Bah

Has is really been this long? I know I’m a tad of a shirk when it comes to this blog, but I do hope you will understand that my priorities have changed. Do you realize how difficult it is to track down a decent polo pony? And those parties that Hef hosts can drag on for weeks. Don’t even get me started on my tailor. That man is more difficult than Mario, my personal grooviness handler. Sure there is some free time at the estate, but most of that is consumed by directing the construction of the air strip and keeping the staff in line. Living large can be so wearisome.

Truth be told though, I have just come off a long session of lying on the couch watching the garbage channel and listening to the oldies music that they play. You know, the city public service channel that shows the dates and times for city council meetings, parking fine instructions, regulations for trash collection and other such useful information. My big splurge was on a HD television and a surround sound home entertainment system. Probably not the wisest investment considering that I don’t watch much television. There are very few HD channels, so I mostly sit in front of the thing looking at travel and nature programs. I’m now quite the authority on the social structure of ants and the bistros of Tuscany. Race cars and football helmets look really cool in HD too. I’m not much of a fan of Nascar or football, but somehow my eyes are glued to the television watching the bright and shiny. I wont speak too much of being caught using the pause and slow motion feature of the remote during a particularly intricate cheerleading routine. But hey, it’s HD.

In reality, money doesn’t change much of anything. There are some semi- mystical aspects to it though. A new and awkward underlying sense of comfort is constantly at battle with the ingrained and time hardened sense of dread and gloom over making simple decisions such as whether or not to buy the fancy potato chips. I find myself standing in the aisle consuming far too much time debating in my mind if the extra dollar for the damned things wouldn’t be better spent going toward a good no load index fund and whether the extra good greasiness of them will hasten my demise and make saving money a moot point anyway. Of course I end up buying them, along with a package of Junior Mints and a diet Mountain Dew. And then there is the “is it payday?" phenomenon. There was always such anticipation for every other Friday. The calculations and total awareness of the bills to be paid and the bills that might be put off to be able to go to a nice restaurant or even splurge for some new socks or underwear. Well, the bills have been eliminated and now payday does not hold the same force that it once did. There is just more money dumped by direct deposit onto the rest of the pile. It’s a strange irony to listen to coworkers payday plans and know that even though I am in a better place financially than they are, it still isn’t good enough to walk away from the job. There is some subtle guilt on my part and some wondering if their view or opinion of me has changed. Maybe I have lost the perspective of it all. Everyone has been genuinely supportive and understand that it was not enough to be partying with Hef or building airstrips on the north forty of the estate. I did on one occasion upgrade from Paramount to Bacardi rum, and am considering having a small retaining wall built out in the backyard.

Some have warned that I will become a slave to this money, and I have a bit of a sense of what they are speaking of. The greedy side of myself that existed before seems to have been somewhat amplified. Not in the Ebenezer Scrooge drift where I am considering creating a “counting room” or see fit to proclaim, “darkness is cheap.” In fact, I am now more willing to crank the heat up a few more degrees and rationalize that I make up for that with the energy saving fluorescent light bulbs that I have installed. But the tale of Ebenezer in “A Christmas Carol” does underscore the fragility of fortunes and of human life. A good friend passed on recently; most likely an expensive tab for the State, as he lived a life that most would consider low and died after a month long coma in a university hospital with no insurance and no resources. It wasn’t the fall that killed him, but the stress and strain that years of alcohol and drugs had taken on his body. Oh, Ebenezer would say, “don’t they have poor laws?” for people like that. So why do I feel guilty that there was nobody with the means to advocate for my friend? Much of his family had abandoned him. Nobody with means? I do have some means now. Maybe I should have been the one asking if there was anything else that could be done or asking for a second opinion on my own dime. What the hell defines right and wrong, rich and poor, doing the right thing and walking away? My friend passes on with no questions asked and I rationalize with what I believe in my heart is correct; that I have an offspring and close relatives that have no insurance and health issues and have lived clean and honest lives and whose lives are more worth investing in than a close friend that wrote his own ticket to his own grave. Ah humbug.

