tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45735629687302520742023-11-16T01:03:05.285-06:00Essays & StoriesStories and essays from a fevered brainAlan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-30392945201026623312012-09-12T18:03:00.000-06:002012-09-12T18:03:10.249-06:00Bats In My Belfry - Part Deux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>or, Bow Down To Chester The Ninja Cat</i></b><br />
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There seems to be a connection between <a href="http://essaysstories.blogspot.com/2011/09/bats-in-my-belfry.html">my fear of bats</a> and the houses I've lived in. No matter what house I've ever lived in, there's been an invasion of at least one bat in each. So I shouldn't have been surprised of yet another invasion of bats in the house I moved into in 2010. Yes, bats, as in more than one. Four to be exact.<br />
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The first two were in the spare bedroom, my girlfriend and her son caught the first one while I hid in the kitchen and almost wet myself. We hired the local <i>bat guy</i> to catch the second one. The modern era of specialization has caught up to the exterminating business, as bats are a protected animal in Illinois, so no regular exterminator will deal with them. So we had to hire a wild animal specialist to remove the bat, and it cost $57. He took the bat out into the country and released it. I didn't have to deal with it so it was money well spent.<br />
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The third bat escapade happened one night at about eleven o'clock as we watched an old rerun of the sitcom <i>Frasier. </i>No lights were on, and we saw the bat flitting in the light of the television. The light was immediately turned on, my girlfriend got off the love seat and grabbed a broom. I sat petrified on the love seat. But the fear quickly turned into anger. I mean, come on. Three bats within a year or so? What the hell was going on? We couldn't see the bat, so my girlfriend went upstairs to see if she could find it. I proceeded to go outside and get another broom. Enough was enough, my anger outweighed my fear and I was determined to catch the little bastard! <br />
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When the bat came back into the living room, I began to take swats it it with the broom. The broom broke, I took the one my girlfriend had and found out real quick that when a bat is flying right at you, there's not much of a chance to swat and hit him because of his sonar. But it doesn't work nearly as well for the bat if you get <i>behind</i> it, and with more of a push than a swat, I knocked his furry butt out of the air and onto the floor. I put the broom on it, got him scooped up with a butterfly net and took it outside. My first bat catch! I was shaking like I was standing in a tub of ice water. Who would have ever thought I'd be able to conquer my fear enough to capture one of the devils?<br />
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Now it was time to investigate further, to try and figure out where in the hell the critters were coming in at. After a search of the possibilities in the basement, we found the entrance! We had a new furnace installed when we bought the house, the guy that installed it neglected to cap off a damper in the chimney. I hadn't noticed the damper right off, for it appeared as if it was a solid piece of metal inside. But just the slightest touch of my finger opened the damper (as would the force of the exhaust from the old furnace). So the resourceful bats were coming down the chimney (which has no screen or cap on it) , tipping the damper open and letting themselves in. A quick wrapping of the damper opening with screen and a temporary wrapping of duct tape would keep the damper closed and the bats out until a more permanent fix could be done. Phew! Problem solved, breathe easy, sleep peacefully again! Unfortunately, humans can sometimes be forgetful. As I've professed to be nothing more or less than human, I acted the part. The permanent fix was not forthcoming, and the temporary fix of the entrance to the bat <i>no-tell-hotel</i> came back to haunt me.<br />
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The fourth <i>Close Encounter Of The Flying Rodent Kind</i> came at about 4:00 in the morning. The teenage boy that lives in the same house as me was awakened by the sound of caterwauling mixed with chirps coming from his doorway. When he rolled over and looked, he saw Chester (one of the three cats that allow the rest of us to live in the house) with a bat on the floor in front of him! Chester had crippled the bat so that it could no longer fly and after some finagling (with Chester helping out immensely) we got the bat in a box and took it outside. I turned the bat over to animal control to have it checked for rabies. We hadn't found any bites on Chester, but it's better to be safe than sorry.<br />
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Turns out the bat squeezed open the damper just enough to get through, then wiggled the screen open enough to get out. Chester caught it when it was wiggling through the screen or some other means. He even could have caught the critter like this cat did:<br />
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Chester has a sweet disposition until something enters his territory. Then he can turn bad ass in a hurry, as the bat found out. The bat turned out not to be rabid, so Chester was fine. He's my hero, that's for sure, and gets his share of kitty treats to prove it.<br />
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I have since put a metal cap over the damper hole in the chimney, will have a screen installed over the opening outside this fall, and I've got some mortar mix to put over the cap just to make sure. And I sure hope the bat situation has been eliminated. But Chester remains on guard, no matter what. He's here, he's there, he's everywhere, Chester The Ninja Cat...<br />
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<b><i><br /></i></b>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-90926215175252775372012-07-02T01:11:00.000-06:002013-03-13T08:33:49.250-06:00My Dirty War Against Bugs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Not just any bugs mind you, but the dreaded scourge of <i>Popillia japonica</i>, more familiarly known as Japanese Beetles. The nasty things are not native to the United States or North America. They are believed to have entered the United States in the early 1900's from a Japanese ship that harbored in New Jersey. The illegal immigrant pests jumped ship and were found in a nursery near Riverton, New Jersey in 1916. The hungry beasts eat over three hundred known kinds of plants including shrubs, vegetables and fruits and the grubs eat the roots of grasses. The estimated damage done by the grubs and adults is over $450 million to the sod and ornamental industries.<br />
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I have had previous experience with them, about ten years ago when they invaded my garden at a house I no longer live in. I had no clue on what to do about them, but I had to try something. They had eaten most of my plants in my back flower beds and vegetable bed and were chomping their way to the ornamental bed at the front of my house. The first line of attack was of course pesticides. Some are known to work well against the adults, such as Sevin®, but I dislike using pesticides, at least until I've tried other remedies. Some websites gave lists of resistant plants, which is great when you're choosing what plants to plant but when the Nipponese Nibblers infest a long- established plant it doesn't do much good. There's also the manual removal method. With a pencil, prod the devils off the plant and into a bucket of soapy water, the brochure told me. This method does work, but who wants to tickle beetles off of a plant in the middle of summer, especially when there can be hundreds of the devils on just one plant? So I resorted to the 'Bag-A-Bug' traps sold at the local Wally World and other such stores.<br />
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The Bag-A-Bug traps work on two principles:<br />
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<b>Principle #1 -</b> Anyone that's dealt with Japanese Beetles can tell you that seldom are they seen solo as the picture above. They are more often seen in pairs of disgusting bugs doing the 'nasty' as demonstrated by the wanton pair of sinful bugs pictured above. They live to eat to excess and to mate (also to excess), sometimes in massive piles of disgusting bug orgies all over the hollyhocks and roses. The hedonistic example these fornicating insects set for the youth of this country is heinous enough to warrant their eradication even without the destruction in plant life they cause. The Bag-A-Bug system taps into their natural strong urges to procreate by offering up a sexual pheromone that turns bugs that are already pretty horny into even more intense sex-starved, immoral bugs.<br />
<b>Principle #2 - </b> As these bugs aren't really all that intelligent and also somewhat clumsy, the Bag-A-Bug system uses these bug traits to full advantage to trap them.<br />
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A close up of the Bag-A-Bug system:<br />
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As with most things, experience proved to be the best teacher with these traps. For example, the sexual pheromone 'bug porn' that turns them into sex bandits ravenous for a roll in the hay is enclosed in plastic that has to have a peel-off paper removed. Be advised, do not, I repeat, DO NOT put this peel off paper in your shirt pocket! There is enough of the pheromone left on the paper to make the bugs think you're not a bad looking bug yourself. Take it from somebody who found out the hard way, to be covered by a swarm of humping Japanese Beetles is not a pleasant experience.<br />
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There are some pitfalls to these traps. As the pheromone is very potent and the beasties can detect it from way far away, the traps do attract a lot of bugs. Let me emphasize that - these traps attract A LOT OF BUGS! If you are repulsed by the sight of swarming bugs with but one thing on their mind, perhaps these traps aren't for you. Personally, I take heart in the fact that while I may be leading bugs to their doom, I am ensuring them they will die sexually satiated. Not a bad way to go, especially for a bug. Also, change the bag after two days or so even if it isn't full. The stench of dead bugs in the bag can be smelled by live bugs and will counteract the pheromone, not to mention turn the stomach of the strongest intrepid bug hunter. <br />
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There are detractorsthat say these traps attract far more bugs than they capture. That may be so, for I don't keep a running count of visitors to the trap and those who actually end their days in the bottom of the bag. Suffice to say that the one other time I used the traps at my other house, I caught twenty bags of bugs over a 4-week period, and it made a big enough dent in the bug population that they were not a problem at that house for the rest of the ten years I lived there. The objective is to not only kill the adults that are feeding on your plants, but to prevent them from laying eggs in the ground that create next years' problem.<br />
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That's why despite the caveats regarding the traps, I'm using them once more at the new place. In the first two days I trapped four bags full of them. As the bags fill up, I'll continue to put empty bags in place of the full until the bugs are gone. The bugs die, which makes my roses happy, which makes me happy. <br />
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<br />Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-58854394097384628112011-12-12T17:28:00.001-06:002013-08-26T01:43:43.993-06:00Off-The-Wall Books That I've Read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been blessed (or cursed) with a restless curiosity ever since I can remember. This curiosity isn't confined to one, two or a half-dozen subjects. I am curious about everything in general, with streaks of being curious about something in particular. One of the most enjoyable ways I've found to satisfy this rambling curiosity is by reading. Books, magazines, the back of cereal boxes, advertisements on the freeway, whatever I can get my hands on. Of course, over the years I've developed some major areas that have lasted, and I've also skimmed the surface of some fairly strange books. Here's a partial list of them, and I assure you they are all genuine. I tend to keep copies of the strangest ones, and all of these that I write about are in my library.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;">WARNING!</span></b></div>
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A word of caution for the sensitive; some of these books will require me to use profanity and some of the subjects can be a little disgusting. If that warning hasn't scared you off, you're my kind of reader!<br />
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<b>1 .<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Petomane-1857-1945-Jean-Nohain/dp/1566193745"> Le Petomane</a>, </b>Jean Nohain & F. Caradee<br />
For the uninitiated, <i>Le Petomane</i> was the stage name of the Frenchman Joseph Pujols (1857-1945), and this is his biography translated from the French. A rough translation of <i>Le Petomane</i> to English gives us <i>The Fart Maniac</i>. He was a star of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moulin_Rouge">Moulin Rouge</a> in Paris and if you haven't guessed by now, his act consisted of passing gas. I should say artfully passing gas, for he could blow out a candle from a foot away, do 'impression farts' and make it sound like a machine gun and other things, put a cigarette in his butt and remove it to blow out smoke. Evidently young Joseph discovered his skilled anus one day while he was sitting in the bath tub as a child and discovered he could suck up the water with his butt-hole and squirt it back out like a fountain. With a lot of practice he trained his nether regions to do all kinds of tricks and the audiences loved him. He took his act seriously and ate a special diet so he would not 'offend' his audience with nasty smelling emanations from his anal orifice. Sadly, like many a great artist, his employers began to take advantage of him by demanding more outlandish and crude stunts, and when he tried to open his own theater so he could keep his act 'pure' he was promptly sued by the owners of the Moulin Rouge. <br />
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<b>2. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/F-Word-Second-Jesse-Sheidlower/dp/0375706348/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323729396&sr=1-5">The F Word </a></b>edited by Jesse Sheidlower<br />
