The Wasps of October

So it goes.  Some days when I think I have no urge to write, I find myself in front of the computer pouring out nonsense so fast, I can't keep up.  I start typing and ten minutes later, I've got 500 words down on whatever thoughts that managed to escape.

And then there are days like today.  All day long as I worked on the roof, all I could think of was writing a story about my interactions with the wasps of October.  I was sure it would be a grand  tale of  tiny wasps protecting their nest of future generations from the evil human even as their lifespans were winding down.  They would battle valiantly but in the end it would be their last stand.   Evil would prevail.  Good would go down hard.

I would include some comic relief as I described my sorry self in retreat after being tagged a few times.  The battle would erupt spontaneously when the cool morning temps warmed cold blooded bodies up to fighting temperature.  Running down the roof wailing and flailing my arms in a panic, the horde circle me searching for vulernable tissue to jam some venom into.  As I step on the ladder one fearless soldier would heroically sacrifice her life with a well placed shot to the small of my back and I would tumble down, down to the ground.

After my fall of disgrace I would hatch half baked schemes to pay the little bastards back and become a gimpy wounded terrorist, invading their homeland and taking out their hive.  I would use chemical weapons, blunt instruments, and if that failed, I would poke sticks in their eyes.  But still the courageous wasps would send warriors on suicide missions, fighting to the bitter end even as toxic foam encrusted their hive making their  nervous systems lock up hard.  I would dance a little victory jig and cackle as the gallant wasps herked and jerked struggling to take flight again to fight with their last gasp.

Yeah, it was gonna be great. 

But something happened.  I overestimated my physical endurance.  I did not stagger off the roof until the moon came up around 7:15 PM.  I had tuckered out not only my body, but apparently my brain as well.  Which left me number and dumber than usual.

So what do I end up with?  A vague taste of what might have been.  A weak glimmer of what could have been.  Decidedly less than the best I had hoped to offer.

Sigh................................................
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The excellent image was poached from The Micropolitan Museum

Symbolic Gestures

Chef Cthulhu has made a comeback.  His Columbus Day post was a classic mini rant about commuting among idiots and other social commentary.  He also opined about the silly seriousness too many of our fellow citizens place on holidays.  He went on about how we as citizens are expected to celebrate holidays in specific ways according to what appears and I agree some kind of arbitrary list of rules that when jumbled together could cause confusion or better yet, some excellent off the wall ways to not celebrate a certain holiday.   He called it a "mad-lib" list.

I probably have projected more into what he was thinking about when I commented -

"Please refrain from wearing solid colored speedos to that next Tea Party rally. If you must wear a speedo, please make sure it is the red or blue one with stars on the crotch and the stripes on the butt."

But because I am becoming more and more disgusted with our stupid infatuation with symbolism drawn from everything and anything people might want to read into, out of, or draw from because they have only one thing on their mind, whether it be God, Country, Taxes, Pinkos, Queers or what color we wear in what neighborhood - I decided that rather than get angry over this stupidity, I would try to poke fun at it.

So with fun in mind, I figured my comment on his blog deserved further expansion as a post here.  And as is my habit, I always try to find an image that comes as close as possible to enhancing my thoughts as I write them down.

Imagine my glee when I found this image of American manliness in about .000004 seconds on Google.

I know and understand that humans and symbols are inextricably linked.  I guess it comes with the ability to think beyond the instinctual habits of breathing, eating, sleeping, and fornicating.  But I swear to ____ (name your favorite deity) that much of the symbolism we favor indicates many of us on any given day are just barely beyond those instinctual actions.   And also that by using a symbol in one way and assuming others get it and are not put off just highlights how clueless many of us are about what symbols used poorly can do.

Take for instance this fellow.   I do not know him.  He is just some clown I found when I googled "Flag speedo, images".  For argument's sake though, I will assume (yeah, I know what assuming does, but that boat sailed years ago for me) - I assume he is exhibiting his patriotism while Vay-Kaying on some beach somewhere.  I hope he wasn't shot, stabbed, beat down or humilated by young folks sporting six pack abs shortly after exposing himself in such an in your face way.  Even old farts should have the right to decrease their tan line in peace.

The flag desecration crowd - and I mean the purists who frown on stars and stripes displayed in any way other than from a flag pole - I can just hear the tsk- tsk- tsk and imagine frowns turning into ugly scowls.  And should this fellow be part of any parade where men are bumping and grinding to the sound of the Village People, I would guess the flag desecration police would be joined by the holier than thou bump and grind police and this fellow would be found dead in some alley with his speedo around his knees and a flag pole.......... Hey, sorry about that, but I do still have a vivid imagination.

