Category Archives: Farce

February 9, 2015 · 23:24

I Hope I Don’t Die For A Stupid Reason

There was an event today, probably minor in the big scheme of things, but it was a problem at the time. In the course of dealing with that, the thought crossed my mind that, somewhere, somehow, I had heard that people had been known to die while dealing with such a problem. It was rare, it might be apocryphal, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it were true.

That got me to thinking not-so-deep thoughts about my (presumably) inevitable demise. I say “presumably” because I still like Kurzweil’s ideas about The Singularity. He might be a full of crap and just as batshit crazy as Hubbard was with Scientology, but we’ll see. Maybe I did make it in time to have medical miracles, DNA-rebuilding nanobots in my blood, anti-aging regimens, and a lifespan into the hundreds of years.

But probably not.

So, back to my (probably) inevitable demise. Of course, if we’ve gotta go (and we do), it would be great if we could all go saving a building full of orphans from a fire, throwing ourselves on the grenade to save our whole platoon, or anything generally noble, sacrificial, and leaving the world a better place despite our passing.

That would be great.

More realistically (I’m getting there, slowly but surely) most of us are going to die from some useless disease that has us wasting away for our last few months or years, or else some moron on the freeway is going to be texting and drunk when that light turns red and we’re going to be a somewhat squishy hood ornament.

I could live with any of those – well, maybe “live” isn’t the right term. But at least my final thoughts wouldn’t be something along the lines of, “How am I ever going to explain THIS to St. Peter with a straight face?”

Given the choice (and I won’t be), I would prefer to not die of something STUPID.

Because those methods of passing also exist all around us. The odds may be in favor of disease (eight of the top ten causes of death are medical conditions) or accidents (cars seem to be first, guns second) but there are all of those weird and low-odds accidental causes of death that just linger for us, out there in the long tail of the bell curve.

Some of those are just “sucks to be you” accidental deaths. You’re in the wrong place, wrong time, and all the planning and precautions in the world aren’t going to mean a thing. There’s a gas explosion, an earthquake, your cruise ship sinks, a tidal wave hits the beach, the plane crashes…

Actually, in my case, being in a plane crash is probably higher on the list than for most folks, simply because I have my pilot’s license and I occasionally (i.e., every chance I get) fly in old WWII planes and go fly aerobatics. I also want to go skydiving, and scuba diving, and hike the Appalachian Trail, and learn to fly a glider, and…

You get the idea. I don’t want to go out in an easy chair watching “Star Trek” reruns unless I’m at least 110. But at least none of those flying- or adventure-related deaths would qualify as “stupid” in my book.

Being hit by lightning? If it’s a “shit happens” event, fine. If you’re standing out on a golf course holding a metal club and ogling that odd-shaped cloud with your mouth open — stupid.

Watching fireworks which you dearly love and a freak accident detonates thirty tons of skyrockets all at once and you catch a piece of shrapnel while sitting a half-mile away? Not your day, sorry! Dying while making a “Jackass” video and lighting off M-80’s while drunk — stupid.

Pretty much anything that involves being a victim in a major natural disaster or catastrophe gives you a good story to tell while you’re in line at The Pearly Gates. If the National Guard, NTSB, and CNN are out there picking through rubble or debris looking for you, it’s probably not your fault. Tornado, earthquake, thermonuclear weapons, all are acceptable, at least so far as this particular idiotic rant goes.

Anything that involves the paramedics coming in and taking pictures to pass around at the station along while playing “Can You Top This?” — stupid.

“Yep, you think that’s good? We found this guy, wearing just a thong and his wife’s wig, covered in whip cream, spread-eagle, with this weird opera music playing full blast, and a goat in the room…”

No paramedics laughing so hard that they can’t even check to see if you’re still breathing. Please.

4 Comments

Filed under Disasters, Farce, Flying, Health, Religion, Tornadoes

February 8, 2015 · 22:39

Smellfungus?

Let me preface this by saying that after a couple of long weeks, with TONS of NASA Social posts and pictures, a family crisis, and being at the thirty-six-hours-after-the-first-good-exercise-in-a-long-time-and-my-legs-are-killing-me point, I had nothing for tonight. But, there are tricks to get around that! Which all bombed and produced nothing for tonight. Until I remembered that The Long-Suffering Wife had gotten me a Christmas gift of a box of “Silly Word Flashcards” to be used in just such a situation. How much less effective could it be?

The card I drew was for “smellfungus,” a noun meaning “a person who always seems to find something wrong and likes to complain.”