Pretty much every possible variation on the infamous word and phrases it is used in, from <i>absofuckinglutely</i> to<i> titfuck</i> and everything in between. Plus it has the history of the word and some of the phrases it is used in and a brief section about the word in other languages. It is arranged in alphabetical order making it easy to look up just the right variant for those special people or occasions. Has many acronyms also, with their histories (when known). For example, we've all heard the word snafu, but did you know that it is an acronym for <b>s</b>ituation <b>n</b>ormal <b>a</b>ll <b>f</b>ucked <b>u</b>p? Well, maybe you did, but there's still plenty of stuff in this book that you don't know, smart fucker!<br />
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3. <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Asshole-No-More-Saga/dp/0898048044/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1323730466&sr=8-1-spell">A**hole No More</a></b> - by X. Crement<br />
This book is subtitled - <i>A Self Help Guide For Recovering A**holes and Their Victims</i>. After reading the book, I must ask what's the big deal with the 'stars' instead of just spelling out ASSHOLE on the cover? On the inside the book doesn't pussy-foot around. It tells it like it is and is everything you ever wanted to know about assholism (Dr. X. Crement thinks it is a disease like alcoholism I guess). Seems kind of silly to write a book about assholes and assholism and not just spell it out on the front cover. But that's just me. I thought this book was written with tongue in cheek, but I'm not so sure anymore. Oh, and be forewarned. I've got the first edition printed in 1990. There has been a revision since then (2010), and now there are three volumes of asshole books. Really? Is there that much more to say about the subject that it warrants two more volumes? I think not. I think the author is trying to cash in on the subject, and of course you know what that makes him...<br />
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<b>4.</b> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Unflushables-Outhouse-History-Humor/dp/0937959863/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323731089&sr=1-1"><b>The Unflushables : Outhouses - History and Humor </b></a>(featuring two, three and five story outhouses)<br />
You read it right. It is possible (the book has pictures to prove it) to have a multi-floored outhouse. Granted, the placement and engineering of a multi-level outhouse is crucial. This book has many pictures, including the outhouses of famous people like Abraham Lincoln and Johann Sebastian Bach. Yes, even the rich and famous need to heed the call of nature as the pictures readily show. As well as the stench of an outhouse, the size and variety of them can take your breath away. There are one-holers, two-holers, multi-holers. Big ones, small ones, fancy ones, plain ones. But it doesn't matter how fancy or plain, they all serve the same purpose. This book gave me pause to reflect on the vanishing outhouse, but not for very long.<br />
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5. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/How-Shit-Woods-Second-Environmentally/dp/0898156270/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323731777&sr=1-1">How To Shit In The Woods</a> - Kathleen Meyer<br />
The subtitle of this book is : <i>An environmentally sound approach to a lost art. </i>From the very beginning, the author shows she's serious about her subject. Consider the very first chapter:<br />
<i>Chapter 1: Anatomy Of A Crap - Techniques, Styles, Getting Comfortable</i><br />
And a special chapter for the ladies:<br />
<i>Chapter 5: For Women Only : How Not To Pee In Your Boots </i><br />
This book is a treasure trove of practical information about doing your business in the bushes. I especially like the section in the back of the book that deals with the definition of the word SHIT. <br />
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So there you have it. After reading these books I am convinced that no matter what the subject, there is someone out there who will write a book about it, if someone hasn't already. And I'm proof that there will be at least one demented reader that will read it.<br />
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</i>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-75591478911063257432011-10-06T15:26:00.003-06:002012-02-03T23:41:41.472-06:00The Rock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tGC5Q2GK0JOMcwnbOF63EDfXGKe8qO51CR4-U2tQR4AIxSF23MNrJohx5TU4vVYprjQpS-O8ofV1-54t_obztX8qB8Ljd0AU7dp6xQ7YUz_VlEiM0tpUsvhFksG9-JfHLpbGfzCBcvU/s1600/homecoming+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tGC5Q2GK0JOMcwnbOF63EDfXGKe8qO51CR4-U2tQR4AIxSF23MNrJohx5TU4vVYprjQpS-O8ofV1-54t_obztX8qB8Ljd0AU7dp6xQ7YUz_VlEiM0tpUsvhFksG9-JfHLpbGfzCBcvU/s200/homecoming+003.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This isn't a blog entry about an old, out of service <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcatraz_Island">prison on an island</a>. Or about an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcatraz_Island">All-Star Wrestler</a> either. This is about the latest addition to our garden decor, as pictured to the right. It's been sand-blasted, and painted with a butterfly. We got it the past weekend at an annual festival held in the small town of Oregon, IL which is about 30 miles from us.<br />
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The festival is called <a href="http://oregonil.com/about-oregon-/churches/1293-autumn-on-parade-">Autumn On Parade</a>. It's one time when the small town of Oregon comes alive for three days with arts and crafts vendors from around the country. And when the day is a bright autumn day (as it was this year) it makes for a good trip. This year Deb bought two decorative chain pulls for ceiling fans, and a really pretty Provencal Garlic grater. It's made of porcelain, grates garlic, carrots, cheese, ginger, and won't cut your fingers. I've already tried the thing, and it actually does work and isn't too hard to clean. But without a doubt, the prize of this year was the Butterfly Rock.<br />
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The guy that was selling it has a business doing headstones and other stuff out of rock. After telling us way more than we wanted to know about the rock cutting and carving business, Deb asked him how much the butterfly rock was. He said $90. I said we'd think about it. Deb wanted to know how heavy it was, he said about 40-50 pounds and that he'd carry it to our car. I asked him where his shop was so we could come back and look at some more things. Deb asked him are you sure it's 40-50 pounds? The guy went over to the rock, picked it up. "More like 80-90 pounds!"he said as his face got red.<br />
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By now, I knew the rock was going to go home with us, one way or the other. So I looked at other stuff while Deb continued to ask questions. Before long, she got out her checkbook and wrote him out a check. We had to wait until the big parade was all over with so we could drive the van to where the rock was. It was way too heavy to bring to the van. We finally got there, and while Deb got out to direct the guy with the rock (it was on a two-wheeled cart) to where the van was, Deb's teenage son asked me how much the rock was. He couldn't believe that his Mom paid that much for a stupid rock, plus he knew he was the one that would have to unload it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QA180xjB6uBhMZGJYT5_Br-BLh7kimTe-vVMujBaQALlDT9l0l-RIntCHXjxcd8XNXODEgRfufBfwgblA16C7d-82ahRHNzhsgVcKkWJ13RymK3pwN7ud73EYLOfxEvp4lRd9YDoLdw/s1600/homecoming+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QA180xjB6uBhMZGJYT5_Br-BLh7kimTe-vVMujBaQALlDT9l0l-RIntCHXjxcd8XNXODEgRfufBfwgblA16C7d-82ahRHNzhsgVcKkWJ13RymK3pwN7ud73EYLOfxEvp4lRd9YDoLdw/s200/homecoming+004.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So now the rock is in the yard, right in front of the big oak tree and will be the focal point of a flower bed we're putting around the tree next year. Mind you, I did have a thought about raising a stink about buying such a stupid thing as a rock, and paying $90 for it. But then my mind flashed to Herbie. That's him, in the picture to the right, Herbie the Gargoyle. Herbie's just as heavy (if not heavier) than the butterfly rock, a damned sight uglier, and probably was more expensive. When Deb expressed worry that someone might steal the butterfly rock, I told her that if someone really wants the thing, hernia and all, they can have it. Just like Herbie. I've had him for 25 years and while I've had plenty of comments, no one has ever tried to steal him. Well, they may have tried but their back didn't hold out. Granted, the butterfly rock is prettier, but I'll take my chances. I'm sure not going to bring the rock (or Herbie) in every night. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/230832_1789582656693_1153392647_31647611_1013079_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/230832_1789582656693_1153392647_31647611_1013079_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So now the butterfly rock is the envy of the neighborhood and sits in front of the oak tree. Herbie still stands guard on one side of the front door, and he gets a little uglier every year. And there's the big ol' welcoming bear carved out of wood that sits on the other side of the front door, a perfect foil for Herbie. We have to keep them separated. I don't think Herbie likes the bear.<br />
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So the butterfly rock is helping to wind up another season for the garden. What in the world will next year bring? I'm already hearing that maybe, perhaps, we should get another rock to put in front of the pine tree on the other side of the yard...Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-10387818393186708562011-09-28T12:51:00.001-06:002013-08-26T01:48:28.019-06:00WATCH OUT! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! ... THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In Northwest Illinois at this time of year the turning of the leaves and the dropping of the temperature signals the autumn season. It also flips the switches inside the pea-brains of the common squirrel and puts them in <i>act-squirrelier-than-usual</i> mode.<br />
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As if they aren't a pest enough throughout the summer with their cavorting around on telephone wires, barking at me when I'm sitting in the yard swing, and teasing the neighbor's dogs.<br />
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Our neighbor on one side of us has three dogs that go ballistic at the sight of a squirrel, so naturally the squirrels make their presence known. They take turns waiting until the dogs are laying down and quiet, then they make a mad dash for the tree, scamper up it in a flash, then park their squirrely butts on a branch just out of reach of the dogs and bark at them the equivalent of a squirrel "<i>neener, neener, neener!</i>" which makes the dogs slobber, bark, run around the tree, trying to climb the tree, etc. This can and has gone on for hours. Just as the dogs finally settle down, the furry neighborhood terrorists climb down and scamper to another tree, and the cycle begins again. <br />
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Our neighborhood is full of the chattering things, not least of all because the neighbor on the other side of us feeds them. All year 'round. Last winter I looked out and saw an even dozen squirrels in a back yard in various positions of eating field corn off the cob and stealing food from bird feeders. A dozen fat, furry squirrels. As the neighbor said, it was a good crop last winter.<br />
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And talk about a sense of entitlement! I'm really grateful the squirrels let the rest of us live in THEIR neighborhood! I planted sunflowers, and the seed heads were stripped before they even got ripe, and the squirrels did it. I saw them. They hang upside down from the top of the big seed heads, and shovel in the seeds like there's no tomorrow.<br />
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I really think they are all in cahoots. They do surveillance, post their lookouts, then ransack the garden. And not only sunflower heads. They also are partial to tomatoes, but only the ones that are red, ripe and juicy. I didn't dare leave any tomatoes on the plants to ripen. As soon as they showed any color I picked them before the squirrels took a bite out of them. And that's exactly what they do, take one bite out of a ripe tomato and head for the next one. <br />
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And that bring me back to this time of year. The squirrels are running amok, digging up the yard, crapping all over and burying things for the winter that they'll forget all about. I had a lot of corn sprout last summer, and I didn't plant any of it. The worst is walnut seeds if they sprout. It's got such a long tap root you almost have to dig them out.<br />
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They can be irritating, especially when you've got one eating on your house. But aside from that, they are just doing what they do best. So watch out for the critters this autumn season. You know they're not right in the head at this time of year especially. So when they dart out in front of your car, give them a break and brake. When they clean out your bird feeder, just fill it again. It's no use trying to stop them. They may have pea-brains, but they are persistent. One way or another, they'll figure it out.<br />
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They can be fun to watch, even when they bark at you when your sitting in a screened in porch. And when the cats are sitting in the window the squirrels give them something to watch. Like I said, they're just doing what they do best...acting squirrely.Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-15350596330152521962011-09-14T23:10:00.001-06:002011-09-14T23:15:55.281-06:00Where's The Elk?<b style="color: red;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>A few years ago, my wife at the time (may she rest in peace) and I took an Amtrak trip to Flagstaff, Arizona to see my <a href="http://essaysstories.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-shocking-childhood.html">Big Brother</a>. He moved out there after he retired from the local steel mill. It was a good trip, and we were in no hurry. Good thing, as it took 26 hours to get there from where we lived. It was my first time on a long train trip, and I had enough strange stuff happen on the train that I could write a story about it. But that's for another time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfVOjjvYKAzA2qWF1vK9Kjm-VNcSyvaKZxdo9Pi3VK5-cxV_WMuyPsNdN8yc7IDDUDcyV-vXNKS-8N1tbzzA8MUKjyepJU1eHBNRqMndbHLhtxv-DQwTT5YFIiJBymneFu6lmqNlerDY/s220/ElkCrossingSign.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfVOjjvYKAzA2qWF1vK9Kjm-VNcSyvaKZxdo9Pi3VK5-cxV_WMuyPsNdN8yc7IDDUDcyV-vXNKS-8N1tbzzA8MUKjyepJU1eHBNRqMndbHLhtxv-DQwTT5YFIiJBymneFu6lmqNlerDY/s220/ElkCrossingSign.png" /></a></div>Big Brother was a great host, took us all over the area including the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. He's also a gourmet cook, so we ate really well too. One day while he was driving us around Flagstaff I said to him, "I keep seeing all these BEWARE OF ELK SIGNS all over the place. We've been here three days and I haven't seen hide nor hair of no damn elk."<br />
