Saturday, November 7, 2009
MY HANDICAPPED BUDDY, part II
Sorry it's been so long, but I won't bother offering reasons or excuses. Let's get down to the fun.
My friend Jim, the amputee, worked in an office of Navy instructors for a few years in Virginia. These guys team-taught a technical electronics course for future submariners. I get the idea from Jim that submariners are pretty much the cream of the crop, but even he admits that every once in a while a dud gets through. Such was the case with a co-worker of his at this school that I will call Noodle. (His name has been changed so we don't add to his shame; we're pretty certain he brings enough upon himself without any help from us.)
Now, Jim had suffered the motorcycle accident, gotten a prosthesis, gone through all the physical therapy, and had actually gone back to work as a Navy Instructor. Noodle came up to him one day and asked Jim to take his class for a couple hours so he could take his boy to a doctor visit. Noodle was a jerk, a smart-alec, and quite a bit on the nerdy side to boot, but everyone has their shortcomings. "No problem," Jim says, "write up the request chit."
Noodle fills out the request form and hands it to Jim to sign. Jim notices it says "0900 to 1530" (9 am to 3:30 pm) and asks, "If it's only for a couple hours, why did you specify nearly the whole day?" Well, Noodle says he did that just because it was simply faster to fill out the request form that way, but he would be back in the office before lunch was over. Well, Noodle's a submariner, Jim thought, this won't be a problem.
Okay so Jim teaches Noodle's class for him that morning, dismisses the class for lunch and heads down to the office. After lunch, Jim is wondering where Noodle is, when a co-worker comes in and asks, "Hey Jim, did Noodle say when he was coming back?" Jim tells him, "Yeah he said he'd be back before lunch was over."
"Well I went past his house on the way back from lunch and he's out mowing his lawn!"
Needless to say, Jim was livid. He trusted this guy to his word that he would be back before lunch, but he left him to babysit his class for the rest of the day. Noodle came in the next day and Jim tore him up one side and down the other for stabbing him in the back. He started to explain, "But you signed the chit!" and then everyone in the office was on him like white on rice. All the other instructors in the office were proclaiming Noodle a low-life back-stabber and declared that no one was ever going to agree to do him a favor. There's something about being taken advantage of, about being betrayed, stabbed in the back, that really brings out the acid and steam in a man. Jim's really a forgiving guy who bends over backwards for his buds. If Noodle had asked him right and done right, Jim would have agreed to help him out in just about any way. But he didn't, he betrayed Jim's trust and took advantage him in spite of the word he had given. Jim remained pretty ticked at Noodle for a good while.
One day some weeks later, Jim was down in the office with the other instructors, and everyone was having a rip-roaring time coming up with, believe it or not, one-legged jokes. "What do you call a woman with one leg? Eileen!" That sort of thing. They were coming up with really hilarious ones left and right. Jim is the greatest sport you ever saw, he was encouraging them and busting a gut laughing right along with everyone. Jim genuinely swears that they came up with ones he'd never heard and that most of them were really very funny.
Now all the instructors are continuing the jokefest when Noodle comes in. It takes him a few minutes to figure out what's going on (he's not the swiftest boat in the fleet), and so he stands up waves his hands a little to draw attention to himself, "Okay okay okay, I got one. What do you call a one-legged guy..." Jim doesn't even remember the joke, it wasn't anything special, but Jim saw his opportunity to exact some revenge on Noodle. Noodle tells his joke, and the whole office, as if on cue, falls dead silent and stares at him -- in shock that he would dare tell such a joke! Jim stands up and walks over to Noodle (it was uncanny how well Jim could walk, even run, on his prosthesis, but this time Jim chose to exaggerate a limp) and gets right up in his face.
"Oh that's really funny Noodle! You must think you're flippin' hilarious! Oh sure, you got your two legs so to hell with anyone who's missing one? I can't believe you, how dare you tell jokes like that, jokes about handicapped people, and thinking about nothing except how you're gonna get a laugh at my expense. How dare you!"
Jim turns and limps out of the office and all the instructors give Noodle contemptuous looks as they follow Jim out of the office. It couldn't have gone better even had it been planned that way. Jim comments how weird it was that everyone instinctually knew that Noodle was the one person in the office that should NOT have participated and that Noodle's joke was offensive while everyone else's jokes were not. Uncanny.
It took a few more weeks, but Noodle did finally apologize to Jim for taking advantage of him.
Just so all of you know, I know several handicapped people and I find them extraordinary. They are overcomers and, in general, are stronger in spirit, will, and fortitude than most of us mere "normal" people. Rather than staring at the missing limb or shrinking away at the sight of the strange prosthetic device, approach them and ask them what happened. Tell them you're sorry that they suffered such an event, commend them for overcoming, compliment the cool-looking prosthesis if they wear one, and ask a blessing of courage and strength upon them. Yeah some handicapped people can have hangups; from personal experience, most won't be offended but will enjoy your encouragement. Jim tells kids that he's part Terminator. They usually get a rise out of that.
J.P.T.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
MY HANDICAPPED BUDDY, part I
I have a friend who is an amputee, his name’s Jim. He lost his left leg, below the knee, in a motorcycle accident where some dipstick tried to get through an intersection before he got there. Well, even though Jim was just minding his own business and going the speed limit, this moron nailed him. I think about folks like Jim and I kind of wonder if I would be bitter about that, you know, life dealing him a low blow and all. But Jim isn’t bitter about anything. Well he may have gone through a phase for a couple months but he isn’t bitter now. Anyway Jim is one of the nicest guys you’d ever care to meet, a great husband to his wife and a great dad to his kids, and he’s got great taste in friends, (that’d include me).
Well, while Jim may be one of the nicest and coolest come-back cats around, I credit him as one of the cruelest jokers I’ve ever known.
After his amputation, he kind of got this attitude that he wasn’t going to be handicapped. (I know, I know, hey dude, missing leg = handicapped! He snickers about this too, now.) As a result, he refused to get a handicapped parking placard or license plates. But lo, one day he was driving around looking for a parking space at a store. It happened to be raining, and there happened to be an open handicapped parking place right in front. I think he’s normally the type that doesn’t care much about the elements, but decided he’d just go ahead and park in the handicapped spot even though he didn’t have a placard or anything. He says he figured that even if he got a ticket, he take his leg off for the judge who would immediately dismiss the case with a roll of the eyes.
Okay, you have to see Jim. He’s got a weekend’s worth of beard on his face, a Harley painter’s cap, black leather jacket, ratty jeans, Harley shirt, black boots, and a biker’s demeanor that basically says, “Don’t tread on me.” He’s got a big blue ’85 Caprice and Harley stickers in his rear window. He parks in the handicapped spot, gets out of the car and starts walking toward the store. From behind him, he hears one of those screeching fingernails-on-the-blackboard voices, “Hey, if you’re not handicapped, you shouldn’t park in a handicapped spot.” The way Jim describes it, if she had just said it in a normal tone it would have been perfectly acceptable and he would have simply offered an explanation. However, the reality was that she was just so sickeningly jeery and contemptuous, that he was immediately irritated to the point of no return, even before he turned to see who said it.
You know, Jim is a nice guy and all but he doesn’t look nice. I would have said that to some punk skateboarder kid, but not to a biker in tattered jeans and leather jacket on a rainy day. Most of us average mortals have better sense than to swagger our pith and pluck in front of someone who obviously poses a threat to our ability to breathe. He turns around and there’s this obese gal who apparently had a serious case of handicap-placard envy. I understand that obese people can get handicapped placards nowadays just because it takes so much extra energy to get around with all that extra fat hanging on them. This might not have been the case at this period of history.
At the time, Jim didn’t have one of those high-tech springy propeller-type artificial limbs. No, he had just a socket for his stump, attached to a blue aluminum pole which connected to a wooden foot with a bolt that ran right up through the heel into the pole. The funny thing is this – that bolt that held the foot onto the pole would work loose as Jim walked around. He had to tighten it up every week or so, or else his foot would start to pivot around. Once he turned his foot around and walked around with his foot facing backwards. It really got a lot of snickers around the office where he worked.
All right so Jim’s caught parking in a spot without the appropriate placard or plate, she is technically right, and you have to hand it to her – she had to have some brass clackers to talk to a biker like that in her limited physical capacity. Now I’ve known some bikers that would have just tossed a tire iron at her and been done with the situation, but that wasn’t Jim’s style (though Squatty-Body didn’t know that). So Jim got a little perturbed and he faces this lady, he picks his leg up, grabs his foot and turns in backwards right in front of her and says, “Is THAT handicapped enough for YOU?!?!” The lady’s eyes got big as saucers and she put her hands up to her mouth as she gasped. Then he straightened his foot, turned, and walked toward the store entrance. He still describes this as one of those rare pristine moments where he actually had the perfect comeback AT the moment he needed it.