C’mon, they made that one up! Right?

Nope, Mirriam-Webster online has it, describing it as “a captious critic; faultfinder.” It also goes on to say the term originates from a 1768 satire called A Sentimental Journey Through France And Italy.

But of course! Why didn’t I know that? Well, at least now when it comes up on Final Jeopardy I’ll be ready to mop up and win!

Which makes me wonder about my readers – do we have any smellfungus among us?

(P.S. – as I’m proofreading and getting ready to hit the “Publish” button, something lands on the roof and starts stomping around, scaring the crap out of me. Either it’s a bear or the biggest freakin’ raccoon in Los Angeles County. What I need now is a blunderbuss, which is probably another silly word in that deck of cards.)

3 Comments

Filed under Farce

September 3, 2014 · 22:21

Do The US Movie Ratings Mean Anything Any More?

Which of course, begs the question of whether or not they EVER meant anything really, especially when it comes time to figure out where the division is between an “R” rated film and a “PG-13” rated film. Not to mention how a film with a metric ton of violence, blood, and swearing can get a “PG-13”, but show one or two female nipples and it’s an instant “R” rating. But those questions can be tackled another day.

What I was wondering about today is what you have to do to get a “G” rating.

Does anyone remember the last movie they saw an ad for with a “G” rating? Does anyone remember the last movie they actually watched which had a “G” rating? With today’s demographics, is a “G” rating as much of a kiss of death at the box office as an “X” rating?

I went looking at what’s out in the theaters right now. I see six “family” or “kids” films, all which have “PG” ratings. “Earth To Echo.” “How To Train Your Dragon 2.” “When The Game Stands Tall.” Disney’s “Frozen.” Disney’s “Maleficent.” And Disney’s “Planes: Fire & Rescue.” Disney for god’s sake! Disney doesn’t even get a “G” rating on any of the three films it has out right now!

I found films that were so old that they were only rated “Approved”, meaning that they came out before the current G-PG-PG13-R-X system came into place in 1968. For the record, in LA this weekend you can see 1945’s “The Body Snatcher” with Boris Karloff, 1963’s “The Nutty Professor” with Jerry Lewis, and 1963’s “The Haunting” with Julie Harris, if you so choose.

And I found a handful of unrated films playing in the art houses. They’re all unrated because they’re foreign documentaries and didn’t bother to pay to go through the process of getting an MPAA rating, not because they’re particularly bawdy, violent, or vulgar. For example, “Fifi Howls From Happiness” is a 2013 documentary about artist Bahman Mohassess, who was apparently a controversial figure in pre-revolutionary Iran. It’s in Persian, doesn’t even say if it’s got English subtitles. Would it have gotten a “G” rating if it had been rated? Probably not, if Disney films don’t, but we’ll never know now, will we?

What got me going on this train of thought were the ads now running for “Dolphin Tale 2” which is coming out September 12th. I remember seeing the ads for the original film in 2011. It made about $72M gross on an estimated budget of $37M, so that’s apparently good enough for a sequel.

The ads for both films make it quite clear that they are overwhelmingly sweet, saccharine, and mawkish. I try not to be too much of a skeptical and cynical old codger, and if I had a three- or four-year-old kid or grandkid to take to the movies, this might be the one I would have to sit through. Other than that, they’re really not my cup of tea.

Then I noticed that “Dolphin Tale 2” has a “PG” rating. So did “Dolphin Tale,” both for “mild thematic elements.”

I don’t know what that means exactly, there doesn’t seem to be an MPAA cheat sheet out there, but I’m guessing that it means that the poor, orphaned, injured dolphin might be shown to have anything less than a 100% chance of a full recovery and the happiest ending ever filmed. This in turn means that a three-year-old might be concerned or worried. (Trust me, a four-year old knows the score here and isn’t buying it.) Because of this, “Parental Guidance” is required.

You have got to be kidding me!

Can you imagine a movie from our childhood getting this kind of rating for that kind of reason? For example, “Old Yeller” still makes me cry and I’m in my fifties, what about that kind of “mild thematic element?” What about when (spoiler alert! really?) Pollyanna fell out of that tree and got crippled and wasn’t happy and couldn’t play the Glad Game any more? WHAT ABOUT WHEN BAMBI’S MOTHER DIED?!