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"What do you think, those signs are there for the hell of it?" he said. "There's more elk around here than you can shake a stick at."<br />
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"The proof is in the seein' and I ain't seen no damn elk!" I said as we passed yet another elk sign.<br />
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"All right, smart guy," said Big Brother. "You wanna see elk, I know a place where I guarantee you'll see elk. Every evening the elk come to feed just outside of town. I'll take you there tonight, just as it starts to get dark."<br />
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"Yeah. Sure!" I said.<br />
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"Just you wait. You'll see!" he said as he wagged a finger at me.<br />
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Segue to after supper when dusk was slowly starting to fall. "Get your ass in the van and take your camera!" he said, "And you'll see an elk!"<br />
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My wife and I got into the van. She sat in front and I rode in the back. We drove for a spell and came to a turnoff onto a dirt road. We went down it, and as we made the bend in the road Big Brother gently brought the van to a halt at the side of the road.<br />
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"Okay smart guy, where's the elk?" I said.<br />
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"SHHHHH! you'll scare him off!" he said in a whisper. "Their hearing is really good! Keep your mouth shut and look over there," he said as he pointed out the window. My eyes strained in the coming darkness, and then I saw it. "There it is! I see it!" I whispered. An elk as big as you please!<br />
"Told you," said Big Brother. "If you move real slow and don't make any noise you might be able to get out of the van and take a picture of it."<br />
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I opened the door of the van and slowly slid out of the seat. I walked on the dirt and rocks of the road like it was egg shells so as not to make any noise. I circled around the back of the van and leaned up against the back of the van to steady my hand to take a picture. It was then I noticed the van was moving so slightly. I looked through the back window and saw Big Brother bouncing up and down in the seat. I crept up to his side window and looked in and saw that he was pointing at the elk and laughing. And so was my wife. I looked at the elk again, and it was standing as still as a statue. It took me a minute to soak it all in before I noticed something:<br />
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I've seen elk before, but doggone if this wasn't the first one I'd ever seen that had a SEAM going around the middle of it! Big Brother rolled down his window and couldn't control himself. "You dummy! BAW HAW HAW! You fell for it! I don't believe you really FELL FOR IT! You took the hook, line, sinker, pole, boat, anchor and half the lake! BAW HAW HAW!!!" I looked over at my wife. Her face was red and tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath between the giggles.<br />
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There was nothing left to do but get back in the van. Big Brother said, "Did you see the bear, wild boar, turkey and deer too? They're practice targets for bow hunters, bone-head!" Sure enough, I looked out the window and saw the other fake critters. They both finally quit laughing after what seemed to be a long time, and we went back to Big Brother's house.<br />
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That all happened a long time ago. I don't get a chance to see Big Bro much anymore, but I'll be darned if every time that I do, I get reminded of all the elk that are in Flagstaff, Arizona. I'd like to say that I'll never trust Big Brudder again, but after all these years of being duped I can't honestly say he won't 'get' me again. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-41857230628572344812011-09-13T23:23:00.001-06:002013-08-27T23:00:07.754-06:00My Shocking Childhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's one thing about growing up in a family of seven kids. There was always something going on. That's not to say that was always a good thing, but it was seldom boring. <br />
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I was the next to the youngest, with my younger brother being sick a lot and everyone else quite a bit older than me except for the next oldest brother to me. He's five years older than me. Yes, the same one that's in the <a href="http://essaysstories.blogspot.com/2011/09/bats-in-my-belfry.html">Bats In My Belfry</a> story. And it's strange how things worked themselves out when we got older. We're pretty close now, probably because we finally quit messing with each other long enough to realize we've got a lot in common. But it sure wasn't that way when we were younger. He used to pick on me something fierce. He would hop out of the top bunk in the middle of the night and scare the bejeezus out of me. Throw me in the pitch-dark closet and lock the door and not let me out for awhile. I was afraid of the dark until I was in my twenties because of that. But I'd get even. I'd do things that I knew he'd get blamed for because Mom and Dad would NEVER suspect ME. So I'd take sweet revenge watching as Dad would holler and sometimes take off his belt and whack him on the ass with it. But in the long run, I'd pay for whatever revenge I got. Big Brother was pretty creative and definitely conniving, and with five years on me, I didn't have a chance.<br />
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On one particular Saturday afternoon, all of my siblings were outside or gone except for Big Brother. He was sitting in the living room on the floor with a contraption in front of him on the coffee table that looked something like the thing in the picture above. But instead of the light bulb, there were two long wires attached to it.<br />
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I was probably around eight or nine, and I had no idea what it was. "What's that thing?" I asked.<br />
Big Brother stared at the thing and said, "It's a worm shocker."<br />
"A what?"<br />
" A worm shocker, stupid. Don't you know what a worm shocker is?"<br />
"No. What is it?"<br />
He rolled his eyes, put his hands out towards me with impatience and said, "You know, worms? What we go fishin' with? I'm making a machine that will make them wiggle out of the ground so we don't have to dig them anymore. Give 'em a shock of electricity and they'll wiggle out of the ground and jump right into our bait box."<br />
"Naw. You're lyin'," I said. It wouldn't have been the first time he had told me a whopper, that's for sure.<br />
"Ain't lyin', and I'll prove it." He grabbed one of the long wires in each hand and said, "Here. Grab this bare part of the wire in each hand, hold your arms as far apart as you can, and I'll show you!"<br />
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I should have known better, even if I was only eight or nine. As soon as I grabbed the wires and held my arms apart, he started cranking furiously. I felt the jolt of electricity run through each hand and arm and it met in the middle. It was the first time I had ever gotten any kind of electrical shock, and I thought I was going to die.<br />
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I fell to the floor, crying and screaming. I tried to let go of the wires, but I couldn't. I was writhing on the floor and through my teary eyes I saw Mom run into the living room. She had a broom in her hand and she yelled at Big Brother, "Stop it! You're killing him!"<br />
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But Big Brother cranked like a madman, his tongue sticking out in grim determination. Mom started beating him with the broom and continued to yell at him. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally quit cranking the hand generator, I finally could let go of the wires. My face was red, wet with tears and snot, and it was all I could do to crawl up on the couch. My body felt like all my bones had turned to mashed potatoes. Mom kept hollering at him, and I heard, "Wait until your Father gets home!" But I don't remember much else that happened after that. But I do know I never saw the hand generator again. Either Big Brother or one of the others finally did build a worm shocker out of a steel rod, lamp cord and electrical tape but Dad found it and threw it away which was just as well.<br />
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I've told this story to many people, and some that know me have had a look of discovery on their faces after the telling. No doubt they thought I got the way I am because I was dropped on my head once too often but no, it was something even more shocking than that...Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-63668017457318662632011-09-12T17:14:00.002-06:002011-09-13T11:30:05.059-06:00Bats In My Belfry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.clker.com/cliparts/4/3/9/b/1195424185119439781Machovka_bat.svg.med.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.clker.com/cliparts/4/3/9/b/1195424185119439781Machovka_bat.svg.med.png" /></a></div>Bats are a most valuable creature of nature. One single little brown bat can eat up to 1,000 mosquitoes in a night. Imagine how many more bugs there'd be on those hot summer nights without bats. A small colony of 150 big brown bats can keep in check over 33 <i>million</i> root worms every year, making them an asset to farmers. Bats are also pollinators of many different plants around the world, such as the barrel cactus and saguaro cactus of the American southwest. Professional growers depend on bats to pollinate bananas, almonds, peaches and other crops. And let's not forget a most important 'product' of bats: bat crap! Entire ecosystems thrive at the bottom of bat caves in the guano (it's such a special crap that it even has its own name), and it has one of the richest nitrogen counts of any fertilizer. Having said all of that, let me also say I hate the little bastards! <br />
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Let me explain. As long as the little devils stay outside, they're great. The minute they get inside of a house I'm living in, they're not! I was raised in an old two-story house that no matter what my Dad did to repair the place or fill in any possible ways of entrance, there was at least a bat or two in the house every year. Of course the fact that the house was surrounded by bat condominiums, big elm trees (before dutch elm disease killed them all) made sure there were a lot of bats in our neck of the woods. We'd sit outside at night in the summer to beat the heat and watch them swoop down to catch the bugs and all. My older brothers would get brooms to try and catch them, but bats are real good about avoiding brooms.<br />
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That's one reason why they're so hard to catch when they get in the house. Almost impossible to do when they're on the fly. When they roost on something is when you can nail 'em. That is if you're not like me and peeing down both legs. I admit, I hate them in the house. Scared to DEATH of them in the house. Despite me being a big man, despite my Dad telling me they were more afraid of me than I was of them (a total impossibility I might add), and no matter how much logic I use on myself, I've finally decided to just admit my batophobia. Everyone's afraid of something, I suppose.<br />
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I've got many a tale to tell about bats in the house from my childhood. But with my Dad home, I knew that the most fearless bat-catcher in the world would save me. I can remember the hot summer nights, tossing and turning in the sweat-dampened sheets trying to sleep, when I'd see a bat flitting over my bed. I know the common little brown bat is small, but when you're a kid scared to death of them and one flits over your head in bed they look as big as a buzzard. I'd pull the sheet over my head, and scream bloody murder. My Dad would holler out of their bedroom "What's wrong?" and I'd holler back, "It's a b-b-b-b-b-b-b-bat!"<br />
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So Dad would mutter a cuss word or two, get up out of bed and grab a pair of pants or blue jeans draped over the foot board of my bed. He'd stand in the hallway in the dim light, waiting for the bat to fly by. As soon as the bat showed up, Dad would knock him down with the pants or shirt, usually on the first try. He'd throw the shirt or pants over the bat, reach in underneath it and grab the bat. The damned thing was screeching and making clicking noises that sent chills down my spine. He'd take the bat downstairs, go outside, put the bat on the sidewalk with a brick on top of it and step on it to kill it. This was way before the days of bat-protection laws. He'd then come back upstairs and go to bed. As for me, I'd lay in bed bug-eyed and wouldn't sleep for a week. <br />
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The most embarrassing bat incidents happened when I was a teenager. The house I grew up in had no bath tub, but it did have a shower in the basement. I would shower down there, and every once in awhile there'd be a bat in the basement. It usually happened in the winter. Dad told me that the bats would come in from outside for the winter and roost in the basement, kind of hibernating, and the warmth from the hot shower would wake them up. Whatever the reason, the results of a bat in the shower were always the same. A mad, dash up the basement stairs, sometimes with a towel, sometimes bare naked. I had no choice in the matter. The tell-tale outlines of bat wings made my feet move a lot faster than my brain. <br />
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But without a doubt the strangest bat incident happened when I was out of school and working. My parents and little brother went on vacation, and I had to stay home because of my job.One day there was a knock at the door, it was my older brother. To make a very long story short, seemed he got into a little mischief, wrecked his car and needed a place to crash for a few days while his wife got over her angry. I agreed as long as he promised to mind his p's and q's and stay out of 'mischief'.<br />