He mentioned, too, that he ran into this lady a couple times here and there in the store and she made no secret of avoiding him. He admits that he later had a little remorse; he feared that he may have scarred her for life or something. But I and others are in agreement that it probably taught her a good lesson to watch her tone – that same attitude spat at the wrong person could wind her up in the ICU or worse – so we all applauded the event as a good deed done. By the way, Jim did eventually get a handicap placard. Yay Jim!
Okay, I have another hilarious one about Jim for next time. You’ll definitely want to stay tuned for this one.
J.P.T.
Well, while Jim may be one of the nicest and coolest come-back cats around, I credit him as one of the cruelest jokers I’ve ever known.
After his amputation, he kind of got this attitude that he wasn’t going to be handicapped. (I know, I know, hey dude, missing leg = handicapped! He snickers about this too, now.) As a result, he refused to get a handicapped parking placard or license plates. But lo, one day he was driving around looking for a parking space at a store. It happened to be raining, and there happened to be an open handicapped parking place right in front. I think he’s normally the type that doesn’t care much about the elements, but decided he’d just go ahead and park in the handicapped spot even though he didn’t have a placard or anything. He says he figured that even if he got a ticket, he take his leg off for the judge who would immediately dismiss the case with a roll of the eyes.
Okay, you have to see Jim. He’s got a weekend’s worth of beard on his face, a Harley painter’s cap, black leather jacket, ratty jeans, Harley shirt, black boots, and a biker’s demeanor that basically says, “Don’t tread on me.” He’s got a big blue ’85 Caprice and Harley stickers in his rear window. He parks in the handicapped spot, gets out of the car and starts walking toward the store. From behind him, he hears one of those screeching fingernails-on-the-blackboard voices, “Hey, if you’re not handicapped, you shouldn’t park in a handicapped spot.” The way Jim describes it, if she had just said it in a normal tone it would have been perfectly acceptable and he would have simply offered an explanation. However, the reality was that she was just so sickeningly jeery and contemptuous, that he was immediately irritated to the point of no return, even before he turned to see who said it.
You know, Jim is a nice guy and all but he doesn’t look nice. I would have said that to some punk skateboarder kid, but not to a biker in tattered jeans and leather jacket on a rainy day. Most of us average mortals have better sense than to swagger our pith and pluck in front of someone who obviously poses a threat to our ability to breathe. He turns around and there’s this obese gal who apparently had a serious case of handicap-placard envy. I understand that obese people can get handicapped placards nowadays just because it takes so much extra energy to get around with all that extra fat hanging on them. This might not have been the case at this period of history.
At the time, Jim didn’t have one of those high-tech springy propeller-type artificial limbs. No, he had just a socket for his stump, attached to a blue aluminum pole which connected to a wooden foot with a bolt that ran right up through the heel into the pole. The funny thing is this – that bolt that held the foot onto the pole would work loose as Jim walked around. He had to tighten it up every week or so, or else his foot would start to pivot around. Once he turned his foot around and walked around with his foot facing backwards. It really got a lot of snickers around the office where he worked.
All right so Jim’s caught parking in a spot without the appropriate placard or plate, she is technically right, and you have to hand it to her – she had to have some brass clackers to talk to a biker like that in her limited physical capacity. Now I’ve known some bikers that would have just tossed a tire iron at her and been done with the situation, but that wasn’t Jim’s style (though Squatty-Body didn’t know that). So Jim got a little perturbed and he faces this lady, he picks his leg up, grabs his foot and turns in backwards right in front of her and says, “Is THAT handicapped enough for YOU?!?!” The lady’s eyes got big as saucers and she put her hands up to her mouth as she gasped. Then he straightened his foot, turned, and walked toward the store entrance. He still describes this as one of those rare pristine moments where he actually had the perfect comeback AT the moment he needed it.
He mentioned, too, that he ran into this lady a couple times here and there in the store and she made no secret of avoiding him. He admits that he later had a little remorse; he feared that he may have scarred her for life or something. But I and others are in agreement that it probably taught her a good lesson to watch her tone – that same attitude spat at the wrong person could wind her up in the ICU or worse – so we all applauded the event as a good deed done. By the way, Jim did eventually get a handicap placard. Yay Jim!
Okay, I have another hilarious one about Jim for next time. You’ll definitely want to stay tuned for this one.
J.P.T.
Monday, July 6, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - THE TROUBLE WITH DOGS IN CARS
Oh, the humanity! We bolted to the car. I don’t really know why we felt we had to run, it was just a reflex really. Well we got there and the windows, that we should have been able to see through, were all steamed up. It was not a good sign.
Jaco was inside and we could hear the poor boy whimpering like he thought he was going to get in big trouble. Oh it still gives me those little internal retches to think about it, and this happened like over two decades ago!
I’ll just come out and say it frankly: the dog had spewed diarrhea all over the Shelby’s interior. He had apparently jumped into the back seat as well as the front seat attempting to find another way out of his little prison, so there was no place inside the car that escaped trauma.
I swear, Jaco, I really meant to be gone for only 30 seconds!
The odor was just gag-awful and someone came back out of the bar with a great big package of bar napkins for us and a wastebasket. Well there was a lot of laughter in the Speakeasy’s parking lot that night, let me tell ya! Oh yeah they could chuckle, but they weren’t coming within 20 feet of us. Eddie and I must have been there for hours wiping up soggy doggy-doo with bar napkins just so we could tolerate it enough to operate the vehicle. Yeah, now it was nothing more than a vehicle. That was such a hideous mess! I kept asking Eddie what he fed Jaco. Well, the Shelby Charger was no longer my sports car; this event, while very small on the global perspective, it just shattered me and my entire life’s paradigm shifted.
And you know what, I didn’t get even a single one of my friends’ phone numbers that night to show for my foolish efforts to get back in touch. It cost me $340.00 to have the interior detailed to the point where it could be driven again. Right before I transferred to a new duty station, I traded it in on another car. No. No, as a matter of fact, I did NOT tell the dealership what that funny “new car smell” was about.
J.P.T.
Jaco was inside and we could hear the poor boy whimpering like he thought he was going to get in big trouble. Oh it still gives me those little internal retches to think about it, and this happened like over two decades ago!
I’ll just come out and say it frankly: the dog had spewed diarrhea all over the Shelby’s interior. He had apparently jumped into the back seat as well as the front seat attempting to find another way out of his little prison, so there was no place inside the car that escaped trauma.
I swear, Jaco, I really meant to be gone for only 30 seconds!
The odor was just gag-awful and someone came back out of the bar with a great big package of bar napkins for us and a wastebasket. Well there was a lot of laughter in the Speakeasy’s parking lot that night, let me tell ya! Oh yeah they could chuckle, but they weren’t coming within 20 feet of us. Eddie and I must have been there for hours wiping up soggy doggy-doo with bar napkins just so we could tolerate it enough to operate the vehicle. Yeah, now it was nothing more than a vehicle. That was such a hideous mess! I kept asking Eddie what he fed Jaco. Well, the Shelby Charger was no longer my sports car; this event, while very small on the global perspective, it just shattered me and my entire life’s paradigm shifted.
And you know what, I didn’t get even a single one of my friends’ phone numbers that night to show for my foolish efforts to get back in touch. It cost me $340.00 to have the interior detailed to the point where it could be driven again. Right before I transferred to a new duty station, I traded it in on another car. No. No, as a matter of fact, I did NOT tell the dealership what that funny “new car smell” was about.
J.P.T.
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - TRUCK IN THE PARKING LOT
Okay, so Jaco has been injected with the spew-factor-3 medicine and we are on our way back to Eddie’s house. Everything was smooth sailing and Eddie was back to his normal self. Actually Eddie’s mood took a noticeably good turn after the vet explained that money, even of the paper persuasion, holds up very well in most pets.
I had another great friend when I was in high-school. His name was Greg, and actually we’d been friends since junior high, a.k.a. middle school. But hey, who’s going to count the years when you’re best friends, right? Wow the stories I could tell! A Greg had a pickup truck. Oh no, not just any pickup. He got a job just so he could customize the thing, and customize he did. First of all it had a lift-kit, flashy rims, and gargantuan tires, a superbly detailed paint job. You had to have some powerful thighs to jettison yourself up into the cab. Oh yeah, he technically had a pickup truck, but you were NOT going to call Greg to help you move!
Funny that he was a Christian when we were growing up and I was not. Then we went our separate ways: he went to college and I went into the military. Greg succumbed to the liberal rantings of leftist whacko profs, the allure of feminists who were ready to discard everything about themselves that made them precious, and the stupid dimwit cries of his partying humanist “friends” there at those places of supposed higher learning and he abandoned the truth. I, on the other hand, came to recognize that Jesus was the truth, the way, and the life, while I was in the service. Now Greg did eventually return to his senses, but like many humans, he had to hit bottom before he looked back upward.