I’ve got to go with the theory that all of the “family” movies mentioned above are perfectly capable of getting a “G” rating under any conceivable system that’s actually supposed to make any sense, but they’re asking for (and getting) a “PG” rating simply because parents will not bring kids, even pre-school kids, to a “G” rated movie.

Nothing else makes any sense at all. Not that it’s supposed to, given 99% of the other recent news, but still, it would be nice if something made sense every now and then.

Then, just as I was wrapping up this rant, I stumbled on one. An actual movie out in theaters right now with a “G” rating. “Island Of Lemurs: Madagascar” is a documentary about saving the endangered lemurs of Madagascar. It is, of course, narrated by Morgan Freeman. (I think it’s the law that he narrate any and all documentaries. Not that that’s a bad thing, he was a great President in “Deep Impact.”)

So there you have it. Tell the little kids the facts about how humans are morons, screwing up the planet, and exterminating all of the cute little critters with big eyes, and they can handle it. Tell them a story about a dolphin with an ouchie and they need to have a parent to help them through the psychological trauma.

It must be true. The MPAA said so.

3 Comments

Filed under Entertainment, Farce, Movies

August 29, 2014 · 12:51

Tin Foil Hats At The Ready!

Watch out today, at least in Los Angeles. I don’t know if it’s something in the air, something in the water, a change in the solar neutrino flux, or a variation in tachyons arriving from the galactic core, but it’s time to put on your tin foil hats!

I had a few errands to run this morning, no biggie. Post office. Bank. Restock the pet food larder. Maybe go pick up the new John Scalzi book and/or the new Richard Kadrey book and/or the new Brad Paisley album. No biggie.

It started at the post office. There were a few cars in line for the drive-through mail drop and something was making the line go slow. I finally saw that there was a booth set up on the sidewalk. A couple of people from the booth were trying to talk to the drivers as cars left the mailbox and waited to exit onto the street. When it was my turn, I saw that it was a fanatical group trying to rally support to impeach Obama.

While the opportunities for entertainment were clear, so were the opportunities to raise my blood pressure.

First off, I’m a huge fan of the First Amendment, even when it means that we have to give assholes and subhumans like the Westboro Baptist Church the right to picket funerals. I despise people like that with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, but I understand that if I want those rights for me and people who agree with me, I also have to allow those rights to people I detest.

Secondly, I try real hard to be tolerant and give everyone a chance, maybe two. (It’s my Catholic school education, I’m sure.) However, after that point, my tolerance level drops off pretty fast. People who insist on demonstrating repeatedly that they’re delusional, anti-social, ignorant, or psychotic are fools who no longer deserve to be suffered gladly. The screaming folks with the big posters of Obama made to look like Hitler? They might have at least one strike against them to start with.

This guy wanted to shove propaganda flyers into my face before I could get the window rolled up after dropping off my mail — I declined to accept. (Strike one.) This dude looking like a poster child for a white supremacy group screamed at me, asking if I knew we were all doomed if Obama wasn’t “stopped” — I ignored him. (Strike two.) He then asked if I had ever considered the “evidence” that Obama was a fascist, socialist, Nazi dictator…

In my defense, the street was full of cars in front of me and I couldn’t go anywhere anyway.

I asked him if he knew the difference between fascists, socialists, and Nazis, since they were all different and in many respects had opposing policies and viewpoints and hated each other.

He pointed at the Hitler mustache on the poster and told me that Obama was just like Hitler! I told him that I didn’t know that Hitler’s mustache made him evil, I had always thought that it was senseless slaughter of millions of innocent people.

He told me that when I looked in the mirror I would see that mustache on myself and know that I was a Nazi too. I told him when he looked in the mirror he would see a psychotic idiot in desperate need of some serious mental help.

He started listing the conspiracies all around us regarding AIDS and 9-11 and global warming and the United Nations, saying that if we ignored the danger we would all be locked up in gulags. I pointed out that if Obama was really a dictator, nut jobs like him wouldn’t be sitting on the sidewalk ranting. He and his friends would be dead and no one would ever find the bodies, so ipso facto, Obama wasn’t a dictator.

I may have been using intellectual arguments above his weight class.

Traffic was clearing and I started to move. As I did so, I saw the poster on the front side of the fold-up table they had. It was urging people to impeach that Nazi-socialist-communist-fascist-dictator Obama and join Lyndon LaRouche in saving the country. His obvious problems with reality made so much more sense now! I told my delusional friend that he needed to find a better cult to join next time. I suggested one with lots of sex and drugs might be more to his liking. He called me a Nazi again, we flipped each other off, and I left.