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A few days later I came home in the evening, opened the door and went into the living room and turned on the light and the TV. As soon as I did, a bat swooped out of the darkness of the kitchen. I ran out of the house as fast as I could, and went to my sister's house. I picked up my brother-in-law and we went back to catch the critter, but he was just as scared as I was, so he told me to spend the night with them and we'd take care of it in the morning. <br />
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After I'd been at their house for awhile, I suddenly remembered my brother. He was working second shift and would be home at 11:00 PM. It was a quarter after eleven, so I figured I best call him and tell him about our 'visitor'. He answered the phone and I asked him, "You see our visitor yet?" He didn't know what I was talking about, but then I heard him cuss and heard the phone hit the wall. So now I had no choice. Leaving my brother alone in a house with a bat was not a good thing. I had to go home and make sure the house was still in one piece.<br />
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When I turned the corner to get home I could hear a racket all the way down the street. It was coming from our house. Every light was on in the house. The TV, radio, stereo, were all going full volume. My brother met me at the door with an old German army helmet on, a fish landing net in one hand and a badminton racket in the other. All the noise was to "mess up the bat's radar", the lights were to blind it, the net and badminton racket were to try and catch it, and the helmet was to keep the bat out of his hair. <br />
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We searched the house for awhile with no luck. Then my brother found the bat hanging on the bathroom light fixture and with one swoop of the landing net caught the devil! He took it outside and put it under an old washtub until morning. By this time it was past midnight, and we both went to bed.<br />
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My Dad was a wise man in a lot of things, and one of the bits of wisdom he gave me was that when you catch a bat that's been in the house, don't let it go. It'll find its way back in. My brother helped prove the validity of that when he got a twinge of sympathy for the bat and let it loose the next morning, because a few weeks later it was back in the house. This time, Dad and Mom were back from vacation, and old dead-eye Dad caught the creepy thing and disposed of it. Now you may ask how I know it was the same bat. Could've been another one, right? Nope. It was the same one. This is my story, and I'm sticking to it...Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-39017727909629971402011-08-29T13:53:00.001-06:002011-08-29T13:55:45.015-06:00Waging The War On Floor Boogers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJfy2Kh4bfUjU45h6hWxEitK5W9sQN_BsilXKB0GAbwgyWiUsUUHWCA2wLXqs5Noy621n6liS2Ra_U8vonL-z2p52VDKdYc6kbt3J_yl6tubjJrKe-BpIbgKUhbhof-tFxwexBlIE8rqo/s1600/mops_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJfy2Kh4bfUjU45h6hWxEitK5W9sQN_BsilXKB0GAbwgyWiUsUUHWCA2wLXqs5Noy621n6liS2Ra_U8vonL-z2p52VDKdYc6kbt3J_yl6tubjJrKe-BpIbgKUhbhof-tFxwexBlIE8rqo/s200/mops_300.jpg" width="167" /></a></div>I'm a house bitch, and I'm proud of it! I'm retired from the rat race and live with a woman that has a teenage son. She works, he's in school, so it makes sense for me to do the domestic chores. <br />
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Most of them I'm pretty good at. I'm a great cook, can clean fairly well, although my SO does bring her female fastidiousness into the equation, which is not always a bad thing. I am a male, after all, and on occasion I can lapse back into the Land Of Slobbinia. One thing I don't do much of is laundry. I know how to do it, but she prefers to do it her way, so I do the right thing and let her do it. <br />
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Some of the chores I like, some I don't. The one I really HATE the most is cleaning the floors. The big house we've got has no carpeting, which we both like. My allergies don't bother me nearly as much without carpeting, and with three cats, hardwood floors are easier to keep clean of the oodles of kitty hair that's shed. So most of the floor cleaning I do with either a mop for the tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom, or the pads on a stick that pick up all the dirt. You know, the one that uses the Blondie tune in their old ad, "One way, or another, I'm, gonna getcha,getcha, getcha, getcha!" A good sweeping with a regular broom to get the big gobs of cat hair and a once-over with the 'Getcha' and the floor's usually pretty clean. And it's not that I hate the chore so much. it's those nasty floor boogers that I hate.<br />
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You know what I'm talking about. Those stray pieces of lint, onion skin, toenail, paper, etc. that hide in the nooks, crannies and crevices of floor boards, tiles and mop boards. Those nasty flecks of whatever that won't pick up with a broom, mop or floor pad. Those devious, dirty little bastards that don't show up until you've emptied the mop water or put away the broom. Every single time I try to make a floor spotless, the little demons come out and thumb their noses at me.<br />
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I've tried sweeping, mopping, swiffering, vacuuming, everything short of a blowtorch to alleviate them. All to no avail. Oh, there may be fewer in number after my onslaught, but some always remain. Perhaps I'm just being too fussy. After all, a large expanse of floor clean enough to dine off of save for a few malignant floor boogers here and there isn't so bad. Is it? YES IT IS! Clean is clean, and if there's any floor boogers hanging around, IT AIN'T CLEAN!<br />
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So consider this essay a declaration of war, floor boogers! I do not know where you come from, but I know where I will send you! Down the drain, in the garbage, out of my door with the rest of the garbage! Your mission is to try and drive me to distraction, to make me 'break', to force me to let you live and prosper so you can take over the house! But it will not happen! I will NEVER break. I will NEVER give in. Fair warning, floor boogers! I play rough, and I play for keeps! <br />
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Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-54640094781832586872009-01-29T07:28:00.002-06:002009-01-29T07:33:42.489-06:00Are You Nuts?This winter has been a nasty one for a lot of folks. To say that I am sick and tired of it <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.fotosearch.com/bthumb/UNX/UNX003/u15990305.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 210px;" src="http://www.fotosearch.com/bthumb/UNX/UNX003/u15990305.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>would be a gross understatement. The past four days here it has been gloomy, cold as hell, spitting snow. But today, finally the sun came out in all its glory. The temp about 10 degrees. So I bundled myself up and went out for a walk.<br /><br />There's a school up the street from me with a 1/4 mile running track. The walk to the track and back and one trip around the track is about a half mile. I haven't walked much the past few months, so a half mile would be far enough until I get my walking legs back. On the way back home, my back started to hurt, my knees were giving out, I was colder than a well-digger's ass, and my nose was running like an open spigot. But the sun was so bright and awesome, it was worth it.<br /><br />When I got to my porch, I didn't really feel like going inside. So I sat on a lawn chair on the porch. Well, the sun moved off my porch, and it was pretty dumb to sit there in the shade in 10 degree weather. So I picked up the chair and moved it to the center of the driveway where the sun was still full. I sat and enjoyed the looks of the people that drove by in their cars, and waved to a few of them. I saw my neighbor from across the street come out with just a sweater on. He hugged himself as he tried to stay warm and crossed the street.<br /><br />"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.<br />"What the hell does it look like? I'm sunning myself."<br />He shivered. "Do you know what the temperature is?"<br />"Yeah"<br />"What's the matter with you? Are you nuts?"<br />I took off my sunglasses and looked at him. "Let me get this straight. You're out in almost single-digit weather with just a sweater on and you ask me if I'm nuts? "<br /><br />He shook his head and went back across the street. I sat in my chair about a half an hour, until jack frost did more than just nip my nose, he downright chawed on it. I went in the house and saw my little dog was asleep in the chair, belly-up. She didn't bother to get up, but wagged her tail a few times. I rubbed her belly, she went back to sleep. All the excitement had made me tired too, so I laid down on the couch to get some zzzz's.<br /><br />As I laid there, I thought about that old song, "What The World Needs Now Is Love". I agree with the sentiment, but in our modern day it can be pretty damned hard to keep love in your heart when you're working your ass off, dead on your feet, and got a lot of worries on your mind. So maybe before the world can even handle all that love stuff, what the world needs right now is a nap. Not just a 10-minute power nap either. But a belt-unbuckling, pillow cuddling, mouth-slobbering, dead-to-the-world nap. For at least an hour. So I took one. I wish all of you could have done the same. And some people call me nuts...Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-89715164994725463552008-03-22T14:14:00.001-06:002008-03-22T14:16:32.360-06:00The Ring And The Finger - Any Old Finger<div id="body"><p>Most everyone knows the tradition of wearing an engagement ring or wedding ring on the left hand. As to which finger, we all know which finger. It's a matter of which finger we want to call it. For some, it is the fourth finger of the left hand, the ring finger. For those that have a penchant for accuracy (and perhaps hair-splitting) they say it is the third finger of the left hand. The thumb is not technically considered a finger, but a thumb. An opposing thumb, to be more exact. And we all know that a finger is not a thumb, and a thumb is not a finger.</p><p>Now that we've got that out of the way, there is a current trend for finger rings to be worn on any finger on either hand, not just the ring finger. Rings are even worn on toes, but those are not finger rings. They are toe rings, and are off the subject. So what is the subject? The symbolism that goes with a ring on a specific finger, that's what. I've read a lot about it, some of it interesting, some of it pretty far out there. So here's my tongue in cheek interpretations of wearing rings on specific fingers. Take it or leave it:</p><p><b>Thumb</b> - Forget about the thumb technically not being a finger. For this discussion, it's a finger. The thumb is the finger of willpower, so some say. It is typically thought of as being separate from the fingers, (again with the hair-splitting!) thus is a sign of independence. It is also a finger of power. Thumbs up or thumbs down as an example. So a person wearing a ring on the thumb is independent, has strong willpower, is powerful, and is a hair splitter, best I can figure out.</p><p><b>Index Finger</b> - First finger or second, as you like. The finger that is wagged and pointed. It literally reeks of authority. And also stubbornness, being bossy, being condescending, and the need to be in control. All positive attributes if you're trying to bully your way through life. A ring worn on this finger means you are an authority freak and want everyone to know it (as if they didn't already).</p><p><b>Middle Finger</b> - or second finger, as you like. The finger of identity. It is the strongest finger of the hand, and can also represent a tremendously large ego. No wonder it is the finger used for the well-known obscene sign of defiance and disregard. A ring on this finger can mean a whole slew of different things, so the poobahs say. But my interpretation is that a ring worn on this finger reveals that the wearer is nothing more than a vulgar egomaniac.</p><p><b>Fourth Finger</b> - Or third finger, or ring finger. The tradition of wearing an engagement ring and wedding ring on the ring finger of the left hand is not universal. Some cultures wear it on the right hand. in either case, the ring finger is a symbol of creativity. It is also the least independent of all the fingers. Because the vast majority of people that wear rings wear them on the fourth finger, there is no end to all of its positive attributes, and hardly any bad attributes associated with it. I wear a ring on the ring finger of each hand, so I agree.</p><p><b>Little Finger </b>- Or fourth finger, or pinkie. The finger of relationships. It is farthest from the thumb, and we all know that the thumb is the 'hooray for me' finger. So the pinkie is opposite from meaning from the thumb. Despite its smaller size, it is a big symbol about anything the person wearing a ring on it wants to acknowledge, most of it flattering.</p><p>After all that, there remains but one more possibility, one more symbolic reason people wear a ring on a finger. This possibility applies to any finger of any hand. Perhaps, just maybe, despite all the new age malarkey and abba dabba silliness, people just like to wear rings. On any finger. Period.</p></div>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-14333392881266581802008-01-27T18:56:00.000-06:002008-01-27T19:22:35.860-06:00When Did Humans Start Wearing Clothes?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfk74qnDyBFHNAUVTpfJygGssol2-H7wBcttwgeHc21eQ4ciWC8kq9uFiIQi45iNmvzMHUW8L4M8TeK4uvMLAa9ZgIxFMKejPhmEH6cBfzh1Wt-qDCPktTGW17UPzFQAM7uPe9eUeW_0/s1600-h/louserip.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfk74qnDyBFHNAUVTpfJygGssol2-H7wBcttwgeHc21eQ4ciWC8kq9uFiIQi45iNmvzMHUW8L4M8TeK4uvMLAa9ZgIxFMKejPhmEH6cBfzh1Wt-qDCPktTGW17UPzFQAM7uPe9eUeW_0/s320/louserip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160331271313931938" border="0" /></a>There are many schools of thought and belief about the origins of humans. Some purely religious, some purely scientific, some mix the two. Regardless of which school of thought, it seems obvious that the first humans on this earth lived in warm climates. I suppose there are those who will argue about this, but I am proceeding under the assumption that the first humans lived in a climate that was sufficiently warm to keep them alive without clothing.<br /><br />Pursuing that thought can reveal possible reasons humans began to wear clothing. For warmth and protection, especially when humans begin migrating to colder climates. Further down the line of human progress, the naked body became taboo and modesty came into the picture. It's very easy to come up with some reasons for wearing clothes. But now ask the question, "When did humans begin wearing clothes?"