Well, there we were tooling on down the road with Jaco in the hatchback of my pretty sports car, when lo and behold what did I spy in the parking lot of the Speakeasy Bar-n-Grill? Of course, it was none other than Greg’s unmistakable pickup truck sitting head and shoulders above all the other vehicles there under the floodlight’s beacon. There was no doubt. Now, Greg and I had lost touch with each other, he moved several times, I was transferred several times and his parents moved as well so this was likely the only opportunity I was going to have (unless he showed up at some future high school reunion) to get back in touch.
Eddie saw the truck same as I did and was excited but was pretty apprehensive too, saying that we didn’t want to be late getting Jaco into a tub before he started letting loose with the $50 bill and whatever might be accompanying it.
“No worries.” I said, “I’m just gonna get his phone number and we’re gone.”
Yes, that was the plan. I zipped into the parking lot and Eddie and I ran inside. Greg was there, bigger than life and apparently with a whole entourage of other friends of ours from high school, including Nate. Oh man, it was great! We were laughing and hugging and everyone was slapping everyone else on the back – I was just overcome with seeing so many friendly and familiar faces. I remember telling Greg how shocked I was that he still had the custom truck what with college expenses and all. He explained how he managed everything (he mooched off his folks as much as he could – ah the character-developing secrets to life you learn at our fine universities nowadays!) and then he asked what I was driving.
That was the moment that time sort of stood still. All the sound around me in that bar just sort of deepened and slurred. Eddie and I looked wide-eyed at each other and screamed running out the door.
J.P.T.
I had another great friend when I was in high-school. His name was Greg, and actually we’d been friends since junior high, a.k.a. middle school. But hey, who’s going to count the years when you’re best friends, right? Wow the stories I could tell! A Greg had a pickup truck. Oh no, not just any pickup. He got a job just so he could customize the thing, and customize he did. First of all it had a lift-kit, flashy rims, and gargantuan tires, a superbly detailed paint job. You had to have some powerful thighs to jettison yourself up into the cab. Oh yeah, he technically had a pickup truck, but you were NOT going to call Greg to help you move!
Funny that he was a Christian when we were growing up and I was not. Then we went our separate ways: he went to college and I went into the military. Greg succumbed to the liberal rantings of leftist whacko profs, the allure of feminists who were ready to discard everything about themselves that made them precious, and the stupid dimwit cries of his partying humanist “friends” there at those places of supposed higher learning and he abandoned the truth. I, on the other hand, came to recognize that Jesus was the truth, the way, and the life, while I was in the service. Now Greg did eventually return to his senses, but like many humans, he had to hit bottom before he looked back upward.
Well, there we were tooling on down the road with Jaco in the hatchback of my pretty sports car, when lo and behold what did I spy in the parking lot of the Speakeasy Bar-n-Grill? Of course, it was none other than Greg’s unmistakable pickup truck sitting head and shoulders above all the other vehicles there under the floodlight’s beacon. There was no doubt. Now, Greg and I had lost touch with each other, he moved several times, I was transferred several times and his parents moved as well so this was likely the only opportunity I was going to have (unless he showed up at some future high school reunion) to get back in touch.
Eddie saw the truck same as I did and was excited but was pretty apprehensive too, saying that we didn’t want to be late getting Jaco into a tub before he started letting loose with the $50 bill and whatever might be accompanying it.
“No worries.” I said, “I’m just gonna get his phone number and we’re gone.”
Yes, that was the plan. I zipped into the parking lot and Eddie and I ran inside. Greg was there, bigger than life and apparently with a whole entourage of other friends of ours from high school, including Nate. Oh man, it was great! We were laughing and hugging and everyone was slapping everyone else on the back – I was just overcome with seeing so many friendly and familiar faces. I remember telling Greg how shocked I was that he still had the custom truck what with college expenses and all. He explained how he managed everything (he mooched off his folks as much as he could – ah the character-developing secrets to life you learn at our fine universities nowadays!) and then he asked what I was driving.
That was the moment that time sort of stood still. All the sound around me in that bar just sort of deepened and slurred. Eddie and I looked wide-eyed at each other and screamed running out the door.
J.P.T.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - TO THE VET AND HOME, QUICK!
All right, I successfully stayed the execution of poor Jaco, Eddie’s elderly malnourished but friendly mutt. Now Jaco is enjoying a relaxing ride to the vet. I knew a place that wasn’t too far away, the vet I knew right around the corner from my grandparent’s house. It was only a 20 minute trip, during which I made small talk with Eddie while secretly wondering about the effect of digestive juices’ on American currency.
Fortunately the vet was there, it was a fluke that he had just finished an emergency surgery on a Dachsund. I’m sure the vet meant Dachsund, although with his oriental accent, he pronounced it Datsun. Anyway, our visit was wonderfully short and sweet although we didn’t get the news we were hoping for. By the way “short” is not a dig at the vet, who was possibly the shortest man I’ve ever met. He was even shorter than my grandmother! There were little step-stools all over the premises, it was cute, but we did not laugh at him. (Well, not until later in the car, at least.)
I assumed the vet would just give him some syrup of ipecac or a similar medication to make the dog upchuck the contents of his stomach, a.k.a., the $50 bill. The doctor explained that a dog of Jaco’s age, as well as his being undernourished (he said “malnourished” wasn’t an accurate description of ol’ Jaco) made induced vomiting dangerous for him. He recommended an injection which would cause Jaco to “pass” everything through. It would take around a half-hour for the medicine to start working and would then cause his digestive system to evacuate everything out Jaco’s rear end for about an hour. This brought humorous images to mind, but the vet continued to explain to us in great scientific detail why this course would be gentler on Jaco’s sensitive system than inducing vomiting. It nearly all went over our heads, but we nodded confidently and enthusiastically in hopes that the doctor would stop showing off.
Yes, so the numbers ran like this: $25.00 for the vet visit, a $40.00 after-hours emergency fee, and $23.75 for the injection. So I was out $88.75, not including the $50.00 that had taken up temporary residence inside Jaco. This was a rather expensive visit to ol’ Eddie. I look back on this now as one of the most tremendous (non-military) bonding experiences I’ve ever had, so the money wasn’t really important.
So the little veterinarian man got Jaco and the injection ready, Eddie and I were ready: I paid at the front desk and had then parked the car right outside the back door of the clinic). Jaco was such a cool dog, he didn’t flinch or even whimper! I know, I’m still impressed by that, too. The doctor administered the shot, then Eddie and I whisked him out the back door into the hatchback and we shot off like a bat outta hell.
We were hitting all green lights so we were sure to get home quite a bit faster than it took to arrive at the vet’s. Things were going even better than expected. Eddie and I were joking and laughing like old times. Like that one time that I was in a food fight with a friend of ours named Kurt. It started with him flicking little pieces of potato salad at me with a plastic spoon in the cafeteria. Well I was trying to woo a really nice and foxy girl at the time. I didn’t know how to handle the bits of food that kept coming my way and so I wound up losing the girl. Needless to say, I was pretty ticked off at Kurt. So I filled my mouth with fruit cocktail and walked by Kurt. I acted as if I was going to say something, but then instead I lurched and “puked” the fruit cocktail on his jeans. Kurt was mortified and the whole cafeteria was in an uproar. It was a most satisfying moment. Kurt and I continued getting more and more ingenious with our digestible matter battles, and we eventually called a truce and became friends again, but that moment lives on in infamy.
Yes, everything was going according to plan, once again, until I saw “the truck.”
J.P.T.
Fortunately the vet was there, it was a fluke that he had just finished an emergency surgery on a Dachsund. I’m sure the vet meant Dachsund, although with his oriental accent, he pronounced it Datsun. Anyway, our visit was wonderfully short and sweet although we didn’t get the news we were hoping for. By the way “short” is not a dig at the vet, who was possibly the shortest man I’ve ever met. He was even shorter than my grandmother! There were little step-stools all over the premises, it was cute, but we did not laugh at him. (Well, not until later in the car, at least.)
I assumed the vet would just give him some syrup of ipecac or a similar medication to make the dog upchuck the contents of his stomach, a.k.a., the $50 bill. The doctor explained that a dog of Jaco’s age, as well as his being undernourished (he said “malnourished” wasn’t an accurate description of ol’ Jaco) made induced vomiting dangerous for him. He recommended an injection which would cause Jaco to “pass” everything through. It would take around a half-hour for the medicine to start working and would then cause his digestive system to evacuate everything out Jaco’s rear end for about an hour. This brought humorous images to mind, but the vet continued to explain to us in great scientific detail why this course would be gentler on Jaco’s sensitive system than inducing vomiting. It nearly all went over our heads, but we nodded confidently and enthusiastically in hopes that the doctor would stop showing off.
