Unstable Eddie

Dinner at O’Hare only takes up so much of a 3 hour lay over.  Especially when there is no one to share it with.  So I dragged my carry-on around and around.  I finally tired of the endless trek up and down and retired briefly to gate 28, flight 871 to Seattle.  A four hour flight to be sure, but I just had to sit for awhile.

Across from me sat a middle aged woman and a man-boy kind of person - not sure if he was her son, or grand son or what.  She was having an animated cell phone conversation and he was immersed in some sort of video game.  He was doing something on a screen which I couldn’t see, raucously poking it and shaking it, making odd faces of pain and occasional joy.  He became really agitated now and then and his mom (?) would just tap his arm to stop his stomping feet.  I noticed one of those medical alert dog tags around his neck.  I blew out some air and glanced sideways at an imaginary camera filming this (kind of like on ‘The Office’).

I sat there for a moment or two more and noticed the woman had one of those ticket pouches some folks carry around their necks who take cruises and such.  Their boarding passes were neatly tucked inside.  The clear plastic allowed the seat number to be seen.  8F was on the top ticket.  Uh huh.  What was MY seat number I wondered.  Yeah, I checked.  Mine was 8D.  which is an aisle seat.  8F is a window seat, which meant, yes, the hidden ticket - HIS ticket, had to be 8E.  which was NEXT TO ME.  Holy God!  No.  PLEASE, no.  I was sitting next to Unstable Eddie.

I had another hour to brood about this and wondered if I should go have another martini.    I elected against that, having just had two plus a large glass of wine.  Maybe I could maintain my altitude.

They announced that our airplane had a mechanical malfunction and that it would take too long to repair (like maybe re attaching the left wing or something) so we all did the Bataan death march with our belongings down to gate 23.  Mom (?) was extremely annoyed at this but Unstable Eddie found it somehow entertaining.  Added to the melee was a gaggle of what looked to be an African refugee family, or perhaps a small village in Somalia, queuing up behind their sponsor who was confused about ticketing and paperwork.  I swear to God the little kids looked like they had just got off the photo take at CNN, wearing dusty ragged clothes and such.  This was just weird.  They all got on the plane and I never saw them again.  

We boarded.  I had to, of course, get up for mom (?) and Unstable Eddie as they put all their crap in the overhead and clambered into their seats.  Eddie crash landed into his seat and began arguing with mom (?).  He got out the video game along with a packet of tablets, a syringe case and some sort of blood tester thing from his Darth Vader Space bag.  His mom (?) opened a book.  Eddie spilled some pills into  his hand and quaffed them down with a gulp from the 32 ounce Diet Coke he had brought on board.  Then he tested his blood.  Then he opened the syringe kit, took one out and stabbed his stomach with it.  His mom (?) turned the page.

I gave a long sideways glance into the camera that was surely filming this.

As soon as we were airborne Eddie got up, made an uncomfortable scene struggling past the beverage cart and went to assumedly drain 20 ounces of fluid in the first class toilet.  (we weren’t in first class).   Fifteen minutes later I had to get up and let him repeat the process.  His mom (?) flipped another page.  Eddie returned, finished the 32 ounce Diet Coke and ordered two more from the Attendant.  Then he passed out.  His mom (?) flipped another page.

I looked at my watch.  Two more hours to Seattle.  And Eddie would awaken soon.

It’s always something.

Good to Go

Watched a report on the status of “Good To Go” on TV by Robert Mak a few days ago.  I’ve got my little G-T-G thing on my windshield, as demanded by WSDOT.  Looks like this thing won’t start now until late July, right about when Seattle gets its two weeks of blistering, sultry hot 78 degree summer.  Well, I’m ready, by god. 

Yep, a toll for all seasons it’s touted to be.  There’s a different charge for different times on different days – and – if your car happens to be blown off the bridge midway, you won’t be charged for the trip!  How cool is that?

Mak interviewed a State Legislator who was making some noise about maybe this toll isn’t enough.  Maybe they should toll BOTH frickin’ bridges.  Yep, you just wait.  It’ll happen.  In fact, hell, maybe they ought to just toll the beegeezus out of every route to anywhere.  We HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY. 

I’ve done a little map to help the lawmakers who can read get a jump on this idea and trump it up down in Olympia. 

Note also that we go “out” to Issaquah…”over” to Redmond…and “up” to Monroe.  Kind of a Seattle thing I guess. 

So, we’ll pay a toll everywhere we go.  The next step is for the State to tattoo a barcode onto our foreheads and we can pay tolls for, say, sidewalks, public buildings and stairways, the waterfront…..just imagine the possibilities for sorely needed State Revenue. 

