MOTORCYCLE SEASON IS ALMOST HERE

STUPID KILLS!

Opinion

I believe that most of the untimely deaths on this planet are from stupidity. Yep. If you don’t die of one of the terminal illnesses that will eventually kill every species that has a pulse, as a human you’re most likely to die of an act of stupidity.  It may be yours, but it could be some other person's that causes it. 

Old age gets credit for nearly all of the natural (non-stupid) deaths, even though the autopsy usually names a specific cause. Face it. We get old, all our parts get old at the same time.  Sooner or later either enough of of those parts, or one of them that’s really essential, gives up the ghost. But, ‘natural causes’ is not what this rant is about. Unless, of course, stupidity has somehow achieved ‘natural cause’ status.

No.  This rant is about some of the stupid things people do on the highway.

A relative of a man I know, recently became a victim of blatant stupidity. One day, a few minutes after noon, while most people were either thinking of lunch or sitting down to eat, his life came to sudden, violent end.

This was a case of another person’s stupidity tragically terminating this man’s hopes and dreams. Stupidity altered the lives of his family, friends, and everyone who depended upon or loved him.

On a busy entrance to a nearby Interstate Highway, an individual pulled the stupid stunt of stopping in the the lane. Here's a good rule of thumb:  The key to successfully negotiating an acceleration lane is to accelerate!  If there is ‘STOP’ or ‘YIELD’ sign, stopping is not an offered option. 

No one will ever truly know the final thoughts and actions of the victim.  We are only left with the results.  But, it’s safe to say he was following a vehicle up the long, high speed acceleration lane.  He was presumably accelerating to blend into the 65 mph plus traffic heading north on Interstate 81. 

I would be looking in my mirrors, glancing over my shoulder to the left, gauging the speed of approaching traffic, and accelerating to blend into it. That’s what you’d be doing, too. That’s what you are supposed to be doing.  It’s the safest thing to do.

In the split second it takes to check traffic behind you, either in your mirror or with a sideways glance, a lot can go wrong. What went wrong this time was that the drivert right ahead of my friend’s brother-in-law, stopped. He stopped!

I didn't mention it, but the victim’s mode of transportation was one that’s invisible to too many motorists. He was astride his beloved Harley-Davidson motorcycle. When you stop dead in front of a motorcycle being driven by someone who assumes you’re doing the right thing on an acceleration ramp, that’s what your doing. You’re stopping him dead. The motorcycle rider braked hard. The skid marks still paint the ramp at the accident scene. It looks like that’s all he had time to do.

From my experience, having ridden a motorcycle for several decades, many automobile drivers operate under a shroud of misinformation. They frequently seem to feel that motorcycles are dangerous, "death-wish mobiles," ridden only by mouth breathing knuckle-draggers.  That is, of course, if they think of them at all.  A large percentage of the automobile driving public ignores motorcycles, out of hand.  Many offer no common courtesy to motorcyclists.  The may have a false impression that bikes can stop on a dime.  That thinking kills hundreds of motorcyclists every year.  

The fact is that a motorcycle can’t stop as quickly as a car.  Nor can it swerve as nimbly around obstacles as a car is able to. The unbendable laws of physics prohibit those maneuvers.

Don’t be stupid. When you are driving a car, be aware 360 degrees around you.  Just like the Driver’s Ed instructor taught you. Watch for the small profile of a bike.  

I suggest that you use the acceleration lane to accelerate and blend with traffic at speed.  I further suggest that when you're on a four lane highway and you observe someone accelerating to blend with you, you give them the courtesy of a lane change whenever possible.  That will clear the driving lane and make their access safer.

When you’re riding your motorcycle, scooter, or even your old blue bicycle, be 100 times more careful and alert than you are in the relatively safe steel cocoon of your car.

Remember…don’t be stupid.  Stupid kills!

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THE LIZ GILES STORIES:

Sargent Elizabeth Giles, Maine State Police:

Liz Giles is six feet tall, with long auburn hair, and emerald eyes. A five-year veteran of the Maine State Police, she looks much younger than her twenty-seven years. Her beauty continually fools many a wife beater, drunken logger, and convenience store robber. Those who occasionally try to ignore her authority, are always unpleasantly surprised. Liz has a talent for quelling domestic disturbances, hunting down criminals, and winning physical confrontations.

On duty, she's a competent, controlled, and occasionally lethal, Maine State Police Sergeant. At over six feet tall, in her shiny black uniform boots, Liz is either eye to eye or looking downward toward most of her contacts. With her hair tucked under her “Smokey Bear” hat, and wearing her dark aviator “cop” shades, she rarely gets much static from people she's dealing with in an official capacity.

Off-duty, her large Ray Bans, casual clothes, self-assured demeanor, and her natural beauty, make many wonder if she's a vacationing movie star. A movie star you'd probably never imagine would play a cop.

Liz is assigned to the far northeastern region of Maine, where there are more bears and moose than people. That may seem to be a good thing, but the people who are living there frequently have their own dark reasons for living in such a remote place. It's not uncommon for Liz to be working with the Maine Ranger Service to catch poachers, burglars, and backwoods people who refuse to recognize the laws or the authority of the officers who enforcement them. Nearly everyone carries a gun and a hunting knife. A large percentage of the region's law breakers will not hesitate to use weapons to avoid being caught doing whatever it is they're doing.