Yes, so the numbers ran like this: $25.00 for the vet visit, a $40.00 after-hours emergency fee, and $23.75 for the injection. So I was out $88.75, not including the $50.00 that had taken up temporary residence inside Jaco. This was a rather expensive visit to ol’ Eddie. I look back on this now as one of the most tremendous (non-military) bonding experiences I’ve ever had, so the money wasn’t really important.
So the little veterinarian man got Jaco and the injection ready, Eddie and I were ready: I paid at the front desk and had then parked the car right outside the back door of the clinic). Jaco was such a cool dog, he didn’t flinch or even whimper! I know, I’m still impressed by that, too. The doctor administered the shot, then Eddie and I whisked him out the back door into the hatchback and we shot off like a bat outta hell.
We were hitting all green lights so we were sure to get home quite a bit faster than it took to arrive at the vet’s. Things were going even better than expected. Eddie and I were joking and laughing like old times. Like that one time that I was in a food fight with a friend of ours named Kurt. It started with him flicking little pieces of potato salad at me with a plastic spoon in the cafeteria. Well I was trying to woo a really nice and foxy girl at the time. I didn’t know how to handle the bits of food that kept coming my way and so I wound up losing the girl. Needless to say, I was pretty ticked off at Kurt. So I filled my mouth with fruit cocktail and walked by Kurt. I acted as if I was going to say something, but then instead I lurched and “puked” the fruit cocktail on his jeans. Kurt was mortified and the whole cafeteria was in an uproar. It was a most satisfying moment. Kurt and I continued getting more and more ingenious with our digestible matter battles, and we eventually called a truce and became friends again, but that moment lives on in infamy.
Yes, everything was going according to plan, once again, until I saw “the truck.”
J.P.T.
Friday, July 3, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - ENTER JACO
Yes, I had the $50 bill in my hand, pinched between my thumb and index finger and I handed it to Eddie across the table. You know how, every once in a while, you hand something to someone and you swear they’ve got it, but then you let go and discover that they didn’t? Well, yeah, it happened. I handed the bill over and I swore Eddie had it but I let go and instead of floating farther over toward Eddie’s side of the table, it plopped right into the gravy bowl.
Now I was really embarrassed! The dog, Jaco, is getting friendly on my leg, I am eating food that really should be eaten by my starving but gracious host, I am giving money to help a man who had to discard his pride and dignity to ask for pity, and now that little bit of charity has been fumbled right smack dab into his meager rations. Well Eddie didn’t let a little gravy get him down. He simply took the 50-dollar bill out of the gravy and gave it a little shake near the floor.
Let’s not forget about the Jaco, now. As soon as Eddie turned with the bill, the dog vacated my leg and went over to Eddie’s side of the card table. I didn’t see Jaco with my eyes, but I heard the squishy slurp, and I was wondering if Jaco did what I thought he did.
Eddie bolted out of his chair and grabbed Jaco in what I can only describe as being some of the most masterful rodeo calf-tying I’ve ever seen – except Eddie didn’t tie Jaco, he just “secured” him with his leg while he pried Jaco’s mouth open and proceeded to do a little spelunking to fish that bill out.
I’ll hand it to Eddie and to Jaco: I’ve never seen a man with enough guts to thrust his hand down a hungry dog’s throat, and I’ve never seen a hungry dog permit a man reach into his gullet. Well, accolades aside, Eddie did not retrieve the bill.
At this point, I saw a side of Eddie which I’d never seen or heard: pure fury. Eddie straddled Jaco on the floor with his legs contorted a little to maximize his control over the poor beast. He kept one hand planted firmly at the base of Jaco’s skull while he rooted through the little array of cardboard boxes that sufficed for kitchen cabinets and drawers. He finally found what he was looking for – a steak knife.
Zut-alors – he intended to cut the dog open to get that $50 bill! I proclaimed every kind of “whoah” word that I could think of and rapidly suggested that we just take Jaco to a vet so he could just puke it up. There was a tense moment while Eddie mulled this over but after a few moments he agreed that was the best thing to do. Praise the Lord! I could only imagine what would have ensued if he had rejected the vet idea.
Now I still thought that my idea to take Jaco to the vet was a good one, but I kicked myself anyway. Why? Why?!?!?! Well because I had a nice shiny sportscar, THAT’s why! All right, it was a choice: risk getting the sportscar dirty or cut the dog open. Okay, I put Jaco in the back. He laid down like a very good doggy.
Right now I was thinking something along the lines of the evil emperor in Star Wars, “Everything’s going according to plaaaan.”
Things we’re going well at the moment, but that was going to be short-lived moment.
J.P.T.
Now I was really embarrassed! The dog, Jaco, is getting friendly on my leg, I am eating food that really should be eaten by my starving but gracious host, I am giving money to help a man who had to discard his pride and dignity to ask for pity, and now that little bit of charity has been fumbled right smack dab into his meager rations. Well Eddie didn’t let a little gravy get him down. He simply took the 50-dollar bill out of the gravy and gave it a little shake near the floor.
Let’s not forget about the Jaco, now. As soon as Eddie turned with the bill, the dog vacated my leg and went over to Eddie’s side of the card table. I didn’t see Jaco with my eyes, but I heard the squishy slurp, and I was wondering if Jaco did what I thought he did.
Eddie bolted out of his chair and grabbed Jaco in what I can only describe as being some of the most masterful rodeo calf-tying I’ve ever seen – except Eddie didn’t tie Jaco, he just “secured” him with his leg while he pried Jaco’s mouth open and proceeded to do a little spelunking to fish that bill out.
I’ll hand it to Eddie and to Jaco: I’ve never seen a man with enough guts to thrust his hand down a hungry dog’s throat, and I’ve never seen a hungry dog permit a man reach into his gullet. Well, accolades aside, Eddie did not retrieve the bill.
At this point, I saw a side of Eddie which I’d never seen or heard: pure fury. Eddie straddled Jaco on the floor with his legs contorted a little to maximize his control over the poor beast. He kept one hand planted firmly at the base of Jaco’s skull while he rooted through the little array of cardboard boxes that sufficed for kitchen cabinets and drawers. He finally found what he was looking for – a steak knife.
Zut-alors – he intended to cut the dog open to get that $50 bill! I proclaimed every kind of “whoah” word that I could think of and rapidly suggested that we just take Jaco to a vet so he could just puke it up. There was a tense moment while Eddie mulled this over but after a few moments he agreed that was the best thing to do. Praise the Lord! I could only imagine what would have ensued if he had rejected the vet idea.
Now I still thought that my idea to take Jaco to the vet was a good one, but I kicked myself anyway. Why? Why?!?!?! Well because I had a nice shiny sportscar, THAT’s why! All right, it was a choice: risk getting the sportscar dirty or cut the dog open. Okay, I put Jaco in the back. He laid down like a very good doggy.
Right now I was thinking something along the lines of the evil emperor in Star Wars, “Everything’s going according to plaaaan.”
Things we’re going well at the moment, but that was going to be short-lived moment.
J.P.T.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - DINNER WITH EDDIE
There was a knock at the door, and Eddie received a little tray covered with a towel.
“Hey Jean-Paul, you hungry? The nice lady always brings me a little something on Thursday nights. Tonight she made biscuits and gravy. Why don’t you join me for dinner?”
I was dumbstruck. Eddie was clearly less than half of what he used to weigh, and needed, in my opinion, to eat all he could just to try and stay alive. I began stuttering like a fool, trying to think of a polite way to not take a share of the meager amount of food he had been given. But Eddie insisted on me joining him. That was Eddie, no mistake. He’d break his back for you and give you the shirt off of it for you too. That was who Eddie was: kind, humble, honest, and a man of honor. It is difficult to see a man of his caliber in such a sad situation, it makes you just want to trade places with him.
Eddie had a little trouble finding enough tableware to serve us both, but he managed. He had two large biscuits and a nice bowl of gravy. It was fantastic by the way: my grandmother, may she rest in peace, would have been proud of that nice lady’s sausage gravy! Believe it or not, the best biscuits and gravy I ever tasted were served at a McDonalds on a particular unnamed military base in Virginia. I know you don't believe me, but I'm not lying to you. Now I've tried other McDonalds and they serve rock-gut gravy. I'm convinced that there was another nice lady, probably some Micky-D's teenage employee's poor grandma slaving with all her heart in the back of that lone McDonalds to churn out the best biscuits and gravy in the world. It was wonderful being stationed there. I found out about the biscuits and gravy because my roomate told me I needed to check out the gorgeous young lady (he called her something else which I'll refrain from sharing with tender young ears!) in the drive-through. I pulled up to the window to get a look at the girl, didn't know what to order, so I just picked biscuits and gravy off the menu. By the way, she was very pretty, but she wasn't the reason I kept coming back. I remember looking forward to Mondays because I would stop in the drive through and get me some more of those incredible biscuits and gravy. Tired of my tangent? Okay.
