Tie-aye-aye-ime is on my side, yes it is....

Not really. Time is not on my side, but that was the tune running through my head so that's the subject line you get so there :)~~~

Anyway, it's late and I haven't much to say tonight.  What is going through my head right now is what the hell I am going to pull out of the freezer to make for dinner tomorrow night. That's sad. I should be pondering deep and mysterious things, but noooo... I am thinking about what I am going to shove down the family's mouths tomorrow after I drag in from work.

On the other hand, here's a thought: I had this creative writing teacher in 12th grade, I think her name was Mrs. Sullivan. I sometimes wonder what she would be thinking about my journal writings. She didn't much care for my writing when I was in her class. Unlike my mother, writing was not a passion of mine back then. Don't get me wrong, I loved writing stupid stories and very bad poetry, it just wasn't some all consuming passion of mine.

My passion was my music. It was singing. Here's the sad part about that. It's my personal opinion (and that of my piano teacher back in 4th grade) that you need to be pretty good at math to be a good musician. I was piss poor at math. I still am. Now don't get me wrong, as long as you played a tape or sang a song for me the way it was to be sung and let me listen to it a few times, I could mimic what you did to perfection. But if you threw the actual sheet music at me and told me I had to read the actual time meter and give the notes their mathmatical value as I sang, well, you just lost me there baby.  I spent more time trying to do the math than actually getting notes out of my mouth. It was the same with musical intruments too. Just play it for me, let me hear it and I will play it back for you correctly.

Which is why I was never a very good musician. I sucked at best. Unless I was singing and playing my own songs. Then I was not too shabby.

Well, Mrs. Sullivan, this has gotten way off topic. But you see, that's ok, because well, THIS IS MY FUCKING BLOG!  In my fucking blog, I can do whatever I want (grin).  This is what being a grown up is all about, you can tell anyone and everyone to fuck off if you are so inclinded. Mrs. Sullivan no longer holds my grade point average by the balls. See this Mrs. Sullivan? This is my bank account. There's money in it, which was the whole point of that grade point average in the first place right? Like,the higher your GPA, the higher wages you will earn out in the real world? Wasn't that what it was all about?

See that's another nice thing about owning your own business. No one gives a rats ass about what college you went to or what your GPA was. They just want to know that you can do the job they are paying you to do. End of story.

And now it's time to go to sleep. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, let nothing offend thee.... in calm contentment lie....

In the jungle, the mighty jungle

When I was 14, I started on this project of turning my bedroom into this jungle of sorts.  The idea was to take black and dark green wax crepe streamers and hang them in varying length clumps about and inch or so apart on the ceiling at various points around the room. Next the walls would be painted a deep forest green and covered in bamboo and other various jungle looking vegetation which would then be covered with African and Amazonian type masks, shields and weaponry.

It sounded cool to me at the time. I bought the black and dark green wax crepe first. When my mother saw it in my room and asked what it was for, I told her and she of course said there was no way she was going to have a jungle room in her house. Needless to say, I was a little miffed. So to get back at her I did this instead:

I took corn meal and flour and mixed them together with a little salt. I made several bowls of this stuff, enough for all the primary colors and a few for some secondary ones (Mom never should have sent me to art school). I then took food coloring and mixed them well in those bowls of mush.

I need to explain the layout of the bedroom area of our house at this point. We lived in a very long and large ranch house. I believe it was somewhere around 30'x100' in dimension. There was a long hall running from my brother's bedroom, past the main bathroom and on down to my bedroom. A hall of probably 12 feet or so. At the other end of my bedroom from this hall entrance was an ajoining door to my mother's sewing room. My guess is that my room was probably 14'x13'. I am figuring this because I do know the size of the living room. My room was directly on the other side of the wall from the living room and it's width was 17 feet. On a 30' wide house, that had to make my room at least 13 feet wide.  Since my room was longer than wide, I am guessing it was 14 feet long. So from my brother's doorway to my closet, it was approximately 26 feet. Add another 2 feet from the closet to the ajoining door and you should have about 28 feet from Scott's room to that ajoining door. A straight shot down the hall.

I also need to mention that I was an excellent pitcher. Sandy Koufax was my hero growing up. I learned to pitch from watching his two World Series winning performances. So I was a damn good throw ok?

I think you can see where this is going now.