But of course, this fellow would never be caught wearing this particular outfit in a parade waving a rainbow flag.  Everyone knows that if nothing else, the Gay crowd know fashion and this guy is obviously clueless.  The hat just does not work with the drawers.  Add in the fact that he is several pounds over what would be considered decent exposure,  no gay guy would be caught dead looking like this. 

All of this brings me back to my point I guess.  A point that so far has not only eluded you but apparently me also. 

Our recent uptick in using symbols to identify others of similar intent or others we despise has gotten so out of hand as to completely lose any real relevance in the sane exchange of ideas.   Instead of just using them subtly and politely, we Americans seem determined to use them to intimidate rather than show allegiance.  Symbols have become weapons of our ongoing social struggle.  Instead of helping us to feel better about ourselves, they seem to have become nothing more than expressions of anger and frustration over a societal situation most of us feel has or is spiraling out of control.  And rather than realize that our problems are not one groups fault, but all of our faults, we use symbols to attack rather than unify. 

And before everyone here thinks I am aiming my derision solely at one side or the other, I am not.  I find the symbolic bump and grind of men wearing speedoes at a parade to be absolutely as stupid as wearing tea bags on hats or an athlete raising a clenched fist on the podium at the Olympics.  I get it that America is angry.  But in your face symbolic gestures do not resolve the problems.  All they do is continue to feed the anger.

Isn't it about time we stopped being children and buried our insignificant differences so that all of us can begin to look for symbols that make us all happier?
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Okay so the post did not end up as cheerful as I hoped.  Hope it appears is getting harder and harder to get my mind around.  
 
Later.......................................

Tear Down the Metal - Part Deux

I thought that humping the shingles up the ladder would be what I would whine about.  Or maybe the bending over as I tore the old roof off and laid down the new one was what would do me in.   I was wrong.   The part of my body that is still complaining and not working right even after massive doses of across the counter pain pills are my hands.  They have become useless claws.  Just holding a hammer hurts like Hell, nevermind swinging it.  The pain in my right hand and wrist was so bad early on I  switched to swinging with  my left hand.   Accuracy suffered, but I was good for a few more hours until the left hand curled up and refused to work. 

But the section I wanted to roof for this year is 95% complete now.  Maybe 3 more bundles of shingles, some caulking, a temporary cap and I am done with the roof for this year.  Next year I will take on the opposite inside section on the front of the house. 

Oh boy, I can't wait.

I am pretty sure it was 1983 when I put on the steel roof I have just removed.  As I fought to pry out the hand pounded 16 penny galvanized nails I used to attach the wood runners under the steel roofing, I asked myself repeatedly just what the Hell was I thinking when I put this existing roof on by myself.  Each section came off so hard, I was sure that I was not thinking, just pounding nails because I could.  I was 31 years old and still numb as the 28 ounce framing hammer I used to persuade those big spikes into the ancient hemlock rafters that supported my roof.  I am sure they went in as hard as they came out.

The fact that Bike Shop Jim and I had to struggle to remove the nails was actually a good thing.  It showed us without having to remove much of the subroof that the framing was sound.  But I still cussed and fussed.  Damn those nails came out hard.

I have 3 days coming of sunshine and decent temps to finish the job.  Today, I think about it and maybe clean up some of the debris.  Maybe I'll grab a coffee and head down to Town Hall and see if I can roust a demo permit for the dump.  Or maybe I will work on the perimeter trail I am cutting in around my property.  Or  maybe today, I'll do what I do best and just contemplate all the work I ought to be doing instead.  Thinking things to and then past their logcal conclusions can be almost as satisfying as viewing the finished product.  Visions of possible leak free winters to come makes me smile. 

So today I leave the hammer, the sawz all, the crow bar in the garage.   Forget the bitch-e-than, roofing nails and caulk for a day or so.  Let a normal day unfold instead.

Besides, my hands hurt like Hell.

Tear the Metal Down

I had to enjoy several years of putting it off until tomorrow, joyously spend many nights of lost sleep anquishing about problems that might or might not happen, and wasting months on end generally screwing the pooch before I buckled down the other day and  grudgingly began to open my roof and deal with whatever demons I just knew were lurking under the sub roof and in the framing of the house my family has called Home for over 45 years.  Visions of rotten rafters, spongy joists and algae encrusted insulation floated through my mind.  Bee hives, bird nests, and mouse hotels were all considered as not something I might find when I ripped the metal roof off, they were a sure thing.  Several winters spent with a 5 gallon bucket under a certain spot to catch the occasional, sometimes more than occasional drip that would find it's way in from the frozen cold if I wasn't quick to remove any snow fall over six inches or so.