<br /><br />Not an earth-shattering question. Perhaps not a question many people would think very important (or possible) to get an answer to. But there are those who burn with the desire to get an answer to this question, believe it or not.<br /><br />Groups of researchers have thought of possible ways to determine the approximate date of apparel wearing. One idea says this could be determined by analyzing the date of origin of human body lice. The reasoning is that since humans have sparse body hair, the only way human body lice could survive would be in clothing. Seems an awfully long stretch to me. What about lice jumping off an animal and chowing down on a human? But supposed serious research has been done under this premise.<br /><br />So how to determine when body lice appeared on humans? Simple. Take a modern day louse and do a genetic analysis of it. One group has determined that the human body louse appeared roughly 107,000 years ago, thus humans began to wear clothing about the same time. But nothing is that simple, let alone the ancestral DNA of a louse, for yet another team of researchers did the same genetic analysis on the modern louse and determined that it appeared roughly 540,000 years ago. The two groups are still haggling about it.<br /><br />This is all according to some articles I've read on the Internet. Of course, reading something on the Internet doesn't make it so. It is hard to believe that scientists would take the trouble to invest effort, time and money on such a project. And just think of how many innocent body lice had to be sacrificed.<br /><br />While I can't verify all of this, as ludicrous as it seems it most certainly is possible that this research has happened. Especially if you consider these other areas of research, a mere handful of crazy research projects I found while surfing the 'net:<br /><ul><li> Arm pit odor research.</li><li> Research to determine the relationship between beards and hierarchy.</li><li> Research to prove that familiar children's nursery rhymes were written by aliens.</li></ul>After reading those, the possibility of scientists hovering over a dead body louse and extracting its DNA to determine when humans began to wear clothing doesn't seem so far fetched. But if this research did take place, I don't mind saying I think it was a lousy idea.Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-83835458531556300512007-12-18T23:35:00.000-06:002013-03-18T01:05:48.509-06:00I Never Did Believe In Santy Claus!At Christmas Time, folks tend to get nostalgic, remembering how Christmas used to be when they were a kid and all. I can remember very well how Christmas was for me, when I was around five years old. The year would have been 1957:<br />
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The season started the day after Thanksgiving. Not with getting up early for the 'Black Friday' shopping debacle. There were some folks that did do shopping that day, but it was nothing officially designated with all thehooplah as it is now. We would go to the guy on the corner that had a bunch of trees huddled underneath a light bulb that hung from a drop cord. That was the 'official' start of the season for us. Trees freshly cut from someone that grew them locally. The house I grew up in had nine foot ceilings, so we'd get a big one. Dad would supervise as the older kids cut an inch or two off the bottom of the trunk to help the tree soak up the sugar water we would 'feed' it. Screw the tree down tight in the tree stand, drape Mom's home sewn tree skirt around it and decorate it. The older kids would get the top, the younger kids would get the bottom. We had the old time big lights, bubble lights, a huge box of ornaments, all of them ended up on the tree. We tried stringing popcorn a few years, but with seven kids in the house, no food was safe. Especially popcorn. Throwing the tinsel on the tree was the final ritual.<br />
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Then us kids waited for the next step, the arrival of the Montgomery Wards and Sears Christmas catalogs! When they arrived, Mom and Dad would tell us to look through them, put a circle around what we wanted and write our initial in the circle. That way SANTA would know what to bring us. I had my suspicions about the validity of this Santafellah. It just didn't sound right, even to my young ears. My suspicions would turn into full-blooded disbelief on Christmas Eve.<br />
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The next step in our Christmas ritual was shopping. With no shopping malls, trudging from store to store in the cold and snow was the practice of the day. Like most kids, I loved the snow. Looking back it sure seemed like it snowed more then. But the memory can be afooler . It's probably seems that way because six inches of snow is a lot deeper for a five-year old than a fifty five year old. My Mom , my little brother and I made our way from store to store, and when there were so many packages we couldn't carry any more, we went back to the car. It was at this tender age that my thoughts about the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Great, White-Bearded Fat Elf</span> turned from the fog of suspicion to the beginnings of disbelief. For if <span style="font-weight: bold;">SANTA</span> gave the presents to people, what were <span style="font-weight: bold;">WE</span> doing all this shopping for?<br />
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Then a wondrous thing happened. This Santa guy showed up in our town! And he was fat, had a white beard, and said <span style="font-weight: bold;">HO HO HO!</span> It was enough to make me wonder if Santa wasn't for real! In 1957, Santa had his own 'house' on the corner where the YMCA was. Not much of a house, some plywood nailed together with a roof. But it was painted red and green, and had a window the kids used to get a glimpse of Santa while they waited in line to get into his house. My little brother and I waited in line on a very cold afternoon. My Mom stood off to the side with the other mothers, all of them smiling as they talked. It began to snow, and my little brother's nose began to run. Right on down under his nose, over the lips and down the chin. But he fit right in with most of the rest of the kids that had the same problem.<br />
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My little brother went in before me, but he didn't last long. He was about 3 years old, and ran out of Santa's house squawling like a pig stuck under a gate. Santa scared hell out of him. But that didn't deter the rest of us. We'd seen other 'sissies' that did the same thing. I was next, and by now I was downright curious about the whole thing, so I marched into Santa's house, and plopped myself on his lap. He gave a loud <span style="font-weight: bold;">HO HO HO</span> and asked me if I had been a good boy. Of course I answered in the affirmative. Then he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told him I already had circled all I wanted in the catalogs, so he should already KNOW. Santa said he didn't know anything about any catalogs. He asked me again. So I told him a few things, but he didn't inspire much confidence (or belief) in him if he didn't know about the catalogs. Besides, he had the smell of beer on his breath and cigarette nicotine stains on his fingers. I never heard of Santa being a beer drinker, and everybody knew he smoked a pipe. I left his house very unimpressed.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to Christmas Eve. Dad would get Grandma and bring her to our house for the holidays. She lived about 50 miles away, and he always went on Christmas Eve day, come hell or high water or deep snow and cold. Grandma was a short woman. Her family was Polish mostly, with a little bit of German thrown in for good measure. Dad would get back, drive up to the house with Grandma in the front and three cases of beer in the back. Dad liked his beer, and he came by it honestly because Grandma liked her beer too. All of us would line up in the living room to welcome Grandma. She would pinch each kid's cheek, and give them a beery kiss. When she pinched the older (and taller) kid's cheeks she'd hold on and pull them down to her level for the kiss. <br />
<br />
Our family tradition was to open our gifts on Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad would take all the kids (except my oldest brother) to look at the Christmas lights. Now that was a pretty big deal, even for me. We'd come back home in about an hour, and there would be all kinds of presents under the tree that weren't there when we left! A miracle! Mom and Dad would make a big deal out of telling us that Santa must have visited while we were gone. But I noticed my oldest brother sitting in the kitchen. He was all red in the face and sweaty. While everyone else got more and more excited, I walked into the kitchen and asked him point-blank, "WasSanty really here and bring all them presents, or did you haul them down from the attic?" He told me to shut up. But it didn't matter. I knew that's what happened. I knew all the presents had been in the attic. I had gone present hunting (my brother called it snooping) and found them . But I didn't make a big deal out of it. My Mom and Dad seemed to be getting a lot of enjoyment from the whole thing. So I played along with the Santa bit, and joined everybody else in unwrapping presents.<br />
<br />
We never really had a sit-down supper Christmas Eve. Mom would make a big pot of meatballs, or home made pizza, or something similar and we'd 'graze' on the stuff as we took stock of our presents. We'd stay up until the wee hours playing and eating, with my Mom watching and smiling and my Dad drinking beer and playing with our toys. Grandma would try to stay up late with us, but after so many beers the dear old soul would be a combination of tipsy and tired, start talking about Grandpa (who had been dead for years, Grandpa was 30 years older than Grandma) and begin to cry. Some of the kids would help Grandma into her room, and get rewarded with another beery (and teary) kiss. Mom and my sister would get her ready for bed and tuck her in. Eventually everybody would wind down, and we'd head for bed. It was usually a short night. <br />
<br />
We used to have a real goose for Christmas Dinner, and we'd get up with Mom and help her get things ready. My Dad would give Mom a Christmas Goose too, but I didn't understand what that was all about until I was older. We'd eat Christmas Goose with all the trimmings, then settle in and play with our stuff some more. Mom, Dad and Grandma would sit at the kitchen table, play cards and drink beer. Except for Mom. She was a teetotaller, so she'd drink tea.<br />
<br />
So that's how Christmas was when I was a kid. They are all good memories, even Grandma's beery kisses. She's been gone since 1977, and what I wouldn't give for her to be here and give me one of those kisses this year. Mom and Dad are gone, my oldest brother too. The rest of us have gone our separate ways, and for various reasons (none of them good) we don't see each other much. But life goes on. I've got my share of good memories. Some people do not even have that. So there actually much that I am thankful for, despite the troubles in the world and in our country. Even the memory of the fabricated jolly old elf that so many people tried to convince me existed (that I don't think I EVER believed in) is a good one. A fabrication it most definitely was, but at least in those times it seemed like it was an innocent one. At least it appears that it did no harm to me. <br />
<br />
But as I've already said, the memory can be a fooler. Although I do look back, I have no desire to go back to those times. I've never bought into the 'Good Ol' Days' nostalgia business. It is far too easy to remember bit s and pieces of what you want to remember and color those memories differently than they actually were. The only things I really miss about those times are the people that were in them that are no longer here. The rest I can do without. And that includes <span style="font-weight: bold;">SANTY CLAUS, HO HO HO!</span>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-84677024208107533502007-12-08T13:51:00.000-06:002007-12-08T13:58:38.601-06:00Christmas Peeves!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:aCpQdyd7-NXm8M:http://www.politicsonline.com/blog/images/2005/sa2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 92px; height: 131px;" src="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:aCpQdyd7-NXm8M:http://www.politicsonline.com/blog/images/2005/sa2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Call me an old Scrooge, but here are some of my PET PEEVES about the Christmas Season:</span><br /><br /><br />1) The Little Brass Bell</strong></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > - The Salvation Army is a very worthy organization. The number of folks they help during the holidays and all year long for that matter, prove that. But I must say, I get so damned tired of hearing <strong>THAT LITTLE BRASS BELL</strong> being ding-a-linged, I could pull out me hair! It isn't the idea that there's a real ARMY of folks standing on street corners and in malls collecting money. Like I said, they're a very worthy charity and I give something most every time I pass one of the collection pots. But the incessant ringing of the bell! Sure it draws attention, but the sound of the thing, especially indoors, permeates the air and goes through my head like a hot knife through butter. No doubt some would say the reason it goes through my head is that there's nothing in the way to stop it. Be that as it may, the sound irritates me, sets my teeth on edge. It is so annoying I have actually told the person ringing the bell that I'll only donate if they QUIT RINGING THE DAMNED THING until I'm out the door or out of earshot! No bell ringer has respected my request so far, but I still put the money in the pot. Our church volunteers to do this bell-ringing every year. My wife does it, many folks do. I don't. I have made my feelings known, and they don't bother asking anymore. So call me a Scrooge, call me a stick-in-the-mud, or any other name you want. I still can't stand the sound of that brass bell!<br /><br /><strong>2) Christmas Carols</strong> - Every year, the same old songs. Over and over again. This in itself would be bad enough, but there's always some joker singing a carol that thinks they have to embellish the bejeezus out of it. A simple melody is transformed into a vehicle for their astounding vocal gymnastics. Crap! Just sing the damned song, will ya? To be fair, it isn't the songs. It's the endless repetition of them. No matter where you go, you hear them. The bank, the grocery store, the dentist, the doctor. These 'joyous noises' creep into my head like an annual fungal infection of the auditory system whose only cure is the passing of the season. I can't even sit out in my car while the wife shops without hearing the damned things. And after being bombarded with them day in and day out, people STILL buy recordings of them? Enough already!