So with my bowls all lined all neatly in front of me, I began to make balls and with all the Sandy Koufax I could muster with in me, I hurled them at great speed toward the ajoining door 28 feet away.  I had to stop between throws and run down to see how wonderful my creation was. The splats were perfection. I couldn't have asked for any better splats. First yellow, then blue, then red, turning to the secondaries, green and purple and orange. Repeat until bowls are empty. It was lovely, splat upon splat and they stuck so nicely.  I finished my work and then cleaned up the evidence.

It took Mom four days to find my masterpiece. By then it was rock hard and a permanent part of the ajoining door.  I thought she was going to shit bricks. It was close to impossible to hide my glee. Somehow I managed to just stand there noncomittal and mumble something about how I liked it. I am not sure if she hit me or not, I don't remember. All that mattered was that I had gotten her and gotten her good.

My mother's friends thought I was a wild child. A rebellious little sot. They felt I gave my mother far too much grief. But that's not true. I had friends that ran off to Haight Ashbury (my own big brother did this very thing).  I stayed home and in school and did the yard work and with great coaxing the dishes every night. I had friends who did drugs (big brother also did this). I didn't even drink (although I did smoke cigarettes behind her back).  I had friends who had sex (notch another one for big bro on this one too), I didn't even look at anyone other than to wish I could kiss them (little did Mom know, although I know she sort of suspected, that I was in love with Anita Paleologos who sat in front of me in journalism class).

I was really a good kid when you really think about it.  I could have been a lot worse. Really I could have.

My mother once said that all her children were too sensitive. I think what she failed to see was that all her children were creative geniuses and she was not able to cope with that very well. I am pretty sure creativity was not overly encouraged in Mom's family of origin. It was probably considered a sin, God knows everything else was.  She had no idea what to do with her artistically and musically inclinded children.

Which is why Mom didn't appreciate my art work on the ajoining door. Really Mom, it was pure genius, no really it was. It was also very good payback.

Never knowing who to cling to, when the rain set in

I am thinking about how to describe today. Long is good. Difficult would work. But mostly it was painful physically. Which basically made it even longer and more difficult. By 5 this evening I was in so much pain I was almost in tears. But that didn't mean my day was over. Oh no, there was so much more in store for me. Just because it's 5 does not mean my customers are done with my ass. No, they had me out until 8:45 when I dragged my sorry old ass in the door and shoved a couple of hotdogs down my throat while I crashed and burned.

Bill kind of freaked me tonight. I was almost in tears over the pain in my back. I said, "I am in serious trouble now, I have no one to crack my back around and I am in a world of hurt."  He said, "I don't think that will fix it, that's not why your back hurts". That was reassuring. Bill's always doing this kinetic shit with his fingers to see if he or I should injest something.  Ever since I told him about my test coming up next week, he has been acting a little worried. I think he is doing that kinetic shit behind my back to see if I have breast cancer.

Today was a very bad day physically for me. I had no energy. It's not like I was tired, it was like I had no strength. None. I was dizzy for most of the day. That was some kind of fucked up for me too. I was sitting at the table today trying to key this lock and I don't exactly know what happened but all of a sudden I totally lost it. I was holding the cylinder to this lock and I had just put all the pins in it and was about to put it back together. The next thing I knew, it was on the floor, scattered in every direction and I was just sitting there trying to figure out how I dropped it.  The truth is, I sort of passed out for a split second. Now that was scary.  I mean, I have had tons of dizzy spells in the last couple of years. Times when I was just standing there and suddenly I almost fall over, or sitting there and almost slump over. I've always caught myself though. Until today. I just sort of blacked out for a second.

So I am going to bed in a few to read a little Carlos Castaneda (thank you very much Ky and Audey). I felt so shitty last night that I barely made it past the introduction. I would like to get a chapter or two in, but it's hard to focus for too long on reading. But I will try anyway cause damn it! that's my birthday present and I'll be damned if I am not going to read it!

Ok, I am outta here. It's all about spoons. Night all <smoochers>

Count the headlights on the highway

While you all weren't looking, I turned the Big Five Oh.

This is what I did for myself for my birthday:

I gave myself a birthday party (something I never do and probably will not do again unless I make it to see 60).

Spent some quality time with friends and family which I enjoyed very much.

Actually bought myself some new clothes with the money Marty sent me for my birthday in which he gave me a direct order to spend on something for me and not on the house or other family members.

Called to make an appointment to have this growing large lump in my breast checked out.

I feel pretty good about doing all that.

