and today. Sure, today's reason may seem shallow, but you would only think that if you didn't have all the facts.

My Step-dad let himself die in October, throwing my mother in California into heart-rending despair. I wanted so bad to be there for her, but I'm on the wrong side of the country. My best friend in AZ died in December. I found out in January, the same day my big-shot Fortune 500 company laid me off after 18 mos.

This stupid company doesn't hire temps for at least two years. If that's not illegal, it should be. Six months as a temp, no problem. Eighteen months is emasculating and demeaning. After we helped them exceed their fiscal year quota, establish half a dozen HUGE name customers, earn their maximum possible bonuses, branch off into their own company, open a larger state-of-the art facility, and have it operational a week ahead of schedule. Then, to repay us, after bragging about their status, they lay off all the temps...

My new job. They allowed me to take a week off to go to San Diego for our close friend's wedding. I'd only been with them 3 weeks. I got back this week. So did the owner. He said they really appreciate me and that I've already proven how good a worker I am. They plan to hire me on within a few weeks, in the meantime, they've demanded that the DIFFERENT temp agency is to give me a 20% raise. TWENTY PERCENT. Damn.

That made me smile. But it's Tuesday. So the boss comes back up to me and says: "That raise, it's effective as of yesterday." Now I was grinning. So what made me cry?

HA HA HA! I got a SECOND phone call from my old "assignment" asking me to return; they're bringing back all their temps. I've never acted on the desire to tell an employer to KISS MY ASS until today. So, life is decent after all.

I lost a friend and gained a brother. Lost an "assignment" and got a "position". Revisited my old home and reaffirmed my convictions--my faith, my family, my future career.

On the way home, traffic wasn't bad--for ONCE. As I was cruising down the "express"way a BIT over the speed limit, I saw a Trooper going the other way and imagined getting pulled over for speeding. I just started laughing. Until I cried.

Aww. I'm such a tender heart... (toothy grin)
<( | )> = <( | )>

Jeannie said...

Congratulations! That's excellent news.

March 4, 2008 7:21 PM

I Hate Rochester

I hate Rochester. That's not saying much, considering that I hated Lake Havasu too. But I don't remember hating California.

There's this parable I heard, I think from my wife, about this old man at the train station. He greets people as they get off the train. One man gets off the train, old man asks him: "Moving here?" The traveler responds: "Yes. How is this city?" The old man, rather than answering, asks a question in reply: "What was the city like where you moved from?" The traveler responds: "Pretty lousy". To this, the old man answers the travelers previous question: "Yeah, this city's pretty lousy too."
Another train comes in and another traveler steps off. Again, the old man, in greeting the traveler, asks :"Are you moving here?" The travler responds: "Yes. How is this city?" The old man, rather than answering, asks the question in reply: "What was the city like where you moved from?" This traveler responds: "It was pretty nice." The old man assures this traveler: "This city is pretty nice also."

If I have to explain the moral in this, you either need to drink more coffee or, like Sylar, eat more brains.

I don't mind the cold temperatures so much; I prefer them to the incessant triple-digits of Arizona. And they have trees out here, unlike most of Arizona, and you can TOUCH the trees and hug 'em if you're so inclined and NOT get spiked. I'm not just talking about cacti. There are these trees out West called Palo Verdes, they conceal spikes under all the leaves.

When I had first moved out to AZ, I was walking home from a late movie at about one in the morning. I needed to relieve myself and all the businesses were closed. I saw a lone tree on an embankment to the side of the road, and decided to provide it with a rare treat in the desert: water. As I was navigating the embankment, I slipped. Slid into this pretty pale green tree. Having grown up in Cali, I considered trees friendly. Sure, I suppose parts of So-Cal are classifiable as desert. But parts of Arizona are DESERT. So this "tree". I slide into it, figuring I could have stopped the slide, but why? Trees feel relatively friendly compared to sand and rocks. Son-of-a-sea-biscuit! That friggin' hurt, BAD. And so began my incredibly long list of things I hated about Arizona.

Now here I am in New York. People scoff at me when hearing of my decision to move out here. "WHY?" they ALL ask.
My wife's family is from here, she missed them. Of course, now the roles are somewhat reversed: I miss my "family". My mom and my sister. And my friends, damn I miss them. I've been out here nearing two years. I haven't talked to my best friend in California in over a year. My best friend in Arizona died in December. I just found out last week, I hadn't talked to him since September.