<br /><br /><strong>3) Holiday Shoppers</strong> - It begins on the infamous 'Black Friday'. No, not the crash of the stock market in '29. The day after Thanksgiving. Stores open early, one opened up at 4:00AM near us. People (or rather WILD ANIMALS THAT SEEM LIKE PEOPLE) line up long before the doors open. The prey? Bargains! It's like watching a feeding frenzy of pirhanas. I avoid stores on Black Friday like the plague when I can, but this year a refill for medication (which I forgot to get earlier) necessitated me going. I waited until 5:00 PM, and by then the teeming throng had dwindled. The shopping center looked like the aftermath of a pinata-busting party. Tables that only hour before were heaped with bargains now only held the pawed-over remains. And again to be fair, it isn't the idea of getting a gift for someone that annoys me so. It is the lengths people will go to 'prove' they care about someone, that they will subject themselves to these horrors and become part of the horror themselves. But there is one part of Holiday Shopping I relish. I try to make it to the local shopping mall on Christmas Eve. About 2 hours before closing time. I willingly fight to get a parking spot, wedge my way in the door, but not to shop. To observe. I jump into the first empty seat on a shopping mall bench, and just watch. The noise, the bustle, the tension, on occasion the downright brutality of the johnny-come-lately shoppers on Xmas Eve is a study in human behavior. Every psychologist should have to do it. It's a real eye-opener. Sometimes it gets ugly, and makes Black /friday look like a tea party. I try to stay until all the stores are closed, and mall security is hustling what;s left of the human wreckage out the door. If I'm fortunate enough to be the last one out the door (it's happened on occasion), I give thanks for the incredible peace and quiet after all the broohaha.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4) The Day After Christmas</span> - If the start of the holiday selling season is called Black Friday, what should we call the end of the season? you know, the day when everyone wants to exchange or get a refund for all the crap that they got that is either the wrong size or not what they wanted. The day when the lines at the service desks and exchange counters are so long and wide they look like some sort of horrible anaconda from hell. I can't think of a word or term that is appropriate, but it is a sight to behold. If you ever have the chance to be an outside observer of this phenomenon (if you are a part of the anaconda, you'll get no sympathy from me) the same people that made up the throngs on Black Friday make up the length and breadth of the anaconda. Is there something nefarious going on here? Are these humans merely unthinking cogs in a vast corporate conspiracy to deprive them of their money, dignity and time (mostly their money)?<br /><br />These complaints but scratch the surface. But if I go any further, I'll have to rant about those who complain about The Holidays. I'm not going there. I refuse to call myself such names. I also will not wish everyone the usual seasonal greetings. But I will wish that you all have a Restful Christmas, and a Peaceful New Year. Those are the things I want for myself, and for everyone. </span><br /></span>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-38007425368487798962007-11-18T16:36:00.000-06:002007-11-18T16:49:17.306-06:00A Cell Phone Rant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:w0lxA6bd_lzryM:http://static.rbytes.net/full_screenshots/r/e/reverse-cell-phone-lookup-tool.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 119px;" src="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:w0lxA6bd_lzryM:http://static.rbytes.net/full_screenshots/r/e/reverse-cell-phone-lookup-tool.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Pet peeves, we've all got 'em. One of my many pet peeves is the cell phone. Well, not the cell phone itself, but the way some people use it. You know what I'm talkin' about. Standing in line, waiting to check out at a store with a bonehead in front of you talking on the phone, juggling a kid on the hip, digging in her purse for a credit card. All the while, the line grows larger, along with my impatience.<br /><br />Now if her phone rang while she was checking out, that would have been different. Carry a phone, either let it ring or answer it. But she CALLED someone JUST AS SHE GOT UP TO THE COUNTER. And was it an emergency that just couldn't wait? HELL NO! Before you ladies get steamed that I'm only pickin' on the female gender, there's just as many bonehead men that possess a cell phone. And they irritate me just as much! This is a completely non-gender specific rant for sure.<br /><br />How many times have I been in a public place, and I hear someone say 'Hello', turn around and say 'Hi' back before I realize they're talking on the phone. How many times have I heard the damned loud, annoying ring tones some people have in a restaurant? How many times have I gone to a park to take a walk to enjoy the peace and quiet, only to have it disturbed by some bonehead on the phone (or with a boom box, but that's another rant)?<br /><br />Another thing, why in hell do people talk so LOUD on a cell phone in public? Really, the person on the other end also thinks you're yelling. And the rest of the world doesn't need to know that your kid hasn't pooped in two days, or your girlfriend farted on your last date, or that so-and-so is having sex with what's-their-name behind you-know-who's back. At least I sure as hell don't need to, or WANT to know.<br /><br />I really do not care for cell phones, so of course I have one. My wife's idea. The dog has a collar and leash, so do I. An electronic one. But it is just a phone. Not a camera, not a camcorder, not a video game machine, I can't access the internet with it. It's just a phone. My wife has a knack for calling me at the most inopportune times. For instance, while minding my own business using a public restroom, my cell phone rang that was in my shirt pocket. I could carry a cell phone for the rest of my life, and it will ALWAYS startle me when it rings. I was standing in front of a urinal, doing what men do when they stand in front of a urinal. The phone rang. It startled me, not a good thing standing in front of a urinal. I answered the phone. My wife asked, "What ya doin?" Whenever I answer the cell phone, she asks me the same thing. "What ya doin'?" Talking on the phone, of course! The next thing she asks is, "When ya comin' home?" After peeing down my pant leg, real soon dear. Real soon.<br /><br />So is it too much to ask for a little common courtesy regarding cell phone use? Or is common courtesy like common sense, not so common? Is it too much to ask for people to step aside to make a phone call, or to step outside or somewhere out of the way when answering a phone? How about turning the thing to vibrate mode when in a restaurant or movie theater, or even a CONCERT HALL, and stepping into the lobby to answer the thing? Or better yet, how about just shutting the damned thing off!<br /><br />And another thing, you men and your cell phone holsters. What the hell is up with that? In the old west days men wore a six-shooter on the hip, now a cell phone? Do you know how silly you look, how aggravating it is...wait a minute. My cell phone's ringing...if I know what's good for me I BETTER answer...Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-64897580263863796222007-02-18T16:53:00.000-06:002007-05-06T18:37:30.590-06:00Takes A Lickin' And Keeps On Tickin'<span style="font-style: italic;">You guessed it, another Clyde story from my memory bank! <a href="http://essaysstories.blogspot.com/2007/02/story-teller.html">(Who's Clyde?)</a></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kRULXbDl9gid4XOwooqCz3hnl-2KtIxN4-q_YSHSUvhHif4SfYE0J7FCK95JnacSLDaKm7ploSYxEw4mGTfoHEdppkllWNltHk5X7QgqqDQXvyTsRTkaNUU0HkYn-rgtQlKV9uUnDpU/s1600-h/timex.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kRULXbDl9gid4XOwooqCz3hnl-2KtIxN4-q_YSHSUvhHif4SfYE0J7FCK95JnacSLDaKm7ploSYxEw4mGTfoHEdppkllWNltHk5X7QgqqDQXvyTsRTkaNUU0HkYn-rgtQlKV9uUnDpU/s200/timex.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033015586671316706" border="0" /></a><br />Yeah, I done a lot of fishin' in my day. Don't matter what's bitin' I like to catch 'em. Even Carp. Most folks think Carp's a junk fish and ain't no good to eat. That ain't so. Gotta know how to clean 'em, gotta know how to cook 'em. And the bigger the fish the better. My favorite way is to smoke them Carp. Used to have a smoker, and when we'd get a mess of big Carp, that's what we'd do. Nothin' better than to eat smoked Carp on a hot summer evening and drink beer.<br /><br />Do most of my fishin' these days with a pole, but I used to run outlines and jug fish a lot. Jug fishin's a real good time. Back in them days we'd buy a couple cases of cheap beer in bottles, drink one case of it, stopper up the end of the bottle so it'd float. Then we'd tie a hunk of fishin' line on the bottle neck and a hook on 'ta other end. Bait them up, set them driftin' on the water, lay back in the boat and drink beer until you see the bottles a bobbin' in the water. You get a case or two of 'jugs' out there, and it could keep you mighty busy!<br /><br />But my favorite fishin' is for big ol' lunker catfish. I'm talkin' flatheads bigger than 20 pound. In my younger days I used to go catfish hoggin'. Ya'll get in the water, look for an undercut place along th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eQ5e8jDpKAqYzeiCM6xf06ji87Tq9t21ULKC0rbiYDWV9vYw44QYOwJyJNTafbK-WxZ5NhrPlVEd8hoN7NWsh9UV8VXaU2Fnpx3uhCPHosIyAyxIOk-3KWhNygggk4xj4m1Y2ixfnKQ/s1600-h/catfish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eQ5e8jDpKAqYzeiCM6xf06ji87Tq9t21ULKC0rbiYDWV9vYw44QYOwJyJNTafbK-WxZ5NhrPlVEd8hoN7NWsh9UV8VXaU2Fnpx3uhCPHosIyAyxIOk-3KWhNygggk4xj4m1Y2ixfnKQ/s200/catfish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033019658300313378" border="0" /></a>e bank. That's where them big catfish like to roost. You find a likely place, and start feelin' around under the water until you find one. Gotta be gentle, not move too fast. Them fish can be skittish. You tickle that big ol' cat's belly, and it calms them down. Give 'em a good belly rub, and it kind a puts them to sleep. Do that for a spell, then grab 'em! Inside the gills is a good place, but man them gill slits are sharp and cut your arms up fierce. But you pretty much have to grab 'em where you can. If you're lucky and got a big one, hang on brother! A thirty pounder will give ya'll a tussle and a half! Plum tucker you out to get him back to shore too.<br /><br />Reminds me of the time me and a couple buddies went out on the river years back. You got to know where to look for them lunkers, and there's some mighty deep holes we knowed about that them cats liked to be. When you fish for the big ones, don't never set your pole down when the bait's in the water. Them cats will play around with the bait a spell, but when they take it, they take it fast, and you ain't gonna grab that pole quick enough. You could lose your pole, reel and all in a flash.<br /><br />Now you talk to ten different catfish men, and you'll get ten different favorite baits. Some guys swear by night crawlers, some by dead minners, some by stink bait. A catfish will eat 'bout anything, truth be told. I done caught cats on all those kind of baits, but my favorite is chicken guts. Fresh chicken guts. That's what gets the big 'uns. We knowed a guy what butchered chickens, and we could get all the fresh guts we wanted.<br /><br />We cut the motor when we got close to the hole, and drifted the rest of the way in. Last thing ya'll want to do is make noise. No clangin' and bangin' in the goddam boat, whisper when you talk. Them fish pick that noise up through the water and they're gone! We quietly baited up, and cast into the hole. Weren't about 2 minutes when I felt somethin' a nibblin' at my bait. You got to pay attention, 'cause even a big fish can be gentle like when they start. You got to be patient too. Got to know the right time to set the hook, or you just gave a catfish a free dinner.<br /><br />That fish toyed with the bait for quite a spell, then I felt him take it. I pulled up on my pole with ever thing I had, and 'bout pulled my arms out of the sockets. That fish didn't move! Lord have mercy, he was a big 'un! He started to run, and I held the pressure on the pole. Felt like he was hooked real good, and he was playin' out a lot of line.<br /><br />There's one thing 'bout them big cats, they fight like hell. So I held my rod high, and he started to tucker out. I started pumpin' my rod up and down, takin' in line, and finally got his big ass up to the boat. Son of a bitch, he was a monster! I hollered to my buddy, "Get the net, get the net!" But there 'twern't no net. We remembered the beer, but forgot the net.<br /><br />I got the biggest cat I ever seen on my line, and no net to get him in the boat! I kept playin' him to tucker him out even more while a buddy got on each side of me. I was gonna get him as close to the boat as I could, and they was gonna grab him. He finally quit shakin' and was just a-floatin' on the water, so I held his head high and they took a grab. Each buddy had a hold of a fin. They got the head on the side of the boat but his tail was still in the water. I reached down to grab the fish by the mouth and drag him in, when that fish shook his head one last time, shook the hook, and my buddies lost their grip!<br /><br />Without even thinkin' I dropped my pole,went to grab the bottom lip of the fish, but the cat swung his head and my hand went into its mouth. Then the bastard swallered my arm up to the elbow, and clamped down tight! Man, it hurt like hell! The more I yanked tryin' to get my arm out, the tighter that cat clamped down. What was worse, he was a-thrashin' around tryin' to get back in the water, and he was gonna take my ass with him! One of my buddies grabbed me around the waist to keep me in the boat, and the other started whackin' the fish on the head with his fists. Now why this punkin head didn't grab the damn fish and drag him in the boat is a mystery to me. But it happened so fast, and I was bellerin' and cussin' at the top of my voice, reckon he just wanted the fish to let go.<br /><br />And the cat did let go. In one second, the cat unclamped his mouth and slipped back into the water. I looked at my arm, and it was all cut up and bleedin'. And I not only lost the biggest fish I ever seen, my wrist watch was gone too! Goddam fish ate it and took it with him! Damn fine watch it were. One of them Timex waterproof, shockproof, magnetproof watches that was a self-winder too.<br /><br />A few years after that, we was out lunker fishin' again. I finally caught a cat what looked like he was bigger than the one that got away, out of the same river. We took him home, gonna steak him out and have us a big fish fry. He weighed forty-two and three quarter pound! Now there's only one way to skin a cat that big. I had my buddies hold him up whilst I nailed him to a tree at my place. Couple big ol' nails right in the head. Them big cats got a hide on 'em like leather, so it took some doin' to skin him out.