Money Changes Everything

Sad to report that there have been no rescues of damsels in distress, saving of deaf children or other such heroic acts since I last posted here. But I do have another sort of exciting news to offer. Notice I didn’t say to share with you. For you see, in the immortal words of Cyndi Lauper, “Money changes everything.” Even necessitates the procurement of a financial advisor. A grudging trip to the casino pays off with a net profit of $2,200, and that is partially “invested” in a $10 lottery scratcher, which is in turn parlayed into, um how do I say it? A quarter of a million sounds best, but there is no bad way to phrase it.

A very late day at work takes me to a rural area 35 miles out and with a poor cell phone signal. But I do see 4 missed calls from home, and due to my paranoid nature, I assume something terrible has happened. Not able to get through, I drive to a clearing on a hill and get a connection. A shaky voice on the other end tells me, “Our lives have just changed dramatically.” “Uh, ok. What is it.” Oh boy, it’s the worst news, I just know it. “I just won $250,000 on a lottery ticket.” “Uh, ok. For real?” Repeat. Confirm. Please come out here and slap me in the face. I drive back to finish up the job I was on and share the good news with the crews I had been working with. Crap, am I putting the cart before the horse? I mean, this can’t be real, can it? What if I see these people in a week or two and have to stand in front of them looking down at my feet and tell them “Them lottery scratchers can be confusing.” There is a mad dash home to see with my own eyes. Yeah, there it is, and there is no other way to read it. Let’s take it to where you bought it and have them scan it. No dollar amount, but the machine does spit out a claim form, which confirms it’s at least $600. Strange eyes take a look and all agree that it is what it is. Strange eyes? Let’s get out of here. Anyone following us? Where is the key to the fire proof box with all of the important documents? And the baseball bat to put alongside the bed. But there is little sleep. I punch the remote and bring up Suze Orman on CNBC. This is distressing. I used to see her as a financial scold; berating folks smart enough to make a lot of money, but yet too stupid to know what to do with it. Wow, this guy has $50,000 to invest and gets taken by his financial advisor. I toss and turn and then go out to the computer and pull up mortgage calculators and a glossary of financial terms. I am one lost little lamb here in my new world. This is going to be like cramming the night before a physics exam when I haven’t attended a class or ever opened the book. Back to bed. More tossing and turning. The alarm clock goes off and I get out of bed and call my boss to tell him that I need to be off at noon to go to Cedar Rapids to turn in a high dollar scratcher. “How high dollar?” Do I tell him? The cart before the horse thing? He’s a good guy. I trained him, left to take another job, that company slid downhill, and I had to come back to him three years later to ask him to hire me back. “Well Denny, a quarter of a million dollars.” A few moments of silence, and then, “Hell yes, take off. You don’t want that thing laying around the house all weekend. Hey, I can get you in on a great deal on some land in Iraq.”

The decision was made to take a week or so to let it settle in and then go find a financial advisor. That will be this week. There has been a lot of advice issued with good intentions, but bottom line is that there are a lot of options, and save investing in land in Iraq or falling prey to some other scam, even the most conservative options will mean not having to worry any more about having to work until I’m 70 years old. Of course there some downsides to all of this. The certifiably demented Dirk has laid claim to 50% of the stash. His illogical claim is based on the general comments people make when dreaming of winning one of the multi-million dollar jackpots. You know, “I’ll share it with you or give you a big chunk of it.” Ok, he would have been in on the deal if not for his outrageous demand and the fact that he drove his giant Oldsmobile onto my driveway to inform me of his intention to sue. There will be sharing and helping out to come, but not until the fine print has been read and figures are placed on paper and signed. The tax folks have already helped themselves to $75,00, and based on my simple minded calculations, they will probably end up getting more. But it is generally good. It is so groovy, hip, mod, cool and all of that sit here and have to search for that least worn key on the keyboard. “$” I hope to invest well, wear that son of a bitch down to the point that it fades away, and then be able to help out all of those who have been good to me. And to all of those who have suggested that God was looking out for us, I want to reinforce that I am still and agnostic, so, maybe yes and maybe no. But I still respect your beliefs and hope that God looks out for you too.