Well Eddie said a prayer and we ate together. He told me everything. His ex-wife one day just decided that she was tired of Eddie. Tired of being loved and adored. Tired of foot-rubs and back-massages. Tired of hearing him brag about her. Now she’s living it up down in a ritzy part near the Central West End and hanging out with silly folks who not only like musicals, they will even pay money to see them live. (Told you they were silly!) Frankly, I never saw what attracted people to musicals. They tend to be full of a bunch of effeminates breaking into song for no good reason. Sometimes they ruin a real good story acting all sissy like that. Oh sure, there are some good musicals, and The Sound of Music has to be the greatest one of the exceptions. Once upon a time I really liked acting and thought I would be good at it. I got involved in the drama department in high school, but alas, our drama teacher was a homosexual and I couldn’t tolerate his effeminate ways and mannerisms. He just adored Rodgers and Hammerstein’s works, and it appeared that the high school could therefore produce little outside of the R&H collection. The drama department, whether it was due to the magnetism of our homosexual teacher or the R&H musicals, seemed to draw homosexuals from throughout the school. Before I knew it, I seemed to be surrounded by effeminate guys, and getting a reputation as one of them just because of my association with the school’s theater. Well it was all too much for me; I decided that acting wasn’t worth tolerating so much arrogant sleaze and I left the theater and any aspirations to be an actor.
Well anyway, Eddie hadn’t played bass in almost 2 years because he had to sell his instrument in order to pay some bills. What a pity! He had a fancy electric bass; very attractive, very expensive, and a very nice sound. He had fallen ill, lost his job and insurance, sunk into a depression, and well, if I went on and revealed it all, you couldn’t stand to read anymore so I’ll just stop there. Let’s just say that poor old Eddie had seen better days. I was overcome with grief at listening to the things that he was subjected to. I finally asked him, overcoming my reluctance to offer help which could be construed as pity or charity, if there was anything that I could do to help him in his situation.
He was overcoming his own reluctance as well. He lowered his eyes and kind of stammered, totally in harmony with his humble and kind nature, and finally came out with it.
“Well, Jean-Paul, I don’t know, I … I … I guess, you know, I could … use a little … a little cash, you know.” I could feel him painfully swallowing his dignity. “It’s just, you know, I just can’t seem to get good work … can’t stay healthy long enough …”
I cut Eddie short. I couldn’t stand listening to him beg because it was so beneath him and so unlike him. I knew that his situation was terrible enough to drive him beyond his honor and ask for money. I held up my hand for him to stop, while I dug my wallet out of my back pocket. I was by no means rich, by my wallet was fuller than his wallet had been for a long time. I reached in and I pulled out a 50-dollar bill.
It was then I felt as if I were living through some demented 3 Stooges episode.
J.P.T.
“Hey Jean-Paul, you hungry? The nice lady always brings me a little something on Thursday nights. Tonight she made biscuits and gravy. Why don’t you join me for dinner?”
I was dumbstruck. Eddie was clearly less than half of what he used to weigh, and needed, in my opinion, to eat all he could just to try and stay alive. I began stuttering like a fool, trying to think of a polite way to not take a share of the meager amount of food he had been given. But Eddie insisted on me joining him. That was Eddie, no mistake. He’d break his back for you and give you the shirt off of it for you too. That was who Eddie was: kind, humble, honest, and a man of honor. It is difficult to see a man of his caliber in such a sad situation, it makes you just want to trade places with him.
Eddie had a little trouble finding enough tableware to serve us both, but he managed. He had two large biscuits and a nice bowl of gravy. It was fantastic by the way: my grandmother, may she rest in peace, would have been proud of that nice lady’s sausage gravy! Believe it or not, the best biscuits and gravy I ever tasted were served at a McDonalds on a particular unnamed military base in Virginia. I know you don't believe me, but I'm not lying to you. Now I've tried other McDonalds and they serve rock-gut gravy. I'm convinced that there was another nice lady, probably some Micky-D's teenage employee's poor grandma slaving with all her heart in the back of that lone McDonalds to churn out the best biscuits and gravy in the world. It was wonderful being stationed there. I found out about the biscuits and gravy because my roomate told me I needed to check out the gorgeous young lady (he called her something else which I'll refrain from sharing with tender young ears!) in the drive-through. I pulled up to the window to get a look at the girl, didn't know what to order, so I just picked biscuits and gravy off the menu. By the way, she was very pretty, but she wasn't the reason I kept coming back. I remember looking forward to Mondays because I would stop in the drive through and get me some more of those incredible biscuits and gravy. Tired of my tangent? Okay.
Well Eddie said a prayer and we ate together. He told me everything. His ex-wife one day just decided that she was tired of Eddie. Tired of being loved and adored. Tired of foot-rubs and back-massages. Tired of hearing him brag about her. Now she’s living it up down in a ritzy part near the Central West End and hanging out with silly folks who not only like musicals, they will even pay money to see them live. (Told you they were silly!) Frankly, I never saw what attracted people to musicals. They tend to be full of a bunch of effeminates breaking into song for no good reason. Sometimes they ruin a real good story acting all sissy like that. Oh sure, there are some good musicals, and The Sound of Music has to be the greatest one of the exceptions. Once upon a time I really liked acting and thought I would be good at it. I got involved in the drama department in high school, but alas, our drama teacher was a homosexual and I couldn’t tolerate his effeminate ways and mannerisms. He just adored Rodgers and Hammerstein’s works, and it appeared that the high school could therefore produce little outside of the R&H collection. The drama department, whether it was due to the magnetism of our homosexual teacher or the R&H musicals, seemed to draw homosexuals from throughout the school. Before I knew it, I seemed to be surrounded by effeminate guys, and getting a reputation as one of them just because of my association with the school’s theater. Well it was all too much for me; I decided that acting wasn’t worth tolerating so much arrogant sleaze and I left the theater and any aspirations to be an actor.
Well anyway, Eddie hadn’t played bass in almost 2 years because he had to sell his instrument in order to pay some bills. What a pity! He had a fancy electric bass; very attractive, very expensive, and a very nice sound. He had fallen ill, lost his job and insurance, sunk into a depression, and well, if I went on and revealed it all, you couldn’t stand to read anymore so I’ll just stop there. Let’s just say that poor old Eddie had seen better days. I was overcome with grief at listening to the things that he was subjected to. I finally asked him, overcoming my reluctance to offer help which could be construed as pity or charity, if there was anything that I could do to help him in his situation.
He was overcoming his own reluctance as well. He lowered his eyes and kind of stammered, totally in harmony with his humble and kind nature, and finally came out with it.
“Well, Jean-Paul, I don’t know, I … I … I guess, you know, I could … use a little … a little cash, you know.” I could feel him painfully swallowing his dignity. “It’s just, you know, I just can’t seem to get good work … can’t stay healthy long enough …”
I cut Eddie short. I couldn’t stand listening to him beg because it was so beneath him and so unlike him. I knew that his situation was terrible enough to drive him beyond his honor and ask for money. I held up my hand for him to stop, while I dug my wallet out of my back pocket. I was by no means rich, by my wallet was fuller than his wallet had been for a long time. I reached in and I pulled out a 50-dollar bill.
It was then I felt as if I were living through some demented 3 Stooges episode.
J.P.T.
Friday, May 29, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - VISITING EDDIE
Eddie wasn’t a scumbag type of musician. In spite of what I said earlier, there are some really classy musicians out there. They’re swimming in a cesspool of low-lifes, but classy musicians do exist in the rock-n-roll world. Eddie was one of them. He was one of those guys who was so funny, he didn’t have to do or say anything to make you laugh. We played in a band together for a short while, he was an extremely talented musician and one of the humblest and kindest guys I’ve ever known. So when I found the address and walked around back to the garage, (a shack really), I was a bit nervous and my mind was buzzing with curiosity.
I knocked and Eddie opened the door. * gasp * Wow, Nate was right. I could have passed him on the street and wouldn’t have recognized him at all. However, Eddie’s smile could still light up lower Manhattan -- he was completely tickled to see me. He wouldn’t have recognized me either – I had a close-cropped military haircut instead of the long black mop of 80s rockstar curls he had last seen me in.