You don’t see that every day in the San Fernando Valley!

Nor do you normally see folks jogging in 95° heat while wearing full, black sweat suits, including full-length sweatpants and a hoodie pulled up over their head. Yes, you see folks jogging. Yes, you even see a few of them out jogging in 95° weather. But I’ve never seen anyone dressed like it’s 35° when it’s 95° and running at a good pace to boot. It looked like a good way to either wake up in intensive care needing multiple organ transplants or to simply wake up dead. Good luck, guys, you’re going to need it. Stay hydrated!

Then, for a more common bizarre circumstance for LA, there was apparently a huge accident on the freeway. The westbound freeway was gridlocked. Grid. Locked.

I didn’t know until I got within a block or so of the onramp. Then I could see that traffic wasn’t moving at all, dead stop, so I decided to stay off the freeway and get to the book store on surface streets. Unfortunately, the freeway backup apparently had been there for a while, had multiple lanes blocked, and the gridlock went back at least six or seven miles, so a few hundred thousand of my close, personal friends had decided to use that street as an alternate route.

No one was moving. Period.

But a significant number were driving like freakin’ idiots. (Big surprise, I know, right?) People cutting into shopping center parking lots, going 100 yards, then trying to cut back out into traffic in order to pass ten or twelve cars. People doing U-turns across the center divider islands into gridlocked traffic coming the other way. People ignoring the traffic control cops who were trying to keep some semblance of order at the bigger interchanges, and getting away with it because there was no way to stop and/or cite them.

After about fifteen minutes I made it a half mile and was able to turn away from it all onto a side street and escape. (Knowing the local topography intimately is a huge help in such circumstances — I recommend running to get to know all of the side streets on a first name basis.)

As I bailed on the book store errand and got back towards home, I went by the post office and saw our favorite neighborhood whackjobs still out there harassing postal patrons. I thought briefly of letting them know about the massive gridlock a couple miles away. Down there were thousands and thousands of helpless motorists who would have no opportunity at all to get away from their delusional diatribes. It would be like shooting ducks in a barrel!

The word “shooting” triggered the realization that many of those frustrated, pissed-off, short-tempered motorists might well be armed. As entertaining as it was to think of these deluded dimwits being shot at, I decided to leave well enough alone.

Instead I’m at home, making more tin foil hats and tin foil liners for my athletic supporter cups. It might be a long weekend in LA.

I think it’s the neutrinos.

10 Comments

Filed under Farce, Freakin' Idiots!, Los Angeles, Politics, Running

August 21, 2014 · 22:54

Flash Fiction: Zombies Don’t Eat Fuchsia Poodles

This week the Flash Fiction Challenge from our beloved Chuck Wendig is to write a story with a title including a color. I rolled a 6, so I get to play with “fuchsia.” Okay, I’ll admit, I hear the word all the time, but I have no clue what it looks like, so, “Hello, Google?”

Fuchsia

So, you wonder how a story gets written out of thin air? If it’s a story like this, it helps to have a Robin Williams special going in the background. You sit and think and you’ve got nothing. Any genre? Not a glint. Any style? Not a glimmer. Any ideas? My skull is pulling a hard vacuum. “This one is pretty easy,” Chuck said. I might have a different opinion.

You’re looking for any kind of a hook, a starting point. Finally, the Muse takes mercy on you and says, “Robin thinks you should write something silly.” Great, now my muse is talking to Robin Williams, and Robin is stating the semi-obvious. Say hello for me!

Does Robin have any suggestions on how to write this thing? “Yes,” says the muse, “you should start by thinking up a bizarre, silly, stupid title and then figure out what the story has to be for it.”

Oh, you mean like this one?

Thanks, Robin. Again. For everything.

ZOMBIES DON’T EAT FUCHSIA POODLES

Our backs against the tree, trying to pant and wheeze as quietly as possible while being absolutely motionless, I tried to analyze where the experiment had gone wrong.

Since the ‘Lypse we had all been busy trying to either be fast, good, or lucky. We hadn’t had a lot of time to figure out what had happened, or why, or who was responsible. Research was the luxury of a populace which wasn’t constantly five minutes away from being ripped to shreds. No atheists in foxholes? Maybe, but definitely no paranormal epidemiologists had survived the ‘Lypse.

A few of us had tried to keep our eyes open as we ran for our lives. We would jot down some notes when we found shelter. It was up to us to remove ourselves from the endangered species list – no one was going to do it for us.