Weary Stream of Consciousness

Warm enough for ya? Hot as Hell. I’ve been wondering if Hell is a dry heat or if there is humidity there? Tampa or Tucson? It’s one thing to be a writhing sulfur fume breathing tormented soul in an arid climate, but if I were certain that Hell had a high dew point, I would be more inclined to live a more righteous lifestyle. And then what about Satan’s assistants? The guys who stand around jabbing the damned with pitchforks. Did they arrive with credentials, or did they work their way up the ladder? Not too far up of course. Do you have to be a Charlie Manson sort from the start, or are you allowed to refine your evil to impress to boss and be rewarded with a lesser degree of eternal agony than the average Joe adulterers and blasphemers? Oh, the afterlife is a confusing thing to ponder for someone so at struggle with the meaning of his own earthly life.

Ok, I don’t really struggle with the meaning of my life, or life in general. It seems a pointless thing to do and I fear ending up taking a path or following a belief that will amuse most and benefit a few. Having to find the strength to bear the load of being the object of ridicule. I admire tree huggers, Kucinich campaigners, and guys who study neurotransmitters in the brains of insects. For someone who gravitates to the absurd, there are far to many woeful paths to follow, so I am content in being shallow.

As far as my shallow life of late, I am pleased to report that my visit to my smart assed doctor went swimmingly. The good numbers were better and the bad numbers were better. I don’t try to understand any of it though. The man silently stares at me, studies the test results on his clipboard and then looks up at me beaming. He never says it, but I just know that he is taking the credit. Never mind that the folks at Donuts and More have filed a missing person report for me, or that Yahoo Business posted an article on a mysterious drop in sugar consumption that threatens to doom the market. And that nice Indian fellow at the liquor store has had to postpone bringing his wife to the United States. No, it wasn’t any of the sacrifices I made, it was most assuredly the doctors glare that turned those numbers around.

Oh yeah, apparently, I underestimated the magnitude of my grooviness. I meet a lot of odd people and see a lot of odd things on the job. An aging hippie with some sort of dog that was bred to herd sheep read my aura and determined that I had some special sort of presence about me. It was a difficult conversation, as the dog took me for a threat to the hippy's nonexistent sheep and kept trying to attack me. Between the snarling and pulling back on the leash, what I took him to say is that my gift qualifies me to be a holy man in 16 different religions, including two of the major ones. I may have gotten some of that wrong, but I am quite certain that he mentioned my grooviness several times. Along with something about how he may have to kill his neighbor.

With that, I bid adieu until next time when I hope to return with real life action packed tales of adventure and daring-do. Perhaps I will rescue a damsel in distress or disarm a bomb or dodge bullets in a successful attempt to rescue a kitty from a burning building. Maybe I will pull deaf children from a car stalled on a railroad crossing seconds before the train arrives or capture Osama or use my grooviness to bring about world peace. Ya never know.

Mel and Tillie

When I was a wee lad, my uncle Mel and aunt Tillie took me to the Shivering Fawn Recreational Facility for a weekend of camping. After stetting up camp on a vista overlooking the playround, Mel sent Tillie out into the woods to gather nuts and berries and then sat me on his lap to play bumpy car ride. I didn’t get much from it, but uncle Mel sure seemed to enjoy himself. After excusing himself to answer natures call, he returned and had me reach into his pocket for his Buck Knife. He then he taught me how to whittle a really cool looking rocket ship from a long stick. He held it up to the light of the campfire, eyes gleaming with pride, and then told me that he was going into the tent to hide the rocket ship, and asked me to stand at the edge of the forest and yell out if I saw any sign of aunt Tillie. I guess he planned on giving it to her for Christmas. All and all, it was a good time and I agreed to go again with them the next year.