Well you see I figured it was a damn sight easier to put a bucket under the leak than rip the roof off for a little snow.  It was only one leak after all.  Half the year the bucket stayed in the garage.  A seasonal adjustment to exterior conditions that only necessitated the proper placement of a moisture receptacle seemed a more efficient use of my highly honed Life skill sets.  Time wasted fixing my roof  would only eat into my time busily considering more important and crucial matters like contemplating my naval, opening emails, blogging, watching the Pats,...........Jeez there were so many things more important than replacing my roof.  I told myself as soon as a second leak cropped up, I would jump on it, get right to it, not waste any time and fix it ASAP.

If I was single, this plan might have worked........... at least for a few more years anyway. 

So, a few days ago, Bike Shop Jim and I tore into my roof.  Both of us have more than a casual knowledge of  home construction, home destruction, home re-construction.  Jim made money during the boom years building houses and I made less doing the same thing.  But both of us got out of the building business for a reason.  Ripping into my roof reminded us why.

I didn't use to mind roof work when I was younger, number, and dumber.  Bike Shop Jim, well he claims he'd rather paint than climb up on a roof.  Not the height he says, although he is no fan of being up high.  It's the humping shingles, standing for hours on a downhill surface that can be slippery and  will dump you in a heartbeat if you numb it at the wrong time.  He has learned to hate any chore relating to roofing.  I had to agree.  I guess he's right.  Roof work does indeed suck.  But so does a stick in the eye.

And the battle begins.....................................

As Ugly An American As Ever Came Down the Pike

Acid filled rhetoric spewing from lips inflamed by too much flapping bombard my senses and suck hard on my patience.  Patience that is already but thinly disguised tolerance for the idiotic ramblings and opinion others want to jam hard down my throat.  In defense I mount my own offense for the sanctity of my sanity.  I step up and try to shout them down with my own version of  the past and present tense that will surely corrode our future tense.  As I attempt to hold onto to a clue, the bile rises up and chokes off any common sense I started out with.  And all us fools become one.

Labels are applied liberally and more often than not erroneously, but not one of us unhappy campers care.  We are cold even though we have blankets.  We are hungry even as we sit fat and chatty on couches in front of drive in movie screens bolted to our living room walls.  We whine and complain over sumptious meals of meat and potatoes.  We nurture and raise more whiners and complainers into our culture of entitlement without even once considering that any and maybe all of our problems are for the most part self induced.  Each generation expecting more but having to get by with the less that's left but is so much more than is found almost anywhere else on the planet.

Since we are so sure we are blessed and special, we know that being on the wrong side of the Bell Curve now is not our fault.  It must be the influence, the confluence of invasions of foreign infiltrators who hijack our skills and take them home to lands far away.   Because we have been trained to only consider our immediate needs without even a token notion of what that immediacy will drag along in its wake, we only know that the trough is not overflowing anymore.  We have become ripe for the picking.

In response to all these threats to our girth and our worth, we lash out at those who have less to begin with hoping that taking more of what they have less of will give us the more we feel we deserve  just because our flag is red, white, and blue.  We become invaders of foreign lands and crusaders for grand schemes  based on the words and ideas of mythical beings and princely forebears who might just exist only because we insist that they do.   Lofty ideals passed down, filtered down, washed down and squeezed hard until they fund and support our current states of mind. 

Once known for being generous, we are now becoming known for being selfish and brainless citizens who are no longer envied but despised.  And yet we persist in believeing our own hype that America is the greatest country on Earth.  I used to consider us so and would like to again in the future.  But until we get our own house in order and stop our everyone loses infighting, we are not even close to being great.  We are just 340 million chumps whining our way to becoming another 3rd world country.

A Little of This and Some of That

I feel obligated to post something today.  But what?

There's the gubernatorial race here in Maine.  That is certainly worth mentioning.  After all our Republican candidate managed to get himself some national exposure by promising to tell Obama to go to Hell.  But I did not want to waste time or words on buffoons.  While the man is not an idiot, he surely played one on TV the other day.  Just the sort of class act I would love to see in Augusta. ........Riiiiight.