His place consisted of a card table with two lawn chairs, a cot, and several cardboard boxes masquerading as pantry, dresser, bookshelf and china cabinet. He also had an elderly dog who was happy to see me. He apparently needed a couple fresher legs around. How embarrassing! He was even skinnier than Eddie. Well Eddie invited me in and we made small talk for a minute or so. He really was unrecognizable; he looked like those old pictures of concentration camp survivors. He was gaunt and pale instead of chubby and lively and my concern must have been obvious on my face. He addressed all my unspoken questions. Yes indeed, all that Nate had said was true. Nevertheless, there was still a side of me that was in total denial – how could this happen to Eddie, of all people? Tracy had ruined him. It would have been more merciful for her to have shot him than to reduce him to a withered shell like this.
Well, I told you earlier that Eddie was one of the humblest guys I’ve ever known. Just wait.
J.P.T.
I knocked and Eddie opened the door. * gasp * Wow, Nate was right. I could have passed him on the street and wouldn’t have recognized him at all. However, Eddie’s smile could still light up lower Manhattan -- he was completely tickled to see me. He wouldn’t have recognized me either – I had a close-cropped military haircut instead of the long black mop of 80s rockstar curls he had last seen me in.
His place consisted of a card table with two lawn chairs, a cot, and several cardboard boxes masquerading as pantry, dresser, bookshelf and china cabinet. He also had an elderly dog who was happy to see me. He apparently needed a couple fresher legs around. How embarrassing! He was even skinnier than Eddie. Well Eddie invited me in and we made small talk for a minute or so. He really was unrecognizable; he looked like those old pictures of concentration camp survivors. He was gaunt and pale instead of chubby and lively and my concern must have been obvious on my face. He addressed all my unspoken questions. Yes indeed, all that Nate had said was true. Nevertheless, there was still a side of me that was in total denial – how could this happen to Eddie, of all people? Tracy had ruined him. It would have been more merciful for her to have shot him than to reduce him to a withered shell like this.
Well, I told you earlier that Eddie was one of the humblest guys I’ve ever known. Just wait.
J.P.T.
Friday, May 22, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - HEARING OF EDDIE
Okay, Nate, who had given me such a hard time about joining the military, was now pumping my gas. What sweet justice! I was happy as a duck frolicking in a mucky pond in the St. Louis summer.
Until Nate asked, “Hey Jean-Paul, have you seen Eddie since you got back?”
“No, I haven’t. I heard he and Tracy got married though.”
Nate leans down, and rests his elbows on my door. He takes a look around, as if to make certain no one will overhear him, “Oh yeah, he got married all right.”
“Yeah?” I’m getting interested just because of the tone in his voice.
“Yeah, he got married, you know, to Tracy. But she cheated on him, dragged him through hot coals, divorced him, took him for everything he had, and hung him out to dry.”
Since you don’t know any of these people, I’ll just tell you that this news was akin to having lightning strike the tree you’re under -- this just couldn’t be. Eddie and Tracy were one of those couples that you knew were going to stick together through thick and thin. Eddie was just head over heels about her, talked about her all the time. Eddie played bass -- a fantastic bass player -- and was one of the jolliest guys you could ever meet. There was something really wrong about this situation – it was simply too unjust. Something so bad couldn’t have happened to Eddie, and certainly not at the hands of his precious little Tracy. It just couldn’t be.
“Are you serious?”
“Totally! He lives over in Castleton Hills neighborhood.”
“Oh man, I’ve got to go see him.”
“Okay,” his tone was telling me to drop the idea, he stuttered and hesitated, “well, he’s not the same guy.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” again, he was trying to change my mind, “just…well he’s different now than he used to be. He’s skinnier ‘n a rail, you know.”
This too, was like discovering your grandma was a drug dealer – Eddie was, well, big-boned: a bit on the chubby side. The girls always said he was like a big cute teddy bear. That completely fit his jolly personality as well as his musical instrument. Some of the best bass players are pretty big guys, a bit on the hefty side, I think it’s because a little extra tonnage really helps those bass notes come out better. He used to have a great set of meat-hooks that could really give the bass strings a workout.
“No way! Eddie?”
“Oh man, you’re gonna freak when you see him.” Perhaps he was accepting the fact that I was going to see Eddie.
Nate gave me directions to Eddie’s. He was apparently holed up in some nice lady’s detached garage in a fancy neighborhood. So I didn’t pass go or collect 200 dollars, I went directly to Eddie’s.
Wow, was I in for a shock!
J.P.T.
Until Nate asked, “Hey Jean-Paul, have you seen Eddie since you got back?”
“No, I haven’t. I heard he and Tracy got married though.”
Nate leans down, and rests his elbows on my door. He takes a look around, as if to make certain no one will overhear him, “Oh yeah, he got married all right.”
“Yeah?” I’m getting interested just because of the tone in his voice.
“Yeah, he got married, you know, to Tracy. But she cheated on him, dragged him through hot coals, divorced him, took him for everything he had, and hung him out to dry.”
Since you don’t know any of these people, I’ll just tell you that this news was akin to having lightning strike the tree you’re under -- this just couldn’t be. Eddie and Tracy were one of those couples that you knew were going to stick together through thick and thin. Eddie was just head over heels about her, talked about her all the time. Eddie played bass -- a fantastic bass player -- and was one of the jolliest guys you could ever meet. There was something really wrong about this situation – it was simply too unjust. Something so bad couldn’t have happened to Eddie, and certainly not at the hands of his precious little Tracy. It just couldn’t be.
“Are you serious?”
“Totally! He lives over in Castleton Hills neighborhood.”
“Oh man, I’ve got to go see him.”
“Okay,” his tone was telling me to drop the idea, he stuttered and hesitated, “well, he’s not the same guy.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” again, he was trying to change my mind, “just…well he’s different now than he used to be. He’s skinnier ‘n a rail, you know.”
This too, was like discovering your grandma was a drug dealer – Eddie was, well, big-boned: a bit on the chubby side. The girls always said he was like a big cute teddy bear. That completely fit his jolly personality as well as his musical instrument. Some of the best bass players are pretty big guys, a bit on the hefty side, I think it’s because a little extra tonnage really helps those bass notes come out better. He used to have a great set of meat-hooks that could really give the bass strings a workout.
“No way! Eddie?”
“Oh man, you’re gonna freak when you see him.” Perhaps he was accepting the fact that I was going to see Eddie.
Nate gave me directions to Eddie’s. He was apparently holed up in some nice lady’s detached garage in a fancy neighborhood. So I didn’t pass go or collect 200 dollars, I went directly to Eddie’s.
Wow, was I in for a shock!
J.P.T.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - NATHAN PUMPING MY GAS
All right, yes, I played in a few groups. That’s when I found out that rock musicians are, in general, scumbags doing their darndest to hit (a) rock-bottom, (b) the poor house, (c) hell, or (d) all the above. Of course D! You know how when you try to save someone from drowning, and the drownee panics and drags you down with him so that you both go to a watery grave? Yeah, that’s what the music world is like: a whole bunch of waste-cases dragging you down with them so you can all die miserably together.
So there, I had wasted several formative years rubbing elbows with these miscreants and saw how stupid I had been. Having met some “real” guitarists who hadn’t made it big, I knew that as good as I was at guitar, I had little hope of attaining stardom. So I cut my losses and ran. I ran from the music scene like a girl whose poofy 80’s hair caught on fire from one of those ridiculous flaming concoctions that some drunk musician spilled on her in a bar, and I have never looked back wondering what if.
Nevertheless, at the time, I had a legitimate problem -- having lived the stupid life of a musician, I had frittered my high-school years away and wrecked any chance of achieving what could be called “an education.” So before I even graduated, I enlisted in the military. You might never have guessed, but that didn’t sit well with those who swore I was destined to shred my guitar on stage before millions in a world tour and rake in massive quantities of money. In particular, there was one friend named Nate. Nate and I were really great friends … until I enlisted. Wow was he pissed! You’d think that I’d wrecked his new car, burned his house down, and was drinkin’ in some cross-town bar with his girl! He berated me, cussed me out, and basically reamed me out a new one. To this day, I still don’t really understand why he took my enlisting so personally. He then tried to convince me to go with him to college so we could party-hearty. Needless to say, I went to basic-training and he went to college.
Well, this tale isn’t about Nate. Nevertheless, I’ve got to talk about him because I bought a really cool sports car. I know you’re wondering where this is going. This tale is kind of an experience, so just bear with me. Okay, back to the “sports car,” It wasn’t a Porsche, or a Corvette, or even a Mustang, you’ve got to be kidding -– remember I frittered away my chances for a real sports car by trying to be a musician. Anyway, it’s like a poor man’s sports car, but to me it was really cool: a blue and silver Shelby Charger. It was cheap, it was quick, and it had a hatchback that I could stuff massive quantities of stuff as I moved from one location to another. Ah, the military life. I really feel like tossing a grenade when I hear some sissy politician in a $700.00 suit talk about how overpaid military folks are.