My wife, though successful, seems to be jealous of her brother and her relationship with her mom typically is tentative. I and my mom are thick-as-thieves, despite the crap she put us through and I don't ever think I'll be jealous of my sister. Though I think at times my sister may have been jealous of me. I think it's just a stereotypical girl-thing to be that way with moms and siblings.

Back to terrain. Everything in Arizona seemed dangerous. Snakes, scorpions, cacti, heat-stroke--you remember the evil sun in Super Mario Bros. 3? On the original Nintendo in desert world, like level 2 or sumthin'? It was as big as you and chased you around trying to kill you? Yeah--CLEARLY the Asian that created that level wasn't native to any Asian country; THEY WERE BORN AND RAISED IN ARIZONA!!! But, oh, I've never seen stars or sunsets as beautiful as those in that rugged desert. And as much as humans long for beautiful green pastures, nothing surpasses the colorful beauty of the rocks and mountains out there. More colors than a gay clothing-designer could fathom can be seen on one mountain-side in one dusk out in the desert.

New York. Different world. Before coming out here, I assumed that this being the older part of the country meant they'd be more advanced somehow. WRONG! This part of America should just revert back to horse-drawn carriages. They don't know what to do with vehicles. Out West, sure, about 1 in 3 drivers need to be shot. Out here, maybe 1 in 1000 deserve to utter the word "car". They drive 10 miles under the speed limit on a sunny summer day, yet do 70 in sleet, 50 mph winds, and 20 degree freezing cold. Like an SUV has better traction on ice than my Corolla. Every nightly news report: car crash, SUV involved. Hmph! The speed limits are wrong, the street widths are wrong, the street signs are as big as the fingernail on your pinky--if there's a street sign to be seen at all-- and the stop lights are on your side of the intersection so you gotta peer up at them! Oh GOD! I started off swearing profusely, now I just revert to this prehistoric growling and barking-- no words can dispel the primal rage I feel on the roads out here.

Fire Day

Been itching to blog about last Friday, or in my world, Fire Day.

Flashback a few days. As is the norm these days, my wife and I keep a rather busy schedule which often deters us from cleaning our Crash Pad. Once the bald spots reappeared on my head and in my stomach lining, my trusty wife took action.

So, the kitchen is clean. All the dishes. I missed the bathroom, but I replaced the cat-devastated mini-blinds with some savvy curtains throughout the house while juggling laundry.

Wednesday. My wife notifies the maintenance personnel at our apartment complex that both our sink and toilet are leaking. Something I've been meaning to report for about...oh say5 months now. Go Green, Planet! Or whatever the fad is at the moment...

Mind you, I was a Maintenance Overseer for nearly four years. One thing I know, plumbing is absolutely without argument the easiest task in home/building repair. It's easier than painting. By far. I would have loved to have fixed it myself, but I can't feasibly turn off everyone's water.
Hey, whatever. After all, easier than plumbing, is having someone ELSE fix it. Right?

We get home that night. The sprayer's gone, as is the hookup to the dishwasher. What the crap!?
Nothing I can do about the sprayer. I mend the dishwasher without complaint. I'm too embaraassed of my missing the bathroom cleaning before our visit.

Friday at my job. The 1800 rolls are due/done today. They are being picked up by truck at around 1:30. So, taking this order and all the jokes I've been the butt of quite personally, I work through my break and choose to work through my 12-12:30 lunch to get the order out barely on time. Honestly, I had it wrapped at exactly 1:30, just as the truck honked. As I zipped off the production floor, I yelled over the din: "I'm goin' to lunch!" Magneato is like: "No you're not." Seeing how he's always joking around at my expense, I quickly dispensed with the banter, and WENT TO LUNCH.

I get back from lunch, five minutes early. Magneato is waiting. Risking my wrath and the structural integrity of his skeletal system, he confronts me about my "insubordination." I chose to "work without lunch" and UPS comes at 3:30 so we need to hurry for the end of the day rush. Also, I came in at 6:30am for overtime, like I said I would, instead of 6 or 7am--apparently the only options (and they weren't accepting 7). I can't be making my own schedule. Question: If I HAD taken lunch, wouldn't the 1800 shipment have been delayed? And, two, wouldn't that have cost time from the rest of the orders for UPS? I worked through regular lunch to save the day. Not to starve. I get even MORE pissy when I'm hungry, as if you can imagine that.

Flabbergasted at first, I said nothing. I recall nodding in acquiescence at the end of his soap-boxing. He hasn't been at work since Friday. I'm confident I didn't harm him. I actually remember the incident ( a good sign), I'm not in jail again, and I'm still employed. Besides, he was scheduled for vacation. But the memory is a bit fuzzy. He came close. Chalk it up to learning; I'll never do it again. For Damn sure.