A barcode that has stopped moving on the street could signal a death possibly by a mugging or being hit by a car, maybe passed out from inebriation, any number of things.  This way, aid can be directed to the toll payer in hopes of saving them so they can continue to provide revenue.  Nothing wasted.

It’s always something………

It's almost here!!

It’s coming next week!  June 21^st!  The first day of summer for us folks north of the hemisphere.  The Earth sort of tilts this way and that.  And when it’s on the backward (or is it forward?) tilt that means the northern hemisphere does a leaner towards the sun.  

The sun, as we remember from 8^th grade science class is 5,778 degrees Kelvin, 5,5505 degrees Celsius, or just more commonly known as 18 bazillion firkin degrees.  This is really, REALLY hot, fusing something like 620 million METRIC TONS of hydrogen each second.  Almost an equivalent of the amount of oxygen Sarah Palin’s ignorance sucks out of a room.

We don’t burn up, of course, because the sun is damn near 150 million kilometers away.  What we DO, is set out the barbee, put on our shorts and sandals, our SPF 45 and hit the beach.  That is, everyone but Seattleites.  (I still think of little beeping, orbiting people when I see the word ‘Seattleite’). 

No, Seattle is different.  This year we had measureable rain on 87 of 131 days through May 11.  That’s like, 66%.  Now, counting the days when we had a TRACE of rain the statistic jumps to 104 of 131 days with rain (wet is wet whether or not Mr. Peabody measures it at the airport).  F’ing ridiculous. 

Anyone watching the weather channel can see the problem here.  What apparently happens is that THE ENTIRE PACIFIC OCEAN evaporates each year, travels up, swirls over Washington and condenses, falls and runs back to fill the ocean back up.  WHO the HELL would want to LIVE in a place like this?  Just ask the little beeping, orbiting people. 

I wouldn’t want to live in Alaska though.  No oxygen.

It’s always something.

I Gave My Life for You

I gave my life for you, Continental Army so you could defeat the tyranny of the British monarchy.

I gave my life for you, Marine Corps so you could take the island and step closer to winning the war to keep our freedom…

I gave my life for you, U.S. Army 4^th Infantry, so you could take the beach at Normandy…

I gave my life for you, Caen Canal Bridge so our troops could use it in the quest to defeat the Nazis who threatened our freedom…….

I gave my life for you, guy at the LA airport, so you could have the freedom to spit and call me ‘baby killer’ when I got home on leave from Viet Nam…..

I gave my life for you, media, so some of you could keep the right to berate our presidents…..

I gave my life for you all, so you could choose to hate or love and be free to express yourselves…..

I’m still on the battle fields where they could not find me to bring me home, at the bottom of the sea, in the dust in the air and, here, in Normandy where I lie in pristine rows at peace with my brothers and sisters,  that eternal peace which passes all understanding……

Remember me.

COWBOYS SOUGHT HIM

I'm researching and writing a chronicle on my mother's family history in Salina, Kansas.  Just starting it.  I have a newspaper clipping on the death of my great grandfather written in 1910 or thereabouts.  I have copied it here.  How writing styles have changed..........this has run on sentences run amok.  I guess the newspaper folk in Salina Kansas in 1910 considered themselves lucky finding anyone who could write at all............

as written  --

Andrew Stockenberg, who died three weeks ago of leakage of the heart and dropsy, at his home on south Connecticut, was known as far back as forty years ago as the neatest cobbler on the plains, and drew many cowboys and not a few Indians to his little shop on south fifth street to have their chaps and gauntlets mended and their shoes and boots made as well as the Indian’s moccasins.  He was known for miles around as the best man for the cowboys to have to fix their leather upholstery because of his reputation of his neatness.

At that time even an occasional buffalo would come grazing around the small village of Salina, almost into the main streets as if in search of the neatest cobbler to mend its boots which were worn and cut on the sand swept prairies. 

Indians were numerous who visited the little shop either in search of new moccasins or repairs for the old ones.  And all liked and greeted with good cheer the neatest of cobblers who made their leather goods look as good as new, their Indian moccasins soft and pliable and artistically trimmed, with new designs on the cowboy’s high stout boots which fit so well, and soft new leather well arranged in the seats of their well worn chaps.

As time went on and the buffalo disappeared and the Indians became a rare sight, and the cowboys fewer, the men up and down the dusty wooden shack lined street came more often to the little shop in search of the neatest of cobblers to see if he could make for them a couple of pairs of shoes.  Many times during those years the cobbler toiled far into the night to supply the demand for his handiwork in shoes and boots.  No “boughten” boots for those men with this cobbler so willing to work, who could make such soft boots that fit so well and wore so long.  And no patches seemed as nice as those put in by this cobbler, none mended so neatly into the worn places of the boot or shoe and none had so few rough spots.