There had been a lot of changes real fast. The zombies were the most obvious, but there were massive, overnight, seemingly random mutations throughout the animal kingdom. Among us survivors there were tales of stinging insects the size of blue jays down south, and dolphins big enough and mean enough to sink aircraft carriers along the coast. We hadn’t seen any of those things here in Minnesota. On the other hand, I personally had seen a herd of miniature moose the size of rabbits taking down a bear.

The household pet population had seemed to get hit particularly hard. As a result, no matter where you were, you had been attacked by zombies, and you had seen bizarre cats, dogs, hamsters, birds, snakes, goldfish, and pot-bellied pigs. There were huge ones, tiny ones, weird colors, and psychedelic patterns. Scales where there should be fur or feathers and vice versa.

It was like God had dropped some bad acid and took reality along with him on the trip.

I was the one in our pack who first noticed the growing population of the fuchsia poodles.

While the mutant pets had gotten weird, they hadn’t gotten deadly. Kittens still wanted to play with string. Puppies still wanted their tummies rubbed. They were just as much prey as we were when the zombies came through and they were far less prepared to fight back. Their populations had dropped faster than ours had.

Occasionally we would see packs of feral dogs. More and more they were comprised of fuchsia poodles. Not blue, not green, not yellow. Not Dobermans, not German shepherds, not retrievers.

Fuchsia. Poodles.

We were desperate. We were losing the war. We were being eaten. We had to do something.

Helen was convinced it was the fuchsia color that was the key. She argued we only saw fuchsia poodles because only poodles had turned that color. She went out and found every piece of fuchsia clothing she could and dressed in it head to toe.

It was Helen’s belief that the zombies couldn’t see anything fuchsia colored, sort of like how the Predator couldn’t see Arnold when he was colored in mud. She believed it right up to the point where she stopped screaming after the zombies got her.

The packs of feral fuchsia poodles got larger. The packs of feral humans got smaller.

A week ago my pack ran into another group that was heading north from the Chicago area. We gave them a place to stay overnight. Over a cold dinner we swapped stories and information.

Their leader had also noticed the fuchsia poodle anomaly. Better yet, she had seen in person what was happening. They had been hiding up in a stand of trees, waiting for a zombie pack to shamble on by, when a pack of dogs had run through. The zombies had started to attack the pack, but a handful of fuchsia poodles had counter-attacked without being touched, driving off the undead.

Other breeds, other colored poodles, all turned into zombie chow, while the fuchsia poodles could as well have been invisible.

I was tired of running and sick of being prey. The best defense is a good offense. Insert your favorite platitude here. I finally had a plan.

We kept our eyes open and the next time we saw a pack of dogs, we didn’t ignore them or scare them off. We tempted them with food, got them to come near, and performed a quick re-domestication operation.

So it was that I found myself strolling across an open field with two dozen dogs, including five fuchsia poodles, just tempting the zombies to appear. Which, of course, they did.

I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess I was hoping my new, magical, magenta canine friends would attack the zombies and protect me. I wanted to find the silver bullet that could even the playing field against this ravenous horror.

The dogs saw the zombies and took off running for safety. Some of the zombies broke away to chase them, but they were driven back by the fuchsia poodles, allowing the rest of the pack to escape.

The rest of the zombies kept coming straight for me. My friends in the trees yelled, “RUN!” I didn’t need to be told. The fuchsia poodles could not have cared less. I was not part of their pack.

So now we’re here, once again trying to catch our breath, once again trying not to give away our position. Failure is an option that equals a horrible, painful death.

The scientific method is apparently dead, along with ninety percent of the world’s population. So much for working hypotheses, testing of theories through experimentation, and revision of the theory based on new data.

We’ve been transported to a universe of chaos and insanity, but we probably won’t be here long.

The universe has gone mad. Rules? None. Logic? Dead.

“But that’s not the way it is,” you say, “it can’t be!”

Tell it to the zombies behind us and the herd of miniature piranha-like moose thundering toward us from the other direction.

2 Comments

Filed under Critters, Dogs, Farce, Science Fiction, Writing

August 19, 2014 · 20:26

Dear Traffic Commission

Dear esteemed members of the local traffic commission:

It has come to my attention that you have used a great deal of our hard-earned tax dollars to put up a great many of these remote, radar-gun warning signs in the area. You know, the ones which display your speed as you pass by and get progressively more excited and frantic in their displays as your speed allegedly goes more and more over the posted speed limit. For brevity, I’ll refer to them as “robo-radars.”