I told Sue about my appointment on June 2nd.  She said "what lump?" I said, "The one I told you about last week". She swears I didn't tell her. I think I did, I just probably didn't make a big deal out of it.

After I thought about it for a little while, maybe I told Bill and not Sue. Who knows, it's hard to remember when you are as tired as I am lately.

They will do a physical on me on June 2nd. Make the recommendation for the mammogram and then what ever happens from there is a mystery.  Actually I know what they do if there is a suspect lump. They will do a biopsy with a needle into it to see if it's cancerous. The mystery is whether this is just a fibroid cyst that has gotten out of hand or whether it's a fibroid cyst that has gone cancerous. I have about a 50/50 chance for it to be either way. Fibroid cysts run in this large breasted family of mine. So does breat cancer. I am in that upper percentile of those most likely to develop breast cancer. My last pap smear came back pre-cancerous. They told me just to take this really expensive medicine. I don't take it though because I can't afford to get the prescription filled.

The good thing in all this is that the state of Arkansas has a Breast Care program that pays for all this if you fall into their guidelines of need. You have to make under a certain amount of money annually (I do) and not have health insurance (I don't). The really good thing about this is that they pay for everything involved up to and including chemo if it becomes necessary.

I am not really scared, if anything I am slightly relieved that I won't lose the farm so to speak if I do need real medical help with anything pertaining to breast cancer. Don't get me wrong, I am a little nervous, but I am hoping for the best. I just want to make sure there is not something there that is going to kill me. I have a family to take care of, I don't have time to die right now (that was a joke btw).

My mother sent me a birthday card and in it said she had already given me my birthday present this year. She is right, she did. If her birthday present works out I may never have to work again. We'll see. I sure thank her for the thought though.

Now I am tired, bone weary. Time for bed.

 

Teenage wasteland, teenage wasteland

Sue popped in this movie tonight, and as she so aptly put it, twas a teenage angst movie with Christian Slater (no it was not Three Heathers). Now I don't really like Christian Slater, but after about 45 minutes I marginally got sucked in.

The movie was about a high school kid who has his own little radio station in his bedroom. It was about angst (of course), corruption and of course painted the adult authorities as total assholes, except of course for the one understanding teacher (there always has to be one understanding adult in teenage angst movies don't you know).

It got me to thinking about why teenagers don't believe you when you tell them you understand what they are going through (this is btw, something I never tell teenagers because frankly they won't believe you anyway).

First off, teenagers don't believe you were ever a teenager. Secondly, if they are bright enough to believe you once were a teenager, they figure you don't remember what it was like.

Now, here's my take on all this: I don't think they are too far off the money on door number two. I think most adults don't remember what it was like. Oh yeah, they remember the hormonal raging and all that happy shit, but they don't really remember the real anguish most kids go through as they try to figure out how to transition from childhood into adulthood. They don't remember those feelings of total isolation and thinking you are the only one who has ever felt this way. They don't remember the excruciating pain of your first real broken heart. They can't go back and touch those feelings again.

I remember when Gina was seriously going into her teen years and I knew she was hurting deeply about things. I knew she did not feel I was necessarily the number one choice for talking about your feelings. I wanted so much to reach out to her, but I kind of knew deep inside she would refuse the offer to talk.  I did reach out to her, I simply told her that if she ever needed to talk or even just needed a shoulder to cry on that I was there. She did reject the offer, but I also know that deep inside she at least felt like someone noticed and cared nonetheless.

She was around 14 then. The ages of 13, 14 and 15 must be the worst time in a person's life. You are no longer a child. People expect you to start acting more mature. But you are also not an adult and people still treat you like a child. You are seriously between a rock and a hard place. I honestly don't know how I managed to make it through my teen years without killing myself.

I made a promise to myself when I was around 5 years old. This promise was precipitated by an incident where an adult authority figure (all adults are authority figures to you at that age) at church who accused me of doing something I had not done.  When I had the unmitigated gall to talk back and say I had not done said infraction, I was even more severely chastised. What I gleaned from that whole incident was that adults did really cruel things to children because they did not remember what being a child was like. No matter how right or even flawed my thinking might have been at that particular moment, I still formulated this promise to myself. I promised myself I would never forget what it was like being a child.

It's like at that exact moment in time, my mind encompassed this idea and held tight to it for all time. I have heard so many people say that they do not remember their childhood. I can't even fathom that. It's like I remember in detail everything that happened or how I felt or what I thought from the perspective of where I was in that particular time and space.