Through all but the last six years of the forth seven years of his life in Salina, Mr. Stockenberg continued as a business this work of making shoes, and in these latter years many prominent business men would visit his shop that was moved to to his home on South  Connecticut to have him make their shoes.

Mr. Stockenberg was a foreman in a big store factory in Chicago and bought a farm although he had never before seen it out near the Salemsborg church.

He had made up his mind to leave Chicago and farm, in peace and quiet the rest of his life, so leaving his family he came to Salina and went out to his farm, but at the close of the first day declared it was too much peace and quiet and came back to the small village that was known as Salina.  Then he decided to open a shoe shop, after listening to the arguments of the cowboys and residents regarding the need of one.  His family, composed of his wife, two sons and two daughters, joined him although lacking considerably in enthusiasm of the wild nature of the country.

it's always something

Excitement about the Smallest Things can Make Your Day

A high point in my day has become getting the mail delivery.  It’s true; we get mostly bills and an endless jetsam of advertisement waste.  The great thing about all this crap you get in the mail is – it’s bulky.  What’s so great about that, you may ask?  Well, it means that the postal carrier has to put a rubber band around it.  And, the rubber band is FREE!

Hot damn, yes, you heard right – free.  Now, I’ve been diligent about saving these over the years and have a collection such that I never have to go to Office Max to buy rubber bands.  Going to Office Max as many have heard about lately is a hellish venture for some.

The Post Office rubber bands come in a variety of shapes and wear.  Many of them are pre-discolored with newsprint that tells folks “this person is a recycler; a consciences consumer, always reconsidering something used instead of crackin’ open a new pack of stuff.”  Gives me a sense of pride. 

I’ve got lots of rubber bands nowadays.  Our architect business is down to the nubs and we don’t have any plans to roll up and secure with a rubber band.  They have other uses though.  They held up our plants until they all died.  You can use them to keep the sole of your shoe from flapping.  And you can use them instead of expensive file folders to hold repossession and past due notices together so you don’t lose them.  They can even serve as a fastener for button less jeans. 

I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s bundle.

It’s always something.

Shingles - More to 'em than meets the eye

Where to begin with this?  Got back from Kansas Tuesday April 5th at midnight.  I had spent two full weeks with my mom, cooking, taking care of her and watching all the programming fox network provides its minions.  Got a HORRIBLE cold the 2nd week there in Kansas.  Couldn't tell at first, what with a combination of the good ol’ Midwest hay fever resurrected in my sinuses and the constant smoky haze of Marlboro 100 lights (that's light, as in - hey this will kill perhaps just a teensy bit slower than the regulars).  Geezus frick-a-monda what misery.

I noticed a rash on my face the night before my flight back to Seattle.  Tuesday flying all day I checked it during trips to the flying can and at layovers.  I was becoming disfigured.  By the end of the day my face was swollen on the left side and I looked like I had just lost a prize fight, gone out into the alley, got mugged, and then shot in the face with a shotgun.  I think this is why folks were giving me lots of extra room at the airport.  Next day I went to the doctor.  He said I had the Shingles.  And, yes, it's as bad as it's advertised to be.  In my case the virus had awakened from its slumber and found the jail cell door wide open, as all my antibody cops were fighting the cold and no one was in the jail to keep guard.  These malevolent little virus bastards, now fully awake, found themselves on 'John's face nerve Ave.' and decided to make up for the lost time since they had participated in my Chicken Pox so long ago.

My teeth felt like I was having constant dental surgery with NO NOVACAINE.   This lasted for 3 days, even with the Vicadin.  My eye was swollen shut.  My mouth and chin were swollen so I couldn't eat except through a straw.  Then I got sick on my meds.  Come to find out the pharmacy mis-typed the instructions and I was taking 6 times the normal amount.  Medicine vomit is a curious experience.  There’s no real substance, no volume.  Nothing floating to survey as to what it might have been before partially digested. 

I'm better today - just mild pain - and the wounds are healing on my face.  I’ve gone past the ‘frightening little kids’ stage of facial disfigurement.  It’s been nearly a month and I still can’t sleep comfortably.  I have this ‘St. Elmo’s fire’ thing wafting over my face all day and my eyes still hurt.  I’m hoping I don’t have the ‘long term’ version of this which I’m told can last forever. 

If you have had the Chicken Pox and are getting’ on to 60 then I’d suggest getting the Shingles Vaccine.  (I kept seeing the advertising for this and for the longest time wondered why one would need to be vaccinated against being single.) 

It’s always something..

here's some good information...

http://www.shinglesinfo.com/index.html