Maybe everyone would be interested in the excitement that visited my humble abode yesterday morning.  But no, I think not.  There are no words worthy enough to describe the edge of the seat suspense of watching Jeremy clean out our furnace.  Words would just fail me. 

I might mention the fellow in downtown Portland who doused himself with gasoline, walked out into the busy day and flicked his Bic.  Seems no one knows why. 

Then there's the ongoing trial of one Jason Twardus.  He is accused of strangling his ex-fiance in Alfred and burying her on land his father owns in northern New Hampshire.  He claims he was framed.  The State of Maine feels otherwise.  An interesting case if for no other reason than the defendant's name - Twardus.   I have had several fun filled moments considering the possible variations of that name he has had to deal with as he grew up.

A customer dropped off a bike a couple of days ago to be fixed.  This fellow is a respected doctor here in our area.  He is also one of the few I feel comfortable talking politics with.  So naturally when I saw him coming and noticed there was no one else in the shop, I pulled out my soapbox and was ready before he even made it in the door.  What should have been a two minute "Here's my bike, it needs fixing" exchange between customer and repair guy turned into a half hour sermon to the choir.  We covered healthcare, the election, with both of us mutually disgusted with the current political climate.  He was more forgiving of the Left than I was, but for the most part we came away from the conversation feeling good about ourselves.  At least I did.

One of the spontaneous thoughts I came up with as I spewed my outrage over the stupidity I was witnessing coast to coast stuck with me.  It was somewhere between where I was sharing my disdain for the cowardly leadership of the Left and my total contempt for the lying and shameless Right when I mentioned I thought someone from the Left should start spreading untrue rumors about the exalted leadership of the Right.  After all, spreading outrageous lies seemed to be doing the trick for the Right.  Fighting fire with fire sort of thing.

So even though I am but a token member of the Left..........Or should I say a very unreliable follower of the Left, I will now make up some rumor that will hopefully spread like a disease through out this land to help offset the blatant lies coming from the folks on the Right who will believe anything as long as it comes from Rush, Hannity, Greta, or Beck.

Maybe Obama was born in Kenya, maybe he wasn't.  At least he was born on this planet.  I have it on good authority that  Glenn Beck is really the offspring of a coupling between a waitress in Utah and an alien from a whirlpool galaxy far beyond the borders of our own Milky Way.  

Xriden had stopped off at a rundown greasy spoon and two pump fuel stop in the middle of the Salt Flats for some chaw and a donut.  He just could not take his eyes off Wanda, the 300 pound waitress with the big hair.   Apparently aliens of Xriden's race like their females large and with hair on their upper lip.  So he took her with him.

Wanda did not mind.  It was not as if she had many men courting her anyway.  Besides, when Xriden picked up that donut with his tongue and twirled it in circles, she just melted.  Her one good eye twinkled.

So off into Space they went.   As this is almost a PG rated blog, I will spare you the sordid details of what went on inside the capsule as they plummeted from asteroid to asteroid.  Use your sick imaginations if you must.

At some point in this heated romance, the spark died.  Neither Xriden nor Wanda were to blame.  They just grew tired of each other.  Once the excitement of physical contact waned, they were left with what?  Conversation?  Yeah, you can only imagine what an alien from beyond the Milky Way and a waitress from Utah might have in common to talk about.  

Xriden decided that it was time to dump this broad.  Being from a race that prided itself on being forthright ( it was actually one of their commandments), he told Wanda he was tired of her and would be dropping her off as fast as he could boost his ship back to Earth.

"Yeah well that's fine with me jerk wad.  I was getting bored with the tongue twirling anyway. "

The now unhappy couple headed back to Earth.   It was to be a long silent ride for both of them.  During that 6 month return trip not ten words passed between them.  Wanda, already a rather large full sized woman, did not notice what was growing inside her.  She thought the discomfort in her gut was from eating that god awful crap Xriden called food.  In reality she was with child.    About a week before touch down, she felt immense pain in her stomach.  Assuming it was something she ate, she excused herslf and headed to the ship's privy.  Before she had taken three steps, Glenn Beck dropped into existence.

Xriden looked at what had plopped flopping on the deck of the ship.  "Oh great, I did it again."

Wanda was in shock.  She stepped back and looked on in horror as Xriden calmly pulled a mason jar half filled with pickles off a shelf and stuffed Glenn into it.  Screwing on the lid, Xriden turned to Wanda.  " He'll keep just fine until we touch down in Utah."  Xriden handed the mason jar to Wanda.