At home, I'm all frown and furrow when the Mrs. gets home. She pries it outta me. Only, this time, rather than pointing the errors in my reasoning and siding with my enemy, she agrees that we should kick his miserable ass! I had to grin. It feels so good to be understood. Of course, we'll do no such thing. It's just that some people eat, some people drink, some people smoke, some people rage, and some people (who have the time and energy, which I didn't--in spades--that night) blog.

Friday night. After 9 pm. My beloved goes to activate the dishwasher. We've been eating out all week, so it's taken the week to fill the thing. She reaches under the sink to get the dishwasher soap and water pours out.

Here's the thing: it was the faucet that had been leaking that precipitated our call. The faucet. Leaking into the basin. If you put the faucet over the drain, you didn't even have to deal with the annoying pinging sound at night.

So, water. Pouring out. All the pots and pans. Tupperware, baking dishes. They're brimming over. ALL of them. Did I lose it? It was Friday night after a helluva long, arduous week. I had TWO shots of tequila on top of exhaustion. I would have laid down in the puddle. Speaking of which, why was it BROWN? My cute, petite little shortcake, on the other hand... Holy Fallout.
Rightly so.

The emergency maintenance man swings by after an urgent call. He comes to the same diagnosis as I did. The pipes weren't soldered right. Now, what I didn't ask is: why in the Hell were the pipes soldered in the first place? He was swapping a faucet!! What an ASS! Worse, he soldered UNDER the shut off valve! Seriously. Was he toking up in our apartment before he began? So there's no way the guy can can fix it until morning and no way we can shut it off until then either. Thankfully, we didn't have to miss class Saturday morning because of it. Apartment maintenance has a key.

Of course, as if it needs saying, I didn't finish my homework.

Now, we have a kitchen riddled with pots, pans and so on. We have difficulty making time for regular dishes with a dishwasher. Hell, I feel that I NEED blogging as therapy, and I gotta piece together my posts over several days. Now, we have every pot and pan dirty.

Oh. And then there's the toilet... Never mind, I can fix it myself.

Polaris

Polaris. Glass and I have this mutual friend since the beginning. She is the daughter of Pine and CedarElm, sister to Gecko.

She is an attractive young lady, with an even more attractive personality. Seemingly an extrovert, yet enigmatic, with a quirky sense of humor. Never fails to brighten the moment. I had a crush on her before she took off to New York to court her then fiance. As with all my crushes, I knew it was nothing real, just a self-prescribed infatuation to keep my mind off my loneliness and fear of possessing an unloving heart. Even when I heard she was engaged, I maintained the crush. I was finally at an age of independence; I figured I'd crush on her until I found my true love.

Like sailors using the star Polaris. They set their sights on a star, never hoping to reach some beautiful yet alien galaxy. Rather, they follow it to a safe, fruitful harbor.

Polaris's engagement fell through. She returned to her recently purchased home, not with a husband, but with a roommate!

I'm sure you can figure out the rest...

By way of mentioning. Before Glass and I started dating, we were talking about attraction. I said on the phone: "You know who has the most beautiful eyes--real or imagined?" Glass swooned, ready to take her sappy compliment: "Who?"

"[Polaris]," I stated. Fool.

My wife takes great pleasure in recounting this tale to all her friends-of-the-female-persuasion, most recently out in San Diego, when we were visiting for Polaris's wedding. Different guy. I'm glad they all have quirky senses of humor...