So, as I mentioned earlier, I came home on furlough. Yes indeed, I drove my sporty car home to St. Louis and the very next day, I pulled into the Sinclair station to fill’er-up. You’ll never guess who was pumping the gas. Of course! Nate! It seems that he did go to college, and he did party-hearty. He partied himself right out of an education and now he, Nate, the guy who reamed me for enlisting, is pumping my gas. I have to admit that it was deliciously satisfying.
However, my satisfaction was very short lived. Oh man, just wait until you read what Nate told me next.
J.P.T.
So there, I had wasted several formative years rubbing elbows with these miscreants and saw how stupid I had been. Having met some “real” guitarists who hadn’t made it big, I knew that as good as I was at guitar, I had little hope of attaining stardom. So I cut my losses and ran. I ran from the music scene like a girl whose poofy 80’s hair caught on fire from one of those ridiculous flaming concoctions that some drunk musician spilled on her in a bar, and I have never looked back wondering what if.
Nevertheless, at the time, I had a legitimate problem -- having lived the stupid life of a musician, I had frittered my high-school years away and wrecked any chance of achieving what could be called “an education.” So before I even graduated, I enlisted in the military. You might never have guessed, but that didn’t sit well with those who swore I was destined to shred my guitar on stage before millions in a world tour and rake in massive quantities of money. In particular, there was one friend named Nate. Nate and I were really great friends … until I enlisted. Wow was he pissed! You’d think that I’d wrecked his new car, burned his house down, and was drinkin’ in some cross-town bar with his girl! He berated me, cussed me out, and basically reamed me out a new one. To this day, I still don’t really understand why he took my enlisting so personally. He then tried to convince me to go with him to college so we could party-hearty. Needless to say, I went to basic-training and he went to college.
Well, this tale isn’t about Nate. Nevertheless, I’ve got to talk about him because I bought a really cool sports car. I know you’re wondering where this is going. This tale is kind of an experience, so just bear with me. Okay, back to the “sports car,” It wasn’t a Porsche, or a Corvette, or even a Mustang, you’ve got to be kidding -– remember I frittered away my chances for a real sports car by trying to be a musician. Anyway, it’s like a poor man’s sports car, but to me it was really cool: a blue and silver Shelby Charger. It was cheap, it was quick, and it had a hatchback that I could stuff massive quantities of stuff as I moved from one location to another. Ah, the military life. I really feel like tossing a grenade when I hear some sissy politician in a $700.00 suit talk about how overpaid military folks are.
So, as I mentioned earlier, I came home on furlough. Yes indeed, I drove my sporty car home to St. Louis and the very next day, I pulled into the Sinclair station to fill’er-up. You’ll never guess who was pumping the gas. Of course! Nate! It seems that he did go to college, and he did party-hearty. He partied himself right out of an education and now he, Nate, the guy who reamed me for enlisting, is pumping my gas. I have to admit that it was deliciously satisfying.
However, my satisfaction was very short lived. Oh man, just wait until you read what Nate told me next.
J.P.T.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - INTRODUCTION
In a past life, (listen, this is just an expression that means it was a long time ago, a couple careers back, when I was young and foolish), I had come back to the St. Louis area on furlough from where I was stationed in the military. It had been a long time since I had been home and many things had changed.
First, I suppose you should know a few other things so that your mind doesn’t wander as you read this so-clamored-for tale. As a youth, I had only seldom dreamed of the military life (only after a cool movie). I really wanted to be a doctor as far back as I could remember – most of my life. However, in middle school, I discovered Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, which was sort of like MTV before there was MTV. Oh yeah, seeing all those famous rock, jazz, folk and pop stars performing on stage was too much for my young psyche: I was mesmerized.
By the way, when I was in elementary school, and everyone in the class was reporting on what they wanted to be when they grew up and I declared my desire to become a doctor, it was Mrs. Adams who said I'd never make it because it was too difficult. Yeah, THE Mrs. Adams who walked about the classroom incessantly flossing her teeth ALL freaking day long. Yeah, YOU know who I'm talking about! She went on and on and on about how many years of college there was, how intense the studying would be, yaada yaada yaada. Mrs. Adams, if you ever read this, let me tell you a little something. I had terrific grades and was a really smart cookie, why would you piss on a little kid's Wheaties like that?! I shoulda told my dad what you said so he coulda come down and given you a knuckle sandwich, you tooth-flossin' sicko dream-crusher! Don't you remember my report on Abraham Lincoln I wrote on my very own but which you accused me of getting my dad to write it for me?!?! Huh?!?! Remember?!?! I was spelling-bee champion of the entire grade school two years in a row! On that very day you dashed my dream of being a surgeon, I could have beaten you on any human anatomy test!
Okay, that was cathartic. I shall now continue.
So, understanding that I could never be a doctor because it was too difficult, it was easy to follow the world’s wide and well-trodden path to destruction: I immediately discarded all aspirations to help the world be a better place. Yes, I saved up money to buy an electric guitar. I was crazy in love with this dream! I would gaze for hours at the pictures of the lead guitarists of groups whose LPs I listened to. I skipped lunch and went without lots of goodies in order to save for the guitar. I hoarded change and dollar bills in a family-size pickle jar and after not gaining any weight for several months, I bought my first electric guitar. Looking back, I realize it was a cheap guitar that no pro would have ever considered using, but I still think of it as a sweet instrument because … well, if I have to explain it, you just wouldn’t understand why. My dad pitched in a good amount so I could have an amplifier to play it through. I took lessons and practiced round the clock. It oughta be clear by now that I poured my soul into this dream – I starved myself to buy one, idolized those who had made it big, and I ate, slept, and drank guitar licks - I really did fall asleep with it a few times! Before long, I had become a pretty good guitarist. I wound up playing lead guitar in a number of rock bands, having fun doing cover songs.
So how in the world did I wind up in the military? That’s for the next post. See you soon.
J.P.T.
First, I suppose you should know a few other things so that your mind doesn’t wander as you read this so-clamored-for tale. As a youth, I had only seldom dreamed of the military life (only after a cool movie). I really wanted to be a doctor as far back as I could remember – most of my life. However, in middle school, I discovered Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, which was sort of like MTV before there was MTV. Oh yeah, seeing all those famous rock, jazz, folk and pop stars performing on stage was too much for my young psyche: I was mesmerized.
By the way, when I was in elementary school, and everyone in the class was reporting on what they wanted to be when they grew up and I declared my desire to become a doctor, it was Mrs. Adams who said I'd never make it because it was too difficult. Yeah, THE Mrs. Adams who walked about the classroom incessantly flossing her teeth ALL freaking day long. Yeah, YOU know who I'm talking about! She went on and on and on about how many years of college there was, how intense the studying would be, yaada yaada yaada. Mrs. Adams, if you ever read this, let me tell you a little something. I had terrific grades and was a really smart cookie, why would you piss on a little kid's Wheaties like that?! I shoulda told my dad what you said so he coulda come down and given you a knuckle sandwich, you tooth-flossin' sicko dream-crusher! Don't you remember my report on Abraham Lincoln I wrote on my very own but which you accused me of getting my dad to write it for me?!?! Huh?!?! Remember?!?! I was spelling-bee champion of the entire grade school two years in a row! On that very day you dashed my dream of being a surgeon, I could have beaten you on any human anatomy test!
Okay, that was cathartic. I shall now continue.
So, understanding that I could never be a doctor because it was too difficult, it was easy to follow the world’s wide and well-trodden path to destruction: I immediately discarded all aspirations to help the world be a better place. Yes, I saved up money to buy an electric guitar. I was crazy in love with this dream! I would gaze for hours at the pictures of the lead guitarists of groups whose LPs I listened to. I skipped lunch and went without lots of goodies in order to save for the guitar. I hoarded change and dollar bills in a family-size pickle jar and after not gaining any weight for several months, I bought my first electric guitar. Looking back, I realize it was a cheap guitar that no pro would have ever considered using, but I still think of it as a sweet instrument because … well, if I have to explain it, you just wouldn’t understand why. My dad pitched in a good amount so I could have an amplifier to play it through. I took lessons and practiced round the clock. It oughta be clear by now that I poured my soul into this dream – I starved myself to buy one, idolized those who had made it big, and I ate, slept, and drank guitar licks - I really did fall asleep with it a few times! Before long, I had become a pretty good guitarist. I wound up playing lead guitar in a number of rock bands, having fun doing cover songs.
So how in the world did I wind up in the military? That’s for the next post. See you soon.