I told Gina that little story once. She was probably around 7 or 8 when I told her that story. I think she was probably somewhere around 11 when in conversation with me one day she said "You're right, you do remember what it is like to be a kid."

Last year, when I was in California for her wedding, she asked me to tell her stories about her childhood. I had said something about something that she had said or done when she was a kid and she said "I don't remember that."  Then she told me that she didn't really remember much before age twelve. That just tore me to shreds. I couldn't comprehend that, especially after all the time we had spent when she was a kid having conversations about how hard it is to be a kid. I figured that like me, she would just automatically remember everything.

The truth is, as I grow slowly into (what shall I call it? my declining years? deepest reaches of middle age? not far from the beginning of my senior years?), I find that my early childhood is beginning to fade. Only the things that were dramatic emotionally for me still are vivid. Which is sad because, all those great stories I had going on in my head when I was young, those ones about being young that I wanted to eventually write down and turn into something note worthy, are lost to the recesses of my fading memory.

(heavy sigh)

Anyway, just some thoughts on teenagers, adults and the lament of the lost inner child in them.

There are places I remember

Horseshoe Hill was still standing last time I saw it 14 years ago. It actually shocked me to see it there. I was sure it would have been bulldozed flat with all the development going on in my old neighborhood.  

I spent a lot of time as a child at Horseshoe Hill. We played a lot there. We had wars there, fought major battles with other neighborhood kids. We built some incredible forts there.  The biggest fort we ever built was cut into the hillside and finally abandoned forever back in 1968. When I went home to see the old neighborhood back in 1990, the old cut out of our fort was still there, not even 20 some odd years of rain had worn it away completely.   

After it had been abandoned, I still used to go down there to smoke cigarettes. I kept hidden treasures in secret places there at Horseshoe Hill. Old cans of Folgers Coffee, buried beneath planks covered with dirt. Things like bullets and marbles eventually replaced with things like cigarettes and matches as I grew older.  It was a sacred place to me. A place I could be alone and think to myself. A place I felt safe.

I have a picture of me taken in the reservoir next to Horseshoe Hill. I am standing in 18 of water in a forest green Haines pocket tee and a pair of Levi 501s. My hair is cut short, for the first time in my life, almost as short as I wanted it to be. I have on some hippie love beads (where I got them I will never know). Most people I show that picture to think I am a guy in that picture. Folks seldom guess it is me.  I was 14 years old in that picture, looking silly, with a silly grin on my face.  I look gawky and so much the teenager I was morphing into.  

The old neighborhood has changed dramatically over the years. Where once there were vineyards there are now shopping malls and car dealerships. Where once we rode horses, bikes with butterfly handle bars and banana seats, minibikes and finally motorcycles, there is Capitalism abundant and overflowing.    

I don't miss my childhood. I was incredibly unhappy as a child. I do miss the innocence and the pure unfettered joy I could feel then. But I do not miss the pain and anguish of being born a boychild in a girl's body. That I think is a pain you never get over.  

When I am dead, no one will wonder about my youth when they find that picture as they clean out my things and throw them away.  No one will wonder who that boy/girl half child, half grow-up is, nor where it is he/she is standing, nor will they wonder why that stupid grin is on his/her face.  This is not a bad thing, it just is.  I do not look back in the bittersweet way I once did at those days and that young person grinning so stupidly.  I look back and see the indomitable human spirit at work in that child. Because after I am long gone, as with all flesh, that spirit is all that really matters and all that really survives in this world.  

On a final note, as I remember the 60's fondly, I will probably cry when Walter Cronkite dies.  I think Walter Cronkite represents my youth to me more than any other famous person I remember from my youth. He came into my home every night and told us how things were that day.  He cried in front of all of America when John Kennedy died. I will never forget that one thing, that moment when he broke down and shed tears on national television for John Kennedy.  

And that's the way it was.....

It goes as it goes, as the river flows

So let me ask you this, when you are sitting there typing away in your own personal blogorama do you honestly believe that anyone gives a damn what you are thinking about or what you are saying? Of course you do. Our egos force us to believe that. No matter how humble you might think you are, you still, somewhere deep down inside, want someone to read your blog and think about what you just said.

Sometimes, depending on my mood, I honestly am not thinking about someone else reading what I write. But then I bother to do spell check to make sure I haven't made any real faux pas. So I guess that is vanity in it's own way creeping in and making sure that it's readable to the general public.