I have a few observations to make about some of the individual devices.

The one by the high school is pretty good. It sets the gold standard for the others. As far as I can tell it is pretty accurate, judging by the speedometers on my cars. It flashes if anyone is going over the speed limit. We get the message and we feel appropriately shamed, embarrassed, and humiliated. We promise to do better next time, every time we set it off. Really, we do.

The one down by the freeway is completely inaccurate. I’ve gotten to the point where I will very deliberately cruise by it at 35 (it’s a 40 mph zone) with no one else on the road so it can’t be giving me information based on another car. It consistently reads about 41 or 42, even when I’m doing 35. We ignore this one since it’s a lying bastard, not to be trusted. We call it “Larry the Liar.”

The one up by the reservoir is also annoying. It’s actually on the same pole as the “Speed Limit 40” sign, yet still goes bananas, flashing and warning us to slow down, while displaying a (reasonably accurate) speed of 36 or 38. If I want to get scolded and judged when I haven’t done anything wrong, I’ll start going back to church. We call this one “False Positive Fred.”

The one by the shopping center? It’s seems to be broken as well, completely unable to display a speed of over 45. (It’s also in a 40 mph zone.) I first started to suspect this one when I saw cars roaring past me like I was standing still, but no one ever got a reading of more than 48. I’ve now tested it myself and verified this. Please fix this machine — if I’m going to be out there on a residential street doing 75 to test your machine, it would be nice if you cared about it working correctly.

Finally, when I go running toward and past one of these signs, it never registers my presence. Never lights up, never flashes, never gives any reading at all. I’ll admit that I’m not running that fast (before you make any snarky comments, let’s see your butt out there doing five or six miles one of these days) but I’m not running that slow either. I thought at first that it might be because your robo-radars have a lower limit set in their design, beneath which it ignores movement. However, going out and driving by one exactly as fast as I run, the display lights up and gives me a speed. (To the guy in the BMW behind me while I conducted this test, thanks, I think you’re number one as well!)

I can only assume that this particular robo-radar is looking for a metal surface to get a return signal from, and my pasty, flabby carcass isn’t getting the job done. In order to test this theory, I intend to wrap my body in tin foil and run past it again. I’ll get back to you on the efficacy of the technique, if the cops haven’t gotten back to your first. Or the men in white coats.

In summary, you seem to have spent a lot of money on warning signs that give false positives, are highly inaccurate, and are totally useless in timing my marathon training. We can only be grateful that you didn’t hook your inaccurate robot minions to cameras and automatic ticketing systems like the freakin’ idiots in Arizona did. (No, I did not get a speeding ticket in Arizona, but only by driving in such a fashion as to make half the state indicate that they think I’m number one as well.)

If you’re looking for a reasonably-priced consultant to help you troubleshoot the problem and research potential solutions (i.e., I want to get paid to run past these thing swaddled in Alcoa’s finest), you have my number.

Love,

Paul

1 Comment

Filed under Farce, Freakin' Idiots!, Los Angeles, Running

August 8, 2014 · 22:06

“I Should Of Stood In Bed”

It’s unclear who said those immortal words, but the meaning is crystal clear. (I always thought it was Leo Durocher or Yogi Berra, but I wasn’t even close.) Today tried hard to be one of those days.

We awoke to the sound of running water. That’s special and wonderful if you happen to live near a trickling brook or a rippling river, but when the sound comes from water running somewhere in the walls and under the house it’s a little bit more stressful. I dragged my butt out of bed and into some clothes (for which the neighbors are no doubt eternally grateful), stuck my head into the itty-bitty, teeny-tiny access hatch to the crawl space under the house, where I could see the water running and pooling and and generally making a mess. I left the water on long enough to take a quick shower, then I shut off it off at the meter and called the plumbers.

With no water in the house, I tried to get through my other tasks for the day, before I  ran into my next crisis:

I’m not dying of some horrible toxic reaction between the dissolved food dye and the chocolate, so I guess that I “chose wisely.” (Remind me some time to tell the family story that makes this so funny for my kids.)

As long as the water was off, there was another plumbing issue that I had put off for a while. I needed the water shut off to do it and it seemed to be a pain in the ass to shut off the water to the whole house for one little repair. But now that the water was off anyway and the shower in question was still disassembled. The repair took only a few minutes and was done, easy as pie.