"But Xriden, what am I supposed to do with that?"  Wanda scrutinized the being wiggling inside the jar amongst the homemade pickles Xriden had brought from his home planet.

"Darling, I don't care what you do with it.  But it came out of you.  You own it now.  Consider it a gift."

A week later Xriden dropped off Wanda and the pickle jar with Glenn inside at the Grey Hound bus station in Salt Lake City.  Handed her a twenty dollar bill.  "It's been real darling.  Have a good life."  And then he was gone.

Wanda had some tough times for a few years.  But eventually she let Glenn out of the jar and they both settled down in some backwater burg in Utah.  Wanda hooked up with a guy named Jack who changed tires at a local truck stop.  Wanda went back to waitressing and Glenn grew up to become the towering intellect we have all learned to appreciate.  Wanda never ate another pickle the rest of her life.

There it is.  The true story of how Glenn Beck came into being.   Don't believe the hype he was born in Everett, Washington.  Has he ever shown us his birth certificate?  I don't think so.

Ugly Thoughts

The following is a recent effort inspired by a prompt over to Thinking Ten.  It was a Three-Rules Challenge:

Rule #1: Incorporate the word "newspaper" into your story

Rule #2: Include a character named Rose

Rule #3: Include a character named Bud

Ugly Thoughts

Rose and Bud had been married for years. Years that began to be counted in decades. Live this long with someone and duties became routines that just happened without anyone thinking about them. Rose and Bud’s mornings became those kind of routines. Not a word passed between them most days until after the second cup of coffee had been poured and the paper retrieved off the front porch, the lawn, or where ever that lazy little SOB decided to toss it.


Rose was in charge of coffee and cigarettes. Bud was in charge of toast and retrieving the paper. Once the first cup of coffee, the toast and the first cigarette had been consumed, they would each take turns commenting about what might be of interest in the section of the paper each had in their hands. Bud might mention the Pats, the Celtics, or some stat Rose had little interest in.

“That’s nice dear.” Moments of silence followed until she spotted something that might be of mutual interest.

“Those damn fools down in DC are at it again.” *

Bud might perk up or he might not. A grunt told her he was not listening, If a word passed his lips, she knew she had his attention and a few moments of actual interaction might ensue. Thus their morning routine would pass in relative calm as the newspaper was consumed from end to end.

One morning began as the thousands of mornings had over their previous years of domestic bliss. Rose on one side of the kitchen table, Bud across from her. Both engrossed in touching base with their favorite parts of the World. Bud had worked through his sports section and was reading Art Buchwald’s column. Rose had finished the National and World news and was just getting into the society section, specifically the who is marrying who section.

“Bud, guess who’s getting married? You’ll never guess in a million years.”

Bud dropped his paper far enough to look at his wife over the flipped down page. “You know I hate that. I don’t guess. Just tell me for Christ’ sake.”

Rose just smiled. “Yes dear, I know.”

Silence. Bud continued to look at her over his glasses and his paper. Rose’s grin just hung on her face. She loved playing with Bud’s head like this.

“Well, who the Hell is getting married?”

Rose hesitated just long enough so Bud became disgusted and went back to reading his paper. Then she spoke. “You remember Melinda Jenkins?”

Bud flipped down the page again and looked at her.

“Uh, no. Don’t recall a Melinda Jenkins.”

“Come on Bud. You remember that young girl who used to help Nancy back when we could afford a Nancy to help clean. I remember her because of what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“You said, ‘she looks like she was pulled through a knothole backwards.’ “

Bud dropped his paper. “ I said that? ………Yeah I seem to remember her. About as ugly a child as ever came down the pike. So she’s getting married. To who, a blind man?”

Rose smiled. “No Bud, she’s hooking up with Willie Benton.”

Bud began to laugh. “Willie “bucktooth” Benton? Oh god, I can only imagine the litter she’s going to drop. Bud laughed and chuckled as he considered the potential for ugly that this union might spring upon the World. The more he fantasized, the harder he laughed.

Suddenly he stopped. His eyes grew large. He crumpled his section of the paper hard in both hands. He tried to stand but could not. He keeled over dead before he hit the floor.

Rose looked down at him. She knew he was dead. He looked dead with his eyes all bulged out, his mouth open and stuck in mid laugh.

“Bud, this is what happens to people who think ugly thoughts.”

She finished her coffee before she dialed 9-1-1.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

This story was inspired by the death of my father. He died laughing at the kitchen table after some snarky comment my mom made over something on the "Today Show".

Later.........................................