With much anticipation, the big day arrived, and we got into Mel’s van to hit the road. We were temporarily disappointed to learn that the Shivering Fawn had been reserved for a Renaissance Faire, but much to our surprise, uncle Mel seemed taken with the festivities and ended up paying a premium price for a camp spot overlooking the wading pool. He even bought us all medieval garb to wear. I was outfitted as a fool, Tillie a peasant woman, and Mel found a special shoppe, though I wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be. Tillie and I dined at the Queen’s Tea Room while Mel set out to find something called grog. We spotted him a little later standing in line for the Portaloo’s near the Kiddie Kingdom. Then all hell broke loose. A large group of men wearing shiny metal suits came toward him shouting, “Knave,” and began beating him with spiky balls hanging from chains. After he was put into the ambulance, I never saw him again. Tillie took off traveling on the Renaissance Faire circut working for a woman turkey leg vendor and began refering to herself as a Lady in Waiting.

Froster Wedding

Ah its June, sweet summertime, the favored month to say, “I do.” I was fortunate enough to snag an invite this weekend to the most anticipated nuptials in these parts in recent memory. Peggy Froster and Benny Fragman, after a whirlwind courtship, were convinced by Peggy’s father to do the correct thing. Mr. Froster, with his vast used auto parts wealth, spared no expense for the ceremonies. He reserved the Thunderbolt Baptist church for the wedding and secured Billmons Barn for the reception festivities. There was even a best man, a maid of honor and attendants, just like you see in movies. The bride wore a Sam Walton Signature Series gown and how the ladies did swoon over the groom bedecked in the plaid sport coat Mr. Froster had borrowed from the cutting torch salesman who brings him the nudie girl calendars for his office. Pastor Noonan conducted a marvelous ceremony, and other than a minor mishap during the snake handling and Mrs. Frosters brief spell of delirium tremens, the event was proclaimed a major success by all in attendance.

The same cannot said for the reception. An unexpected downpour muddied the road to Billmons Barn, so the entire wedding party and all of the guests had to be ferried there in the back of Mr. Frosters business truck. And then Billy Bigford who had been hired to crank the dynamo to provide electricity wrenched his back. There were hard feelings when Mr. Froster assigned the chore to Lucy Mulcomp, the maid of honor. Her considerable heft made her the logical choice, but Mrs. Mulcomp took issue and two camps of differing opinion emerged, with fisticuffs ensuing. Mr. Froster was able to restore order by agreeing to the early tapping of the barrels of moonshine. The affair went swimmingly by the glow of kerosene lamps until groom Benny was discovered wooing Lucy and her mother in the back of Mr. Frosters business truck. Firearms were discharged, kerosene lamps upended and in the end, Billmons barn lay smoldering. Mr. Froster will be at the courthouse door first thing Monday morning to see to the annulment.