My Chain/Chain of Thoughts

My Chain: It looks like a miniature bicycle chain. It sounds like a zipper being done and undone as my pendant slides to and fro while I stride. It feels like a serrated-knife gone dull as I run it through my fingers. It's warm as I move, retaining my body heat, but cold when I put it back on in the morning. It's heavy for a chain, but still quite light for it's durability. Sometimes, up close, it smells similar to a handful of pocket-change. When I clean it, it actually smells cold, with only a hint of the isopropyl I used as solvent. Sometimes, when I'm putting on a sweater or something, I hold it between my lips. It tastes gritty, and the metallic flavor is both foreign and familiar; it reminds me of the taste of flatware, only instead of delivering literal meat it delivers the meat of my memories.
=======
This chain is like a silent friend through the years. And like a true friend, it's stood with me through all my trials, beside me even through my mistakes. When the dirt of dusty roads was in my throat, it was in the gears of my chain. It hangs over my heart and knows its beatings better than I do. The tears that I have managed to shed didn't just fall onto my chest but were caught by my chain. It times my stride like the pendulum of a clock. If my chain were alive, it would be my closest friend; if it weren't for my wife, it would be my best friend.
===
Arizona. Terrain. Sand. Rock gardens. Avenues with no trees. Post-card sunsets. Mountain vistas too colorful for any painting. Authentic Mexican food. 125 degree heat - in the shade. Crickets - always the sound of crickets. Ruggedly beautiful - like how a little boy sees his dad. But everything is dangerous: the flowers worse than poison oak, scorpions, tarantulas, rattle-snakes, cacti, spikes hiding under the leaves of every tree, heat-strokes handed out like advice from a mother-in-law.
===
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Blood may be thicker than water, but I'd rather drink water. I developed a family out there: my wife Freeness; my spiritual parents Torch and Lighthouse, who guided me away from bitterness, providing me food and shelter - especially in a spiritual sense; Baguira and Raksha, my "aunt and uncle" who's stories assured me that someone always has it worse, and can always be better.
===
Cer Torch. Kept everyone at arms length, but warmed their hearts nonetheless. Called a jerk a jerk, and a salvageable heart a good one. Almonds in a bottomless bowl - dry but addictive. A man's man and a mentor's mentor. Happy despite his scars.
===
People try to hide their heartaches, and usually fail. Torch grew up in an orphanage, moved out at sixteen and lied about his age to enlist. Some people would be scared enough to call this a triumph; some, like Torch, acknowledged that something was missing - and pursued it. He strove to convey that you don't have to be a genius to look for the truth, and understand it.
===
Credulity. Apathy in borrowed robes. I recently realized it's nothing more than fear. People are afraid of what they don't know or understand. Most think it's childish to explore with round-eyed wonder, which is why they cease to learn, stagnating in intelligence. When something unknown comes along, rather than exploring for the truth, they'll accept the first idea presented to them so they don't have to feel so scared. This is precisely why these kind (most) of people guard their opinions so viciously - like an immature toddler with their dingy security-blanket.
===
Regarding dog-fighting in the news a while back, somebody actually said that Michael Vick was doing the world a favor by killing pit-bulls; that pit-bulls should be wiped out because they're dangerous. What a Nazi-without-a -cause. That's the exact equivalent to advocating genocide. And all because they know nothing of the virtues of a properly raised pit-bull and this terrifies them. They are too vain to admit ignorance and do some research, and so, latch on to the first idea to be handed to them. Credulous people might be excused due to their fear, but if that's the case, junkies should be excused for wanting to get away from it all for a while.

Smoke and a Pancake?

Sandsurfer and I used to have this thing. It never really became a full fledged "code" or language, but it was a collection of phrases we used to discreetly communicate about our customers while in their presence. One phrase I remember quite fondly is: "Smoke and a pancake?" This was adopted from Austin Powers Goldmember. The part where Goldmember offers Austin every conceivable IHOPish combo from smoke and a pancake to bong and a blitz. After Austin refuses all of his options, Goldmember states: "There is no pleasing you." That's the meaning we adopted. When a customer could not be pleased, we would remind/notify each other of the fact with that phrase.

I introduced that one to the truck, but SandSurfer introduced: "On the other hand...she wore a glove." YOU figure it out!

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

Rain. Drizzling down. Sluicing through pipes and gutters. Seething, crawling through the deathly-quiet desert. Sloshing off the tops of the palm trees. Desperado crickets chirping from the safety of dryness. An out-of-rhythm clock tick without the tock coming from what? - The light on the telephone pole. This brings the buzz of the power lines a little closer, just a little. The whorsh of cars sailing down the unseen street in the distance. The minute tickle-tackle of the neighboring gravel parking lot settling. A few nomadic pebbles and twigs migrating down various rivulets.

The lamp on the telephone pole borrowed from the memory of the boxy lights on the cafetorium in grade-school, only black instead of brown. The rectangle of light cast out of it is obscenely white; normally only illuminating the garbage bin. And moths, bats, and night-hawks. The clouds don't dominate the sky completely; in the distance are clusters of stars, suspended raindrops of light with their round edges sharpened, like burrs caught on the satin fabric of the atrous night. Palm trees. Pla-Doh rolled too long and used as trunks topped with giant pine-cones for beards, standing under the disheveled umbrellas of scruffy unkempt fronds.