<br /><br />We put a bucket under him when we went to gut him. I slit the belly, and all the guts fell into the bucket, and I heard a 'clunk' noise. What the hell, I started siftin' through the guts to see what that cat done ate. What do you think I found? My watch! If I'm lyin' I'm dyin', the same damn watch I lost a couple years ago was still in the belly of the same damn fish what tried to drag my ass out of the boat! The damn thing was still runnin', and had the right time to boot!<br /><br />I still got that watch, still got the scars on my arm from when I first met Mr. Big Ol' Catfish. And the watch still works perfect. When they tell you them Timex watches take a lickin' and keep on tickin', it be a fact!Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-5614520199439015392007-02-17T19:37:00.000-06:002007-05-06T18:36:54.661-06:00The Story Teller: Part Two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKS-2_yMinxizO-mpNy47aHRf-3Wuccd11lHReU132POYN3T9A525Oy6bFltq36o0iNud8Vl9h3Ta0CeYQWqtqzfh580xBI7ziXvD97Tw3r_aau8rx7MZ3Em4v3yob9M3TYkAL29ZKzM/s1600-h/51indianchief.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKS-2_yMinxizO-mpNy47aHRf-3Wuccd11lHReU132POYN3T9A525Oy6bFltq36o0iNud8Vl9h3Ta0CeYQWqtqzfh580xBI7ziXvD97Tw3r_aau8rx7MZ3Em4v3yob9M3TYkAL29ZKzM/s200/51indianchief.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5032702011109035730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's another story from my old buddy Clyde. <a href="http://essaysstories.blogspot.com/2007/02/story-teller.html">(Who's Clyde?)</a> I'm going to tell it like he did, so be forewarned; adult language and content is included!</span><br /><br />I used to ride motorcycles back in West Virginia. Never had no money to buy my own, but one of my buddies used to let me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">borry</span> his. He had a 1951 Indian Chief, and a pretty thing it was. He kept it all polished up and clean. It shined like a diamond in a goat's ass.<br /><br />Well, my buddy was laid up sick and told me I could have the Indian for the weekend, just be careful with it and clean it up when I was done. Now that was just the ticket! I decided to go pick up the gal I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">seein</span>' at the time and go for a ride. She was a fine gal, and loved to go <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ridin</span>' with me. So I brought along a jug, she hopped on and we went out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ridin</span>' and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">boozin</span>'.<br /><br />Now <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ridin</span>' a bike in West Virginia ain't for no sissy. There ain't a level spot of ground in the whole state. You're either <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">goin</span>' up, or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">goin</span>' down, and the roads in them days would go from pavement to dirt in a wink. We was on a paved part of a road, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">tippin</span>' the jug and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">havin</span>' a high old time. After a spell, my gal got to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">feelin</span>' frisky, and was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">holdin</span>' on to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">somethin</span>' other than my waist, if ya know what I mean. So I pulled the bike off the road near some woods, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">figurin</span>' me and her would have a little more serious fun.<br /><br />We was both pretty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">snockered</span> up. Both of us staggered off the bike, and I headed for the woods. "Where you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">goin</span>' Clyde honey?" she asked.<br />"Well, 'less <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">ya'll</span> want to do it right here alongside the road, I figured we'd hit the woods, gal!"<br />She got a big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">ol</span>' smile on her face. "You reckon we could do it on the bike?"<br />"I reckon so, but it won't be so comfortable." I started <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">undoin</span>' my drawers.<br />"Clyde honey, you reckon we could do it on the bike, while we're <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ridin</span>'?" she said.<br />Now I ain't no coward, but that idea did seem a little dangerous. "You mean while I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">drivin</span>' the bike?"<br />She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">throwed</span> her arms around my neck and said. "Yeah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">darlin</span>'. I could lay up on the gas tank and the handlebars, and you could get it in me on the fly!" Man, was she drunk! But I was too. She sat up on the handlebars, hiked her skirt up and tempted me. So I figured, what the hell!<br /><br />So we're <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">goin</span>' down the road, coupled up real good. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Goin</span>' up and down the hills of West Virginia, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">gettin</span>' a mighty fine thrill. She's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">gettin</span>' into it, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">helpin</span>' out much as she can. We come to one of them tall hills, a cardiac hill they call 'em back home. That's 'cause they're so steep, if you had to walk up 'em your heart would give out. My gal's eyes are rolled back, and she starts <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">hollerin</span>', "Faster Clyde! Faster!"I wasn't sure if she meant me or the bike, so I done both.<br /><br />We get up the top of the hill and she's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">moanin</span>' and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">groanin</span> like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">nobody's</span> business. Now I'm ready to blow my nuts, and we go down the hill faster than greased shit. I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">startin</span>' to get the funny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">feelin</span>' and us and the bike were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">goin</span>' damned fast. Then the road turned to dirt, and I lost control of the bike.<br /><br />Went off the road <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">goin</span>' so fast I jumped a ditch. I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">hangin</span>' on for dear life to them handle bars, but my gal didn't have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">nothin</span>' to hold on to. Her bare ass flew off the bike when I finally hit the ground. Don't know how I done it, but I kept the bike upright. But I was headed for some big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">ol</span>' hogs that were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">wallowin</span>' in the mud. Don't remember if there was a fence or not. If there was, I went right through it.<br /><br />So there I was, with my dick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">hangin</span>' out and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">floppin</span>' all over, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">headin</span>' for two big hogs. Oh Lord, if I die this way, just have them hogs eat me so my Momma don't know the particulars! But soon as I got closer to the hogs, I hit some mud that slowed me down just enough that I could steer around 'em. Home free? Nope. Ran into a big tree stump, stopped the bike cold, and I went over the handle bars, ass over teacup.<br /><br />Next thing I know, I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">layin</span>' on the ground all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">coverd</span> with mud, pig shit and blood, with a big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">ol</span>' State Trooper <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">standin</span>' over me. Don't know how long I laid there, but I looked around and couldn't see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">nothin</span>' of my gal. Found out later another Trooper took her back into town while I was passed out.<br /><br />Me and the gal were both drunk enough that we rolled with the punches. Not really hurt too bad, all things considered. But I was sure sore for a long time. My buddy never spoke to me again. The bike was totalled. Lost my gal too. She had some big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">ol</span>' brothers that probably still want to whup my ass over the deal, and it happened back in '58. But all that don't bother me none. What still bothers me is that the gal blamed it all on me, and the Trooper gave me a ticket.<br />Now <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">this Trooper</span> had to try real hard to figure out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">somethin</span>' to give me a ticket for. So you know what he done? When I flew off the handle bars I landed a fair distance from the bike. So far in fact, that the Trooper gave me a ticket for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">leavin</span>' the scene of an accident!<br /><br />Sure was a lot of fun, but I never did <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">nothin</span>' like that again. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Havin</span>' that much fun can be awful hard on a man.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></span>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-10611603036602121932007-02-17T17:31:00.000-06:002007-02-17T18:04:31.434-06:00The Story Teller<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TxSSACjBIcFBbEZB46Gc93wMV0XYlVYR8xeJtgMlg6f2M1JLqWALfA-FZmGt1mSOBBQfwY9eHcPNAhksfVDhdRgW3_J6nCNHdEORpDKHkcH3LKjlGplGJYL4_7PR1RFRgWADX796CgY/s1600-h/hunting+dog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TxSSACjBIcFBbEZB46Gc93wMV0XYlVYR8xeJtgMlg6f2M1JLqWALfA-FZmGt1mSOBBQfwY9eHcPNAhksfVDhdRgW3_J6nCNHdEORpDKHkcH3LKjlGplGJYL4_7PR1RFRgWADX796CgY/s320/hunting+dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5032658163787910834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I have had the pleasure of knowing some good story tellers. The following short st</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ory</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> was told to me by a man I worked with for years. 'Clyde' was originally from West Virg</span><span style="font-style: italic;">inia</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, and this is but one of the many stories he told. He was not what I'd call an 'educated' man, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">but his command of language and imagery bordered on the surreal. I hope my retelling does t</span><span style="font-style: italic;">he story</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> justice:</span><br /><br />Yeah, the weather of late has been mighty hot for sure. Not as hot as a few years ago though. I had me two young bird dogs. Fine dogs they were, but pretty green. So I figured I'd best take 'em out and work 'em afore hunting season got here.<br /><br />So I piled 'em into my truck, 'Ol' Blue'. Now Ol' Blue's pretty rusted up, but it gets me where I want to go. Them dogs sure liked to go for a ride. They'd get in the back of the truck and wait for hours for me to give 'em a ride, so it weren't no trouble getting them excited about it. I drove out to a spot I know that's full of birds. Pheasant mostly.<br /><br />I took a gun along too. Not to shoot no birds out of season, mind you. I just wanted to get them young dogs used to hearing a gun go off. So we're walking along, and the birds start a sniffin' the ground. Pretty soon they went off into some tall grass just before some woods near the creek. Sure enough, them dog's noses steered them right. They scared up a pheasant pretty as you please. I popped off a couple of rounds, and 'bout scared hell out of both of 'em. Every time the dogs scared up a bird, I'd shoot. With every shot, them dogs flinched a little less. Man, I was sure they was going to be some fine bird dogs!<br /><br />Now it was mighty hot that day, and them dogs tongues were hangin' out every which way, slobberin' and pantin' like an old steam engine. I was sweatin' like a race horse all lathered up myself, so I figured it was time to go home. Them dogs did good their first day out.<br /><br />I started walkin' back to the truck, along the edge of a cornfield. All of a sudden, I heard what sounded like somebody shootin' a gun in the distance. Man, I thought some farmer took offense at me on his property, and I got a little nervous when the sound came closer. I looked around, couldn't see nobody. I looked into the cornfield, and saw white stuff shootin' up into the air. By golly, we was right near a field of popcorn! It was so damned hot, the corn started poppin' right off the cob!<br /><br />Now my two young dogs started lookin' around, and when they seen all that white popcorn start coverin' the ground, they thought it was snow, and laid down and froze to death before I could get 'em back to the truck! Damn shame too. Them was some mighty fine dogs. 'Bout broke my heart.Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-5925340347430441472007-02-12T12:08:00.000-06:002007-02-12T16:54:01.768-06:00The Toothpaste DilemmaThe ridiculous<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLwQFgzGhgktQ1wz3n2Od3sTyjEEQEJaRuvEijRGHMLPUgdBAjTo33RmOFYoU1d35ujplbu21C46WMt8n7R49utN2IvC-dueKdcwtmSkpwcwzR868Yt4HTid_DbO6sN-wOOOMC60dUy4/s1600-h/toothpaste3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLwQFgzGhgktQ1wz3n2Od3sTyjEEQEJaRuvEijRGHMLPUgdBAjTo33RmOFYoU1d35ujplbu21C46WMt8n7R49utN2IvC-dueKdcwtmSkpwcwzR868Yt4HTid_DbO6sN-wOOOMC60dUy4/s200/toothpaste3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030784522959736466" border="0" /></a> number of different kinds of toothpaste can be unnecessarily overwhelming. Consider the following options: White, colored, striped, paste or gel, additives in the paste that run the gamut from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fluoride</span> to plaque control with all kinds of combinations, paste for tooth whitening, for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">sensitive</span> teeth, for smokers, paste with mouthwash, in tubes, in squeeze bottles, a plethora of different flavors, with baking soda, paste that turns any gunk you've missed after brushing the color of blue so you can brush again. Just a partial list, to be sure.