The plumbers didn’t get here until after 6:00 PM, which they had told me when I called early this morning, so it wasn’t like I was stressing too much over the possibility of going into the weekend without water. It was interesting to see these guys getting through that little access hatch to work under the house and then start hacking and soldering. I’ve been down under there when I’ve run cable for phones and television and internet:

DSCN1087 small

(Me ten years ago after coming out from under the house – sorry Texas!)

…it’s not my favorite place, even though I’m not particularly claustrophobic. You need to be a contortionist, there are spots where it’s pretty tight, it’s filthy, it’s hard to move around, and every now and then you do wonder just how the fire department is going to get you out if you get stuck.

They were pros and got the job done. I turned the water back on, they tested their repairs to check for leaks, no worries. But what’s that noise from the half-bath at the other end of the house?

The new cartridge was pretty well smashed to pieces (I have no idea how it broke that badly without shattering the glass shower enclosure that it shot into) but my only lucky break of the day was that I had saved the broken cartridge that I had taken out instead of trashing it. It doesn’t work as a shower cartridge, but it works great as a specialized plug in that valve so that we could turn the water back on.

Not the way I had planned on spending Friday. Perhaps I should have stood in bed. On the other hand, if I had, the bed might be floating away and my yard might look like that mess up on Sunset Boulevard last week, so maybe it all worked out for the better anyway.

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Filed under Castle Willett, Farce, Paul

August 7, 2014 · 23:55

Flash Fiction: The Equal Amateur

Chuck Wendig, our bearded subdeity, has this week given us the Flash Fiction Challenge of the usual “1000 words or so” using one of ten randomly generated titles. I rolled a “2”, so I got to write a story called:

THE EQUAL AMATEURS

She met him for the first time in the gym just after the start of her freshman year. She and her teammates were just starting a conditioning session in the varsity weight room as the guys from the baseball team were finishing theirs. Even in a crowd of cocky, self-assured, egocentric, Division I, nationally ranked college athletes, he stood out from the rest.

The women had the current school bragging rights. They had gone to the finals in the Oklahoma City the year before, while the men’s team had been knocked out in the first round of the playoffs.

The guys hung out to “help” their female counterparts with advice and snarky comments. The ladies found various ways to tell them where to put it. He was in the thick of the banter, his mouth running a mile a minute. She was shy and quiet, unsure of her place, content to just get her work in and be ready to play when she got her chance.

Throughout the winter they would bump into each other every now and then at the training center. He was very good at telling her about his hitting and fielding skills, how it had always come so naturally to him. She would smile and be pleasant, wondering if he would ever bother to stop talking about himself.

When their seasons started in the spring, he made it only one game before tearing up his knee on a hard slide into second. The surgery was arthroscopic and straightforward, but the doctors told him he was done for the year.

She started her season strong and won the first three games she pitched. Her success helped to strengthen her growing self-confidence. She quickly became an integral part of the team, despite her lack of experience at the college level.

Coming back from an away game, she found him in the weight room late one night. Thinking someone had accidentally left the lights on she had gone to turn them off, only to find him working like a demon. He had headphones on and his back to the door, oblivious to her presence. Trying to avoid startling him too much, she flashed the lights before walking in.

He had changed. The surgery had removed his excess ego along with the ruptured tendons. “Thanks for giving me a heads up with the lights,” he said. “If the tables were turned I probably would have just tried to scare the crap out of you. Hey, I heard you won again today! You’re really doing great. How’s everything else going, besides the softball team?”

She told him about her classes, the roommate she really disliked, the way she had missed the snow, not being used to the southern winters. He listened until a custodian came in and said the building was closing.

A week later she again found him trying to get a month’s worth of conditioning into a single night. “Do the team trainers know you’re doing this,” she asked when she confronted him. “Who gave you okay to push your recovery this hard, this fast?”

He got defensive. His body would tell him what was too much and what wasn’t. He needed to be able to play again this year. He wouldn’t have another chance, even if it was only his sophomore year. Pro scouts had been looking at him the previous spring. He expected to be drafted this year. If he didn’t play he would have to wait another year.

She listened to him ramble on, before suddenly getting up and heading toward the door without a word. That got his attention. “Wait! Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “You have this all figured out all by yourself. You don’t need me or any of the other people here to help you. I have work to do with my team. I’m not needed her on your solo quest for glory.” She left, ignoring his fading calls behind her.

The next women’s game was at home. It was the game in which she finally proved vulnerable, getting shelled and knocked out of the game early. Her teammates tried to cheer her up afterward, but when dusk came, she was still out in the cages alone, throwing one practice pitch after another.