Liz Giles lives with danger every day, and wouldn't have it any other way. Come back every month for a new glimpse into both Liz's life as a Maine State Trooper, and her private life. Join Liz in her adventures as a single young woman who happens to be an intrepid female cop in a tough place.

A Happy 2015! 3 Rules That May Help

January 1, 2015:

     It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that another year has flown by.  It's apparently true that the older you get, the more quickly time seems to pass.
     It turns out things just don't get done if you don't do them the minute you think of them.  I have at least a dozen unfinished projects from 2014, that all seemed well with in reach when I decided to undertake them. However, time is limited, and procrastination is the enemy.  In all these years, I thought I'd learned to do every project right away, so as not to forget or overlook them.  I didn't..
     All it takes is the passing of one day, and whatever it was that was so urgent, seems to lose importance.  Then it remains untouched, becoming another brick in the wall of undone tasks. Thereby creating more obstacles to stumble over on the path to personal satisfaction.
     I'm not a "New Year Resolution" maker.  I see no sense in promising myself to do something I probably should have already done, but have so far failed to do.  I abhor lying.  Only a fool lies to himself.  Any resolutions, except to attempt to continue breathing, with all of it's complications, would be lies.
     Rule # 1:  Never lie to yourself.
     I also take pride in keeping every promise.  Except the few that outside influences somehow cause to slip out of my control. Aren't New Year Resolutions merely promises made to oneself?
     Rule #2: Never make a promise you can't keep.
     Going into 2015, there are no major Earth shattering, universe altering stories in the news. Remember, for instance, going into 2000, with the Y2K fallacy hovering like a black cloud over the planet?  This year, there isn't really any pressing threat to focus upon or worry about.
     Of course, we all should be cognizant of the beauty, ugliness, danger, and safety facets of the world around us.  Life is not a bowl of cherries every single day.  There is bound to be good and bad in our lives.  We'll have to deal with them just as we have throughout the history of mankind.     Remember, nothing is "the end of the World", except the end of the World.  Let's face it, if that happens there'll be nothing to worry about, because there'll be literally nothing to worry about.  I suspect that as individuals, there would be nothing we could do about it anyway.
     Rule # 3:  Don't worry.
     So, my friends, have a fantastic 2015.  Celebrate the pleasures and victories, weather the storms, and enjoy each day as though the World may end tomorrow.  Barring that occurrence, I'm sure most of us will still be enjoying this wonderful circus, 365 days from now.
     HAPPY NEW YEAR!   

The Charlie Imes H/C "Happened"!

     By now, through other postings on other sites, blogs, and facebook pages, most everyone who follows me and my scribbling, or my radio program on "The Shore Radio" (www.wnyshoreradio.com), knows that the Charlie Imes house concert happened in Sanitaria Springs, NY on October 4, 2014.
     What you may not know is that it was truly a "Happening".  Nothing like this had ever hit the wide spot in the road known as Sanitaria Springs, and it hit like a sunny day in the middle of an Upstate NY February.
     Charlie was the hit of the year in our town, and left everyone wanting more house concerts, and definitely a lot more of Charlie Imes music.
     I want to thank everyone who had anything at all to do with this fine event, from the bottom of my heart.  From the facebook followers who helped us spread the word, to the rental company who provided the nicely padded chairs the made the guests so comfortable, it all came together to make a fantastic show.
     Next Spring, we plan to bring another artist in from the far reaches of the US, and then end the summer again in 2015 with another "Summer Encore".  Hopefully, we'll be able to bring a variety of artists in for "Summer Encore '15", and really blow the lid of this little podunk town.
     Again.  Thanks everyone, especially Charlie Imes, for bringing so much pleasure and joy to our band of Trop Rock aficionados, here in Southern Upstate NY.

Charlie & his new buddy, Kona

 

You can contact Charlie at:  Crimes11@mac.com, or his website at: www.crimesofmusic.com

Introducing House Concerts in Sanitaria Springs, NY

   

   

     California Trop Rock star, Charlie Imes, is heading Somewhat North of Disorder.  He'll perform October 4, 2014, right here in Sanitaria Springs, NY.
     Enjoy this personal experience with a national Trop personality, in our home. Space is limited for your comfort.  All seats must be reserved in advance, for only $15.00 per person.  To save your seat, email dondapyrate@gmail.com.
     Coffee and tea are provided by your hosts, Meg and Don.  If you prefer something stronger, BYOB.  Glasses and ice will be provided.  Please bring your favorite dish to pass.
     You've may have never attended anything like this, before.  An actual concert by a renowned artist of the Trop Rock music genre, right in our living room. Enjoy the music, the stories behind the songs, and the homey atmosphere of a "dish to pass" dinner.  We promise you an experience you won't forget.
     Please click on or cut and paste the url below, for information and to reserve your seat:

https://www.facebook.com/events/614288368689856/?ref_dashboard_filter=upcoming

August News - Trockin' Bigtime!

 

     August has been a busy month North of Disorder.  There's been all the fun summer outdoor activities, plus the household and yard maintenance that has to be done while the weather is mild here in the Northeastern US.
     Still, the music is is a big part of everything we do.  I'm happy to say there has been plenty of exciting action around here, on the