Truthfully, there are often times I do not spell check before posting and should I bother to reread the post, I will invariably find mistakes. Mostly typos, but there is the occasional serious misspelling. That bugs the living shit out of me. It bothers me when I find typos and misspellings in other people's work, so why should finding it in mine be any different?  It isn't, I am just as irritated by my own mistakes as I am by other people's mistakes.

So let me tell you about Mother's Day. Last year at this exact moment I was in California getting ready to attend my daughter's wedding. Saturday afternoon almost immediately after the wedding, I took off for San Diego from San Luis Obispo. I am really not sure how many miles it is from San Luis Obispo to Imperial Beach but I can tell you, that is one damn, long ass drive. I went to San Diego to spend Mother's Day with my mom. We actually had a pretty pleasant experience. That just happens to be a fairly unusual experience. Mom and me actually getting along, very odd experience, odd, but pleasant.

Now I have raised a couple of children. Am in fact in the middle of raising one now. I may not feel much like a female of the species inside, but I have to say that Mother's Day gets to me some. I am biologically female. I have/am raised/raising children. Theoretically that makes me a mother.  But I am not, at least not by society's standards. I did not birth any of these children. I just raise them. Been doing that since I was 24 years old.  These children have been my children. I have loved and nurtured and worked my fingers to the bone trying to make a life for them that was decent. I did that, do that, wear my self to the ground with exhaustion trying to provide a stable home environment.

What I feel like is a Dad. I always have felt like a Dad. But being a Dad is sort of like being a Mom, society still does not see me as either. So I don't get Mother's or Father's Day.  Sue gives me J Day. Debbie gave me Jeanette Day. It happens on Father's Day, but as sweet a gesture as it is/was, it's still not the same.  How many people who have raised children have been in the same place I am? Are there other people out there in the same place I am? I am sure there are. I have known a few myself.

Oh well, I have lived with this for over half my life. It's not going to go away anytime soon either. I am pretty sure I will die with it remaining as it always has been. It doesn't make me mad or depress me or anything. It just speaks volumes to me of this society and of being marginalized as a person for a variety of reasons. One as a parent. I am a parent. I have no idea if I am a good one, I just know I am one. Marginalized or not, I love my children with all of my being.

Take this job and shove it, I ain't workin here no more

I am dead tired. Remember how I had no work? Well, suddenly I have too much work. More than I can handle and get done with two of us working 8 and 9 hours a day. Today Bill and I put in 10 hours. I am tired, he is tired. We are fucking tired.

Tomorrow doesn't look much better than today. Work up the wazoo. Next week's dance ticket is filling fast. I feel like an ant preparing for winter right now. I am going to work my ass off for the next few months (I hope anyway), squirrel some of this shit I make away and hopefully survive the winter.

I am not seriously complaining, I am just tired. I slept like 9 hours last night and still I was tired this morning at 7:15 when Bill called to get my ass moving. I got home about 7:30 tonight, draggin my ass all the way.

So that's life this week. New baby, lots of work, too tired to get too excited about anything much other than sleep. Sleep sounds really exciting. Ah yes, but I have a bid proposal to email out before I sleep, so off I go to do that and then I shall sleep, perchance I will dream. Who knows? ;)

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset

Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play?
I dont remember growing older. When did they?
When did she get to be a beauty? When did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

Sunrise, sunset. sunrise, sunset. swiftly flow the days. seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers blossoming even as we gaze
Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. swiftly fly the years. one season following another laden with happiness and tears.

What words of wisdom can i give them? How can I help to ease their way?
Now they must learn from one another, day by day.

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset, swiftly fly the years. One season following another laden with happiness and tears.

My first grandchild came into the world today. I know new Pappa Clay could not see my tears of joy and bittersweet as we spoke on the phone.  My little girl has a little girl of her own now.  My baby has her own baby.

I don't know how to explain how this feels. It's a similar feeling to many feelings parents have about their children. I am too tired to say much right now, but perhaps in a day or two I will be rested enough to really do a serious dissertation. Suffice to say, it's all about love. Unconditional, eternal, love.