The dust quelled, its specter nonetheless hangs in the air. The baked silicone smell contrasted with the sharp savory scent of creosote. The creosote nearly wreaking, like a collage of cacti, weeds, pine, patchouli, and Satan's Listerine. The palm trees odor is that of gritty pulp-wood and the fragrance they wear is the closest smell to grass out here.

The triple-digit air of the day warms the rain of the night. It loses its refreshing feel, and instead feels like a shower before work. Regardless of the sparse buildings and ample mountains, infinity crowds around. It gains strength from the darkness like Superman gains strength from the sunlight.

The vestige of garlic bread and fettuccine alfredo in our mouths.

Music. An idling engine, like quickened waves, high and low. The rain clatters clumsily over the corrugated steel top of the car-port. The popping, grinding, puffing of the A/C units. The fellow tenants oblivious in their apartments, distracted by canned laughter and inaudible dialog. Ever the sluicing of the rain in the gutters.

The apartments a cretaceous backdrop, teal trim pealing. Mini-blinds in all the windows, light in only some. Tawny metal framing the shadows that slip out: knick-knacks, cats, refrigerators. The dirt on the glass guides the journey of the run-off. The porch light is out-shined by the universal complex light, it in its cake shaped plastic casing on a twisted aluminum arm. The case has a jagged hole, seemingly from the same hulking moving-truck that bent the metal. The landscaping lights of the complex next-door cast up a ghostly mist, like dream scenes in old movies. The yellow safety pole by the back door, chunky cement pouring out of its iron tube, is slanted from having done its job. At bumper height, metal glints through – careless drivers! The cantankerous a/c unit has metal peeling away from a sharp slashing dent near its base. Somehow something slipped past its protector. It rests on unleveled concrete, a small tortilla chip shaped wedge slanting up. The rest of the porch's square slopes down. The car port matches the domicile's drab paint. Its shape is even more generic and forgettable. A blue stuffed bunny lies under the padlocked cabinets, forgotten.

The posts smell of stale wood and sun diluted chemicals. The smell of mold and mildew is virtually unrecognized. Even the metal smells dryer, so dry the rain can't generate rust.

Plip-plopping puddles. A Song. Pinging water pelting metal poles. The myriads of angels whispering sound of the rain.

Headlights. Stationary. Polygonal, lopsided fat diamond shapes delivering a soft, comfortable flavescent spotlight. The droplets carve through the air and cut the light into red, orange, yellow. Moist match flames without the sticks. The manufactured black color of the car. Tall, round, and compact like a dough ball. Cute, like someone else's puppy – a breed you'd never want to see as an adult.

Exhaust and sooty oil from repaired cars climb up the ladder of precipitation. They slip warily on its wet rungs.

Bodies swaying.

The warm rain tastes like a broth made of dust.

Flip-flop sandals plopping sloppy wet. The slide shuffle of the feet next to them. Swishing rain. A Song.

The blacktop is uniform in color despite the texture. The puddles that would be unavoidable temptations to children's feet if they weren't in bed are instead percussion to dancing feet.

Closer than the smell of cars is the scent of cotton, spent detergent, straining softener, and denim. The scent is warm—as if it were fresh from the dryer.

The rain is amniotic fluid to a baby. Scattered grain to a fertile field. The cushion of the shoes offers moral support. A neck supports a thick chain that slinks as the bodies sway. A ring on a finger, pressed to the back of the neck. The closest thing to cold. Earrings scratch his face, stubble scratches hers. He's nervous, afraid because he can't watch her feet. He's rebellious: who cares if we look silly! Who's gonna see us?

A wet wisp of her hair slips into his mouth when she repositions her head on his chest.

Rain gushing off their heads. The sandy voice of Rod Stewart croons his rendition of “A Kiss to Build a Dream On”. The air that's pushed out with a smile wafts up to his ear. Their breathing is steady, synchronized. Their shoes squelch like soap on a bathing body. Their clothes slurp on them like a tongue on ice cream. A moist whisper is emitted from skin being caressed. The rain pips off their arms, clips on their ears. His chain zigs from time to time, sounding like a zipper.

She is short with full round inviting curves,cartoon-round emerald eyes, a petite nose, and lips that pay homage to Raphael's cherubs. He feels her fragility as he pulls her warmth closer to him. She has a wondering look in her eyes: Is he the one? Her adorable feet are exposed in the pink flip-flops. Toes huddled together like puppies snuffling at the door while Master matches key to lock. The wet fabric of their clothing acts like adhesive urging them to bond closer still, accentuating feminine lines and masculine contours. The round stone of the engagement ring is in a vintage setting. It flashes between a shimmering glint and a determined shine, a promise versus an oath. Her earrings are cheap fake gemstones. Her mascara is running, but not from tears. Her head beneath his nose has that shampooed smell that only a girl can manage. A scent that every man fantasizes about. Her skin makes him hungry with its apple-pear lotion coating.