<br /><br />What is the objective of brushing your teeth? To prevent cavities, or show your individuality? To have healthy gums, or sand-blast the enamel off your teeth? And rest assured, each different variety is <span style="font-weight: bold;">BETTER</span> than any of the others, with <span style="font-weight: bold;">NEW</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> AND IMPROVED</span> varieties hitting the shelves ad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">nauseum</span>.<br /><br />To walk into a store and visit the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">tooth care</span> aisle is a study in the remarkable redundancy of the American marketing system. Inundate the customer with choices. Lure the eye with brightly colored packaging that <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">SCREAMS</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span> about the efficacy of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tooth care</span> product. Toothpastes to fit any decor, any mood, any lifestyle, any personality. Now <span style="font-weight: bold;">THAT'S</span> what America is all about!<br /><br />I have watched people in the toothpaste aisle. A boring activity perhaps, but fascinating in what it reveals. There are people who spend more time choosing a toothpaste, than choosing a candidate for President Of The United States. So, after these folks make the all-important choice of an oral scrubbing agent, woe to them if they also need a <span style="font-weight: bold;">TOOTHBRUSH!<br /></span><br />The same marketing strategy is used. The choices? All colors of the rainbow, flat handles, round handles, ergonomically designed comfort handles, straight handles, curved handles, bristles from extra soft and mushy to extra firm and rigid, flat bristles, rounded bristles, combinations of bristles, handles with little rubber erasers on the end for gum 'stimulation' (gum stimulation?), handles with built-in floss dispensers, electric brushes with rotating bristles, electric brushes that vibrate so much they could double for a marital aid, and a tooth brush that is not a brush at all that uses water. And floss and mouthwash? Don't even get me started on those!<br /><br />We are bombarded with choices for oral care the same we are bombarded for most other consumer goods. From baked beans to condoms, consumers are offered choice after choice after choice, with the cost of those choices equal to their newness or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">uniqueness</span>. Plain old toothpaste (when you can find it) costs a hell of a lot less than the fancy stuff.<br /><br />One of the best tooth cleansers is baking soda. It works great and it's cheap. But it tastes nasty. So I strike the middle ground. I buy plain old toothpaste at $0. 98 a tube. It's white, doesn't taste too bad, and most likely works as well as the fancy stuff.<br /><br />I still get snookered on the marketing ploys, but not as much as I used to, and by golly not on toothpaste. It has become so ingrained in all of us, it is hard behavior to stop. But the older I get, the less I care about some things. Designer toothpaste is on that list for sure.<br /><br />So just say <span style="font-weight: bold;">'NO MORE!' </span>American Consumer! Defeat the marketers of designer toothpaste! It is a small step, but do it! Today, toothpaste! Tomorrow, the world!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4573562968730252074.post-28616395408481692162006-12-07T23:59:00.000-06:002015-06-11T21:52:46.877-06:00My Identity Crisis: A True Story, Mostly<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AOCbFYGNREfCnadddqNDq2TKTbBbRBpYntQIQN_OB9-AwX-SCfCdivxNar7jSUPmfkOB_D9RtFo3phiIb2edd0C3qYZkAODgw6wzj9GSJBIT6L3khBjkx4Dvwsopjf2EiTrHHdLfSSY/s1600/1000px-Vraagteken.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AOCbFYGNREfCnadddqNDq2TKTbBbRBpYntQIQN_OB9-AwX-SCfCdivxNar7jSUPmfkOB_D9RtFo3phiIb2edd0C3qYZkAODgw6wzj9GSJBIT6L3khBjkx4Dvwsopjf2EiTrHHdLfSSY/s320/1000px-Vraagteken.svg.png" width="191" /></a>I’ve heard about people having an identity crisis, but I never thought I would be one of them. I knew I was a left-handed retired steelworker, and that if I had more money I’d be called eccentric. But given the usual state of my bank account let’s just say I’m a little goofy. Wasn’t searching for myself or my real identity, or anything like a metaphysical awaking. But with a simple thing like filing my income taxes, I discovered I really wasn’t who I thought I was.<br />
<br />
It started thirty-eight years ago when I was a young lad of sixteen. A young dumb lad. When I got my driver’s license, I gave the wrong birth date. Most kids learn their birth date early on, but I guess accuracy wasn’t very important to me at the time. Got the month and year right, September 1952, but was one day off. I was born the 26th, but gave the 25th. Simple enough mistake, and two out of three isn’t so bad. It was a mistake I rectified when I registered for the military draft when I was eighteen. The lottery system had just been implemented, and I wanted to make sure that if I got called up that it would be on my official birthday, and not a bogus date.<br />
<br />
But the birth date continued to be wrong on my driver’s license. Was going to change it, but the driver’s license people told me that it wasn’t a big deal, they only used the birth date for an expiration date. So I thought no more about it. That is, until I tried to file my taxes electronically.<br />
<br />
Modern technology is a wonderful thing. There are cell phones you can play arcade games on, surveillance cameras everywhere, and a vast computer network with everyone’s personal and financial information only a keystroke away. And it’s that vast computer network that finally caught up with my thirty four year old mistake. On my tax return was my correct birth date. On my social Security records was my incorrect birth date. Had I been double dumb thirty-four years ago and gave social security the wrong birth date also? Evidently, for the electronic tax filing cross-referenced the information with my social security records and everything was rejected.<br />
<br />
My wife does our taxes on the computer. She’s good at it, and she thinks it’s fun. But we all have our quirks. She called social security and they said that I had to take a copy of my birth certificate to their office and have everything corrected. That was a simple enough thing to do to correct an old mistake.<br />
<br />
Went to city hall, and it cost six dollars for one copy, two for nine dollars. Never could resist a bargain, so I got two. Then went directly to the social security office, turned in the birth certificate, was told it would take a few days and everything would be changed, corrected, legal and kosher. I drove home with a good feeling. Usually these kinds of things are much more involved than this. For once, I’d gotten off easy.<br />
<br />
As soon as I got home, my wife called me back to our computer room. “Social Security just called. Your birth certificate is wrong,” she said.<br />
“Real funny. All those comedians out of work, and you’re being funny!” I said.<br />
“The lady said your birth certificate is wrong,” she repeated.<br />
Aha! I got out my copy of the certificate, brandished it in front of her nose with my finger firmly pointing to the birth date. “See! The right birth date! September 26th, 1952!”<br />
But in the confident voice of a person that knew they were right she said, “It’s not the birth date that’s wrong. It’s the name.”<br />
<br />
I read the information on the certificate:<br />
<br />
CHILD’S NAME: WILLIAM FREDERICK BEGGEROW<br />
FATHER’S NAME: WILLIAM FREDERICK BEGGEROW<br />
<br />
That would be correct if I had been named after my father, but I wasn’t. I was led to believe that I had been named ALAN FORREST BEGGEROW. Couldn’t believe what I was reading. Here I was, a man with a driver’s license that had the right name on it but the wrong birth date, and a birth certificate with the right date on it but the wrong name. I had never noticed before, and no one else had when I applied for my pension or marriage license. It took an efficient employee at social security to catch it and she didn’t catch it right away. So another trip to city hall was called for, but it was 4:45 on Friday afternoon. I didn’t have enough time to get there before closing. So it would have to wait for Monday morning.<br />
<br />
When there is a problem in your life, you can depend on your friends to help pull you through. I not only told people about the situation, but I had to show the incorrect certificate for them to believe it. They started to give me moral support. Someone started to call me ‘Willie’, and demanded to know what I did with Alan. Another put forth the theory that I had really been born a set of twins, and in a fit of jealous rage I’d slain the smarter, good-looking one. Another wondered if I was legally married because I’d gotten the marriage certificate with a false document. Yet another had the idea that since my house mortgage and bills were in Alan’s name, and since Alan was not the name on my birth certificate, I might be able to get by without paying any of my bills. Let ‘em look for some guy named Alan! It’s always good to have friends.<br />
<br />
When I got to city hall the following Monday, the clerks couldn’t believe it. One of them had been working there a long time, and couldn’t remember ever seeing the wrong name on a birth certificate. I really wasn’t very fond of being so unique, so I asked what I needed to do to correct it. They referred me to a higher authority: The County Court House. They assured me that the county clerk could take care of it with no problem. I was beginning to have my doubts. This was turning into way too much of an adventure to believe that there was a simple fix.<br />
<br />
So off I went to the County Clerk’s Office. I had been advised to take along anything that could be used as a form of identification, so I was well prepared. I had insurance cards, credit cards, my old Mickey Mouse Club badge, my driver’s license, (with the wrong date on it) and my birth certificate (with the wrong name on it).<br />
<br />
The clerk at the courthouse listened to my story, looked at the birth certificate and my driver’s license more than once. Her eyes went from one to the other as if she were watching game point at a tennis match. Finally she suggested we call the state capitol, Springfield Illinois. Perhaps the records were wrong at city hall but correct at the capitol. She told me as she dialed the phone to keep my fingers crossed. A bad omen if I ever heard one.<br />
<br />
But the finger crossing worked. The records in Springfield were correct. They would send a copy to the country courthouse. She asked if I would like the copy sent to my house, and I agreed. She asked me if I wanted more than one copy. I replied, “Let me guess. Six dollars for one, nine dollars for two?” She assured me I guessed correctly, so I took advantage of the bargain again. The copies would be in my mailbox in two weeks. But curiosity got the best of me. “What if the records in Springfield were wrong?" I asked.<br />
“Then it would be up to you to prove who you are,” she replied.<br />
“Just how would I go about doing that?” I asked as I looked at my drivers’ license and false certificate.<br />
“Oh, you’d probably have to go in front of a judge,” she said. I wondered if the judge would have accepted my Mickey Mouse Club badge as a form of identification, and wondered whom I could get to vouch for my identity. Surely not some of my ‘friends’, that’s for sure. “Let’s just say you dodged a bullet on this one,” she said as she smiled. I agreed, and left the courthouse.<br />
<br />
After two weeks of being called ‘Willie’ by an increasing number of people, the correct birth certificates arrived. I checked them. Everything was correct. Even had an official stamp from the county clerk with his signature to verify their authenticity. So I took the copies and headed for the social security office. They remembered me at the social security office. For them to remember one person from two weeks prior, after all the other people that had been in the office, verified that I was truly unique. But it was time for me to lose that uniqueness. I turned over the certificate. The lady behind the window said, “We have to send a field representative to Springfield to verify the records. It will be about three weeks before the information is corrected.”<br />
I pointed to the official seal and signature of the county clerk and said, “But look!”<br />
Patiently she said, “Yes I see, but the procedure of the social security administration requires one of our field representatives to do a physical check of the records in Springfield. It will be about three weeks before the information is corrected, whereupon we will send you a new social security card and a written verification that the record has been changed. Thank you. Next number, please!”<br />
<br />
End of discussion. Willie would still be my ghostly alter ego a while longer. I got to know him very well and I came to the conclusion that Willie was a bum. He didn’t bring home a paycheck, didn’t own any property, couldn’t get him to do a lick of work around the house. But he sure could eat. But I was confident that Willie’s days were numbered. After four weeks I got the letter stating that my information at social security had been changed, and after another two weeks I got my new card. I didn’t think it would be changed within the three weeks that social security said. When you’re dealing with bureaucracy, you tend to take their timetables with a grain of salt.<br />
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We e-filed the taxes, and they were accepted. Willie had been exiled to the nether world from whence he came. I showed a copy of the new birth certificate to everyone, especially the ‘friends’ that still called me Willie. Some people even asked if I was going to hold funeral services for him. I assured them that Willie wasn’t worth the time, effort or expense. A harsh judgment perhaps, but that’s the way I felt.<br />
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I have kept a copy of the incorrect birth certificate. People have enough occasions to label me a stretcher of the truth, but not this time. I’ve got the proof for posterity. Years from now when there will be no doubt a more sophisticated method of identifying people, humans of that future era will look at the record keeping we used way back when and no doubt wonder how we kept anything straight. I’m of the present era, and I wonder the same thing.<br />
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We all have skeletons in our closet, but a miss-recorded birth date surely isn’t an entire skeleton. More like a single finger bone. But it was a pain to resolve. So the only advice I have is that everyone should double-check his or her ‘vital’ statistics. We can’t do anything about the modern information access age, but we can make sure that the information is correct. For remember, you too may have a doppelganger like Willie, just waiting to be brought to life.Alan Beggerowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09319550956740738799noreply@blogger.com0