J.P.T.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
THE TREBUCHET TALE THAT SO MANY ARE CLAMORING FOR
I have had some requests from friends that I post this incredibly ridiculous story from yesteryear. It is quite a tale and I’m sure it will take many posts. I will start working on it soon and begin posting within a week. Think you can hold on that long? Great!
J.P.T.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Evicted
Yes, it's true. We've been evicted. It has been a sort of "eminent domain" thing. Ah, government - can't live with it, can't live without it. Such is the way of most of the world. Our things are all moved out of our house - what has been our home for over a decade - and stored at a friend's place across town. We are relocating at a hidden location far far away, but it will take some time before I am ready to post another blog. Hey, I have a lovely wife and children to provide for, give me a break. Everyone needs a place to live, after all.
I will write soon, promise.
By the way, I AM still planning on entering the Writer's Digest annual contest. My time is dwindling, I know. I am thinking that I may be able to eek out a little more time before the deadline to polish my short story a bit.
I was also thinking that a good writer should be able to write about even a boring and mundane subject and make it interesting. So I am also paying attention to some really boring and mundane subjects and hope to scribble a little something to see if I have what it takes to put a spark into something really dull.
J.P.T.
I will write soon, promise.
By the way, I AM still planning on entering the Writer's Digest annual contest. My time is dwindling, I know. I am thinking that I may be able to eek out a little more time before the deadline to polish my short story a bit.
I was also thinking that a good writer should be able to write about even a boring and mundane subject and make it interesting. So I am also paying attention to some really boring and mundane subjects and hope to scribble a little something to see if I have what it takes to put a spark into something really dull.
J.P.T.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Interviewing the character
I love to write. I don't know yet if I'm good at it, so I've bought lots of books and check out a few blogs and many websites hunting for golden nuggets that will help me refine my craft.
I ran across some advice that said I ought to interview my character. The idea is that you sort of pretend that your character is a real person and you just sort of split your personality and pretend to interview this person that doesn't exist except in your mind. Because of the way I just explained the idea, you can tell that I balked at this advice. You see, I am a rational, intelligent human being, and I happen to know that it's really the writer who imagines and creates his characters, endowing them with their values and traits, their mannerisms and quirks, and so on. So yes, I rolled my eyes at the idea.
Until I tried it.
I love my main character in this short story I'm writing. He's the main character in a novel I have outlined, and this short story is a further development of the prologue. Anyway, yeah, I think this guy is terrific: an underdog type that picks himself up by his bootstraps, improvises, and overcomes against all the odds. Yeah, predictable American male author, I know, so sue me! By the way, this character is not based on me. He's not much like me at all, except that we're both terrific guys with stunning good looks. Don't distract me! The point is this - I thought I had this guy nailed down, but when I started trying to whip this short story into shape, I found that I, believe it or not, didn't have this guy figured out. So I gave in to the temptation to follow the advice. I interviewed Robert.
Okay, it was a weird interview. This was not a "Geri's Game" sort of thing. I just started with what I knew and then posed a few questions based on those little basics. Yes it was still under my control, I was the creator-in-charge, but it was still very cool and strange. I stood in front of my classroom chalkboard and wrote a few facts down, things fell where they fell as my questions came and went, and within 15 minutes I had the entire board filled with bubbles, arrows, lines, and scribbles: a hundred values, traits and mannerisms for this character.
So even though an author may have the basic plot and characters in mind, there is something really dynamic about how a character, even though they aren’t real except in the mind of the author, somehow develops himself and lets the author know who they are.
I have already written my synopsis for the novel starring this character, but before I start writing the novel itself, I am definitely going to "interview" every single major character in the book.
J.P.T.
I ran across some advice that said I ought to interview my character. The idea is that you sort of pretend that your character is a real person and you just sort of split your personality and pretend to interview this person that doesn't exist except in your mind. Because of the way I just explained the idea, you can tell that I balked at this advice. You see, I am a rational, intelligent human being, and I happen to know that it's really the writer who imagines and creates his characters, endowing them with their values and traits, their mannerisms and quirks, and so on. So yes, I rolled my eyes at the idea.
Until I tried it.
I love my main character in this short story I'm writing. He's the main character in a novel I have outlined, and this short story is a further development of the prologue. Anyway, yeah, I think this guy is terrific: an underdog type that picks himself up by his bootstraps, improvises, and overcomes against all the odds. Yeah, predictable American male author, I know, so sue me! By the way, this character is not based on me. He's not much like me at all, except that we're both terrific guys with stunning good looks. Don't distract me! The point is this - I thought I had this guy nailed down, but when I started trying to whip this short story into shape, I found that I, believe it or not, didn't have this guy figured out. So I gave in to the temptation to follow the advice. I interviewed Robert.
Okay, it was a weird interview. This was not a "Geri's Game" sort of thing. I just started with what I knew and then posed a few questions based on those little basics. Yes it was still under my control, I was the creator-in-charge, but it was still very cool and strange. I stood in front of my classroom chalkboard and wrote a few facts down, things fell where they fell as my questions came and went, and within 15 minutes I had the entire board filled with bubbles, arrows, lines, and scribbles: a hundred values, traits and mannerisms for this character.
So even though an author may have the basic plot and characters in mind, there is something really dynamic about how a character, even though they aren’t real except in the mind of the author, somehow develops himself and lets the author know who they are.
I have already written my synopsis for the novel starring this character, but before I start writing the novel itself, I am definitely going to "interview" every single major character in the book.
J.P.T.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A Writing Contest
I have decided that I am going to try -- I am making no promises -- to enter the Writer's Digest 78th annual writing competition. I am developing what was to be the prologue of a novel into a short story that will stand by itself. I looked at last year's results, and I was just astonished. Over 17,000 entries and the grand prize winner had already published several things. I'm not anticipating winning the grand prize or anything, but it would sure boost my confidence to place somewhere. Some money would be very nice for my plans to move out to the country and build a cottage.
I have a lot of work ahead of me. I am learning as I go. My lovely wife encourages me but it isn't easy to find time to devote to writing since I have a full time job and a family to care for, a dump truck of daily things that need to be tended to to keep the biz running and to keep all of us provided with the electricity and water we need in out here in the bush.
Right now I am working on personalizing my characters. While there are many things I'm studying that seem to me to be quite elementary, personalization is one that is taking some time for me to feel comfortable with. My main character is already quite different from who I originally pegged him to be. That's good, but I feel sometimes I'm in uncharted territory.
Ahhh, uncharted territory -- makes me grateful for the charted stuff!
J.P.T.
I have a lot of work ahead of me. I am learning as I go. My lovely wife encourages me but it isn't easy to find time to devote to writing since I have a full time job and a family to care for, a dump truck of daily things that need to be tended to to keep the biz running and to keep all of us provided with the electricity and water we need in out here in the bush.
Right now I am working on personalizing my characters. While there are many things I'm studying that seem to me to be quite elementary, personalization is one that is taking some time for me to feel comfortable with. My main character is already quite different from who I originally pegged him to be. That's good, but I feel sometimes I'm in uncharted territory.
Ahhh, uncharted territory -- makes me grateful for the charted stuff!
J.P.T.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Introduction
Hello and welcome.
I have always loved to write, but always carried around that assumption that people who "just write" are misfits or too lazy to get a real job. Having had several real jobs, I still have this great passion to create art, and that's what writing is.
Something deeper to say about that? Art wasn't meant to be crafted and then tucked away. Art is supposed to be shared, and good art is appreciated when it is shared. I could write whatever I want and I know it would be good - at least to me it would be a work of art. But I want my art to be appreciated. Who wouldn't?
I have several stories in mind, I'm going to let them ferment and develop as I learn this new trade. Yes, having loved to write since before I could write in cursive, I still have much to learn. It is art after all and before an artist displays his art, he should at least become good at it. That is what I am working toward achieving. I was surprised at how many things I have not needed to learn, I apparently learned them naturally. Isn't it nice when that happens? Other things, I found I have had to study, reflect, and play around with. That's how life goes.
J.P.T.
I have always loved to write, but always carried around that assumption that people who "just write" are misfits or too lazy to get a real job. Having had several real jobs, I still have this great passion to create art, and that's what writing is.
Something deeper to say about that? Art wasn't meant to be crafted and then tucked away. Art is supposed to be shared, and good art is appreciated when it is shared. I could write whatever I want and I know it would be good - at least to me it would be a work of art. But I want my art to be appreciated. Who wouldn't?
I have several stories in mind, I'm going to let them ferment and develop as I learn this new trade. Yes, having loved to write since before I could write in cursive, I still have much to learn. It is art after all and before an artist displays his art, he should at least become good at it. That is what I am working toward achieving. I was surprised at how many things I have not needed to learn, I apparently learned them naturally. Isn't it nice when that happens? Other things, I found I have had to study, reflect, and play around with. That's how life goes.
J.P.T.
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