When she came out, she found him sitting there, watching. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough. Were you throwing to burn through your anger or did someone tell you what you did wrong today?”

“Shouldn’t you be off in an unmarked gym doing unauthorized strength training?”

“You’re tipping your pitches. You’re holding your glove differently when you throw the curve instead of the heat. You didn’t used to do that.”

“How do you know what I’m doing and what I used to do?”

“I’ve watched you pitch quite a bit since I got back. I know hitting and how to watch pitchers. Today I knew what you were going to throw, and so did they. Go check out some tape, you’ll see it.” He turned to walk away on his crutches.

“Wait. Why are you helping me?”

“I’m good at the game and I know it, but I needed to be taken down a notch and remember the rest of the team. You helped me see that, showed me the path to be better. You’re good, but you could be so much better. I saw a way to help you. It’s a teamwork thing.”

“So you’re going to work with the trainers and not do anything stupid?”

“Yes, I will. I’ll be here next year, the draft can wait. Will you work with your coach to fix your delivery so I can watch you win again?”

“Sure. Can I help you up the stairs on those crutches?”

“Sure. Can you give me a second chance?”

“Can you not be a jerk?”

“Maybe. Can we go out to dinner tonight?”

“Maybe.”

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Filed under Farce, Writing

July 31, 2014 · 22:19

Flash Fiction: Three-Sentence Story #2

No, I haven’t forgotten that it’s Thursday and that’s normally “Flash Fiction Night” here, since the entries to Chuck Wendig’s “Flash Fiction Challenges” over on TerribleMinds are due by noon Eastern on Friday. But this week’s Challenge is another “Three-Sentence Story” contest, with the results posted directly to TerribleMinds. Here’s my entry for this week:

When she met him, he was funny, intelligent, and everything she had ever hoped for in a husband. When they raised their children, he was faithful, hardworking, and a pillar of the community. When she disposed of his body, he was heavy, unwieldy, and a pain in the ass to drag through the woods.

I did pretty well the last time we were given this task to complete, making the Top Ten list of Chuck’s favorites. This week’s entry didn’t necessarily have to be horror, any genre would do. I’m not sure what genre this fits into — maybe something like an “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” episode summary. Whatever, it made me laugh to write it and share it.

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July 24, 2014 · 20:04

Flash Fiction: Second-Rate Superhero In Five-Line Anapestic Meter

I would like to apologize in advance to Mrs. Henry, my junior high school English teacher, who tried so hard, and is no doubt spinning in her grave as this is published…

When last we left our hero, Chuck Wendig, he was off to ComicCon! In his absence, he left this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge for us, commanding us to write a superhero story! But not just any superhero story! THAT could be done by mere mortals! No, we have to combine our superhero story with some other genre! It’s a superhero mashup! A superhero love story, a superhero mystery, a superhero slashfic (hey, there’s an idea — but it’s been a good day, so let’s not go that dark unless we have to), a superhero western, a superhero story set on a submerged submarine being hunted with depth charges… You get the picture.

Unfortunately for us all, I have a bad brain and while pondering the options, my bad brain said to me, “Remember ‘Mystery Men’? I’ll be you can’t write a story about wannabes like that — told in limericks.” Then my bad brain just sat there and watched as I squirmed and sweated. So now (as far better men than I have said) for something completely different —

THE ADVENTURES OF BRIGHT KNIGHT!

His mask had a soft, velvet lining
While outside his armor was shining
Bright Knight on a quest
To hang with the best
If only to shut up her whining.

She married when youth was in flower
Believing he had superpower.
That did not prove true.
That bleak day she did rue
Stashed away in her ivory tower.

Bright Knight’s only power of note
Was in burnishing brightly the coat
Of chain mail and light plate
That made him look so great
While the weight made him fearful of boats.

The night that his wife was attacked
Bright Knight had some petty crooks sacked.
Her screams he did hear
And her demise was near
So the kidnappers’ trail he had tracked.

The room where they held her was dim
She the bait for their ambush of him
But his armor’s bright sheen
Was his weapon unseen
As he rescued and ran for the win.

For their plan as he entered their trap
Was to focus their ray guns and “ZAP!”
But the bolts were returned
And the kidnappers burned
While the good guys took none of their crap.

Now the wife is content to let go
Of the dream that her knight might be mo’
While her man’s not too bright
His suit bends back the light.
And this story’s the proof that it’s so!

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