It's 1984

Wake Up (It's 1984)
Artist(Band):Oingo Boingo


Wake up! won't you listen to me
Wake up! won't you listen to me
won't you listen to me
Wake up! won't you listen to me
Wake up! won't you listen to me
won't you listen to me

Big brother's watching, we watch him back
We see right through his disguise
He tries to scare us, with angry words
But we all know that they're lies
Whole world is waiting
Just see the fear in their eyes

Whole world is watching, observing every move
Is it beginning or the end?
Just like a chess game, but so intense
That I just don't understand
Anticipation
It's much to big to pretend

CHORUS
(Wake up), it's 1984
(Wake up), but we've been here before
(Wake up), it's 1984
(Wake up), but we've been here before, (here before)

Big brother's screaming but we don't care
Cause he's got nothing to say
Think of the future, think of the prophecy
Think of the children of today
Big brother's marching
So we all stand in his way
Open your eyes, sisters and brothers
Neatly disguised, so far away
Open your heart, try to remember
Two worlds apart, but so close

(Wake up), it's 1984
But we've been here before
(Wake up), it's 1984
But we've been here before
All our lives leading up to this day, watching and waiting

Wake up! Wake up!
Wake up! Wake up!

Open your eyes, sisters and brothers
Neatly disguised, so far away
Open your heart, try to remember
Two worlds apart, but so close

CHORUS

Whole world is watching
Anticipating
Big brother's marching
Is it beginning or the end?

CHORUS

I thought I would post the lyrics to this song. Mainly because I had a Big Brother event happen recently and I am still not sure what to feel or what to think.

Actually, I know exactly how I feel and what I think about it, I am just not sure if how I feel is how I "should" feel. What I am is enraged. What I am doing is gritting my teeth and pretending what happened was perfectly normal.

This is a local issue, but it is also one of state, national and international proportions if you follow the chain of command on down the line.  Here's the story as briefly as I can make it for you.

This is a small town. It has about 2400 residents. I don't actually live in the city limits though. I live 9 miles outside of the city, way out in BF Egypt.  I have a small service business here, it's located in my home. I do business all over this end of the county, including inside the city limits.

The city recently hired a new building inspector because the old one was fired for telling someone their property was condemned because it was sliding down a hillside and there was no stopping that from happening. The owner got pissed and went storming down to city hall and the whole crux of the matter was, the honest building inspector was fired and a new one was hired (eventually, it took time to find one who would take on the job).

For some reason (I am sure it's a valid one) the building inspector is also in charge of business licenses being current for business owners in town.  He is also in charge of all signage and whatever as pertains to people doing business in town.

So Friday, I am in the middle of a job and I get a call on my cell. It's City Hall calling. This is not so unusual, they call me out to do work for them frequently. It's the city clerk (she takes all your checks made out to the city and gives you your receipts and them eventually sends you whatever form or license you just paid for).  She wants to know when I am going to come pay for my 2004 city business license. She says that if I do not come down and pay it, they are going to fine me or shut me down or whatever until I do pay it. I say to her, I am so sorry, things have been tight this year, business has been way down and I have not had that extra $50 to get a license. 

Then I say, "you know, I am not located in the city limits, I am not actually forced to have a business license in the city of Eureka Springs, I just do it to appear more professional and legitimate to my customers." I continue with "are you telling me that I cannot do business in Eureka without a license even though I am not physically located there, nor is 100% of my work performed there?".  She says, "Oh? I guess, ummm, yes you do."

I return with "are you telling me that as a service business, located outside of the city limits of Eureka, that no matter what, if I come inside Eureka city limits I must have a license? Even if say, I am coming over from Berryville, or Harrison or maybe even flew in here to do consulting from New York City with a resident or business owner located within Eureka city limits that I must have this business license no matter what to conduct business here or I am breaking the law?"  She says "Uh, let me transfer you to "insert woman's name here".

I get this woman on the phone, I ask her my question, I add "so if I call the Sears washing machine repair man in from Harrison and he works on my machine that is located here in the city limits, he must have a Eureka Springs City Business license?" She says, "let me let you talk to the building inspector." Didn't take long to get to the top now did it? And I didn't even have to ask for him.

I ask my question, he says "You must have a business license to do business here in Eureka Springs, if I catch you out working somewhere without on I will issue you a citation and fine you."  I respond with "And if you catch an interior decorating consultant from Chicago here in town at say, the Inn of the Ozarks decorating guest rooms there, you are going to insist she also have a license to do business here in Eureka before you will let her continue her contracted job with Randy?" He says "Yes." I say, "I see, ok then, if that's the law, that's the law. I just thought I was being a good business owner having a city license when I didn't need one. Apparently I have just been being legal in the past. Good to know that in every past year I have always been legal until this one."