Their skin is warmer than the air, cooler than the rain. He uses her goosebumps as an excuse to rub her body with his hands. Their knees rub each others thighs, enticing. Her eyelashes tickle his cheek as she blinks away the rain. Finally, when their eyes lock, they're too close for their lips not to brush. His hands slide up to the back of her head pulling her in, then down her arms to her elbows stopping the dance. This kiss is special. It is a solid foundation. Hopes will rest on it. Dreams will be built on it.

" 'Oh Sh!t.' I know what that means!"

My friend, who died in December, he was my driver/partner at my old job in Arizona. I was a Service Tech for an electronics company. We drove around the tri-state area picking up t.v.s for our company's repairman to fix. Unless it was something simple, in which case I'd handle it on-site. Nothing special on my part, just intermediate repairs anyone could do if they cared to try. Only difference is that if YOU crack open your t.v., your warranty is null and void. If I did it was $50-$95 an hour.

We had nick-names we gave ourselves on the job. My partner's was SandSurfer. That's a story for some other day perhaps. My name ended up as Diamond-Cutter. Again, another time. This tale is about my original nick-name in the truck: "Trickle."

We had a Maintenance call on an old RCA big-screen. Sand-Surfer and I called RCAs ORCAs, like the killer-whales because RCAs are so lousy. No, I can't be sued for that statement, I was working on RCAs prior to and during the class-action lawsuit against RCA concerning the universally defective SSB board. Anyway, we get to the client's home. It's this old couple. Reminded me of my grandparents: the old man was passive and hospitable, the old lady was as bitter as piss. And that was BEFORE I screwed up.

Thankfully we were in town that day and not Nevada or California. That way we didn't have far to lug the t.v. I think it was around a 55 incher. Old triple CRT rear-projection set-up from the mid-80s.


On a maintenance call, I had to dismantle the major parts of the t.v. and clean the interior screen, the mirror, the lenses, and under the lenses if dust was there and was accessible. Typically the rule was that if the lenses had cross-head screws you could clean under them. If they had hex-screws, you left them alone. Or lugged the unit into the shop for the certified repair-tech to handle. As if RCA didn't suck bad enough though, this unit had good ol' flat-head screws. What's that mean?

Well, unfortunately I assumed that it meant that I could clean under the lenses. And I thought that I wanted to, too, because it looked all nasty in the tubes. I was still pretty new to the job as I recall and didn't know that a lot of times what appears to be dust is actually algae. Yeah, algae! Apparently ethyl-glycol isn't SO toxic that it won't support some life if kept at the right temperature. Basically, ethyl-glycol is antifreeze. Cooler than that is that not only does it keep the cathode-ray-tubes cool but it's one of the few liquids that won't diffuse light as it passes through. That's why the old rear-projection big-screens have their three tubes filled with the stuff. And why some tubes shouldn't be opened in homes. However, not all companies had sealed tubes involving a secondary, removable lens.

So as I crack the lens off the tube after safely removing the screws, out dumps all this fluid. Spilling over my hand and onto the mainboard. Oh, did I mention that the fluid is VERY conductive of electricity? No? Well, not only did I neglect to remember that, but also that my standard procedure did not involve unplugging the set. Dangerous, I know, but it usually saved me from having to reprogram the custom settings into most (albeit newer model) televisions. So, I feel and see this fluid spill out ALL over the boards and immediately after smell the burning ozone that confirmed my worst fears. An average mainboard ran from$500 to $1000 if my memory serves right. I'm not even there to fix this thing, I'm only there to clean it as per warranty-contract, and I've DESTROYED it! Of course I don't play it COMPLETELY cool, I utter to my comrade: "Oh shit..." He, wide-eyed, responds: "Does that mean what I think it means?" And from the living-room couch, because people LOVE watching their t.v.s--especially if they're dismantled and being cleaned-- from the couch this old cantankerous broad screeches: " 'Oh shit.' I know what 'Oh shit' means!"

What it meant was that we had to replace everything but the trim on that old t.v. And that Sand-Surfer always rode my ass about it. "Are you sure you want your screwdriver? You REALLY sure you wanna do that, huh--Trickle?"