Septic Happiness

Excuse the tardiness of Lizap. I’ll cop to that. Tardy is apt and I will submit to detention, time out, suspension, probation, stoning, or whatever is necessary to atone for my ass dragging sin of slacking on the blog. Yeah, its work again. Stupid work. The paychecks are awesome, but who the hell cares when you are too beat down to do anything other than sit down in a comfy chair and admire a bank statement. And it still aint near enough to afford that nice little summer place in Amsterdam. I should have read the signs properly when this barrage of overtime began. When you see a black cat running on a course to cross in front of you and the damned thing stops dead in its tracks at your feet, looks up at you in fear, and then bolts back the way it came, you should suspect that tough times are coming. Or when an F-5 dust devil roars toward you in a parking lot and at the last moment veers away to rough up a little old lady, you have to wonder whether you are blessed or evil. Of course Ed the republican dog did manage to sink his teeth into my leg. But his master was as pretty as she was apologetic, so in an act of mercy I decided to spare Ed from impoundment and take satisfaction in being able to display my war wound and share the tale with my associates. And then there is still the omnipresent Dirk. Oh, he calls everyday to spill out the seeds of guilt. “I live alone, cant drive and you are my only link to the outside world.” Am I a cold SOB to tell you that it grows old? That I would give up my dream of an Amsterdam summer place for a week of living alone, not driving, and avoiding the outside world? And while I have your ear, what am I supposed to do about your belongings that fill my basement and garage? You know, the bottom drawer stuff that didn’t sell at auction or didn’t even get a nibble on Ebay? The thousands of pictures of people I don’t know and you cant remember anymore. The gaudy picture frames and the bawdy postcards? Yes I feel your pain, but no you cannot come over for a meat and potato dinner served on real china on Thursday evening. It is an unreasonable request and I don’t know if its your dementia or your vanity that tells you that it is not, but by the time I get home from work, warmed up mozzarella sticks and a peanut butter sandwich do the trick for me.

In the words of ex boss Willie, “Whooee boy, it damn well feels fine to blow off some steam.” I miss Willie. He was a harsh taskmaster, but abhorred overtime. Of course my present boss is at the mercy of matters beyond his control, so I don’t put any blame on him personally. In the last several years, my company has been bought and sold and bought and sold by investment companies looking to make a quick buck. Trim some fat and cook the books to make a nice presentation for the next buyer. We are slaves to men in suits who have no knowledge of or interest in what we do. One thousand employees, shave off two minutes of this or that from their routine, and their production will rise by this rate and we will save enough money to include mention of it in our PowerPoint presentation that we are preparing for the planned sell off of your bread and butter. The man who began my company was honest and hard working and fair to all of us. He started with very little and sold the company for a large profit and never has to work another day in his life. The American Dream at its finest. The men who we work for now represent the malevolent specter of capitalism. They are the sly dogs that know how to manipulate the system and enrich themselves through financial engineering rather than any sort of meaningful idea or honest work. They will beg to differ and tell you of dismal failures and vast sums of money lost, but they know that their bought and paid for system provides cushions and even rewards for their own malfeasance. Oh, Willie, am I on a blowing off steam roll or what? Somebody is bound to Google Marxism or Socialist philosophy and wind up reading Lilzap. I’m here for everyone, but refer back to “the man who began my company.”

Ok, I can prod myself and find some happiness. Some reason for being or maybe some reason for life in general. The best kind of happiness usually comes fast and fleeting and from a place that you did not expect it to come from. It comes and then it goes and you find yourself reveling in the moment that you don’t understand and will forever appreciate. The trigger is something that you couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to explain to yourself; and if you could or would, you wouldn’t know how to begin going about it. Then there is the sort of happiness that you plan for but don’t really expect to be fulfilled any time soon. But when it is, and you have the bonus of being able to pat yourself on the back. First steps from the corner of the eye, or seeing the trash at the curb after pulling into the drive after an abdominally long day at work. Simple things that you have scolded for, worked for and knew would come, but just didn’t know when. Simple things. They are the best. The picture on top is of discarded septic tanks. They were designed by faceless folks, built by faceless folks, and sold to faceless folks. But there was pride in their design, their manufacture, their sale, and their purchase. So utilitarian by nature, but so necessary to the order of our society. They will be hoisted and smelted and eventually become Hummers or Hyundai’s. They will be sold once again and deliver children to soccer games and others to their demise. Not to sour the notion of happiness, but life is a circular path of ups and downs and highs and lows, and if my tenor sometimes seems to lean toward the pessimistic side of life, rest assured that Ed the republican dog and I have a snarl and a bark that are much worse than our bite.

Hit the wall update coming

'Scuse the fill. I'm working on it. Working, working working. Sigh.