So he says he will wave any late fee penalties if I come in today and get my license renewed. I say, "gosh thanks, I sure appreciate that Sir", and like a good little citizen business owner, I dutifully go down and do as he has instructed.

Now mind you, I am feeling a little pissed. See, it was almost May, almost 5 months into the new year. Two weeks ago, my face was in the paper being quoted on how I felt about the new building inspector and his job performance so far. In the interview I say he is a big city guy and he needs to chill out some. Two weeks later, I get this phone call. I am thinking, could be coincidence or it could be "get even" time. How am I to know? I never will.

I have told a few people about this incident, they all say the same thing, you need to get a lawyer and find out if they have the right to threaten anyone who does business with Eureka city limits (even if not physically located there) with fines and take away your ability to work inside the city limits. I think what got to me was the cold threat that came out of his mouth. It was so, (how do I put this?), calculatingly bureaucratic.

What really got to me was this: here's another rule, lots and lots of rules here in Eureka Springs. So many rules have been passed in the last few years that you can barely take a shit inside the city limits without infringing on one. Rules to make you comply with some things that are actually silly.  Some of the rules are ones they had to pass in order to comply with state, national and international rules and regulations. It's looking more and more like the big city I left behind. More and more like the things I no longer wanted to have to deal with that were soul stealing and cause undo burden on people.

I liked it here cause there weren't a whole lot of rules. But in the last 3 years, the rules have grown exponentially. To have someone threaten my livelihood over a rule I didn't know existed just pissed me off.  Today I was thinking that the white man is taking away our way of life here. I have news for whitie, we don't need no stinking rules of his coming in here and telling us how to live or else. Or else what asshole? You'll see to it that I lose my home cause I can't make the mortgage payment cause you shut me down?

I can't stop big city assholes from coming in here and trying to make us all conform to their idea of how things should be done, but I sure don't have to be verbally threatened by them.

Kiss my ass big brother!

Watching the tide roll away, sittin on the dock of the bay, wasting time

Hello Darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again...

My old coffee maker broke yesterday. That sucks. Guess I need to put "really cool coffee maker" on my birthday "wish" list.

On the other hand, I would like to stop drinking coffee. At this moment in time it doesn't seem possible, so keep really cool (a Bunn would be nice)coffee maker on that list ok? (and no, they don't sell that at Walmart)

I don't feel bad about this coffee maker, it was $2 at a garage sale. It lasted a couple of years, so I am not complaining.  What I was thinking about this coffee maker was this: back in my father and grandfather's day, they would have torn the thing apart and tried to figure out what is wrong with it, they would have tried to fix it.  I'm sitting here thinking about fixing it and I keep coming to the same Boomer conclusion: junk the bastard and get a new one. 

I guess back in Dad and Grandpa's day, coffee pots were expensive and it actually cost less to put the time and energy into fixing something like that rather than buying a new one. I live in a disposable society. Way different from Dad and Grandpa's world. I live in a world where items are built to break down and be useless within 5 years. Who the hell calls the TV repairman anymore? Unless I paid over a $1000 for the sucker, I am going to just replace it with whatever I can afford. I have computer printers, scanners, copiers and fax machines sitting in boxes collecting dust and mold because their planned obsolescence time expired on them. I can't bring myself to throw them away though, they cost way too much money when they were new and I never felt I got my money's worth out of them. I have computers sitting around collecting dust for the same reason.

Someday soon I am going to go through all that old crap and do something creative with it, like find a friend with a dumpster and dump it all in there slowly one piece at a time so as not to take up their dumpster space all at once of course.

I don't throw much of anything away. I keep thinking I can use it in a nebulous someday far off from today. I also keep thinking I will get my garage cleaned up so that I can use it too.  I can't clean my garage up though, I can't physically do it. My body refuses to lift and tote that bale anymore. So I am at the mercy of the kindness of strangers as Blanche would say. I can go through boxes and sweep the floor. I can even take all those little things that need throwing away, being given to the thrift store or selling at a garage sale and box them up for the dumpster, burn pile, trip to the thrift store or sale. I just can't lift and move all those heavy things anymore.

I'm thinking this dead coffee maker will melt nicely in a fire. All except the metal parts. I'm good with that though. There isn't much metal to it anyway. I'll keep the glass coffee pot part though. I can always use that as something I am sure and besides, it won't melt in the fire and there is only just so much you can ask a friend with a dumpster to let you dump on their dime.

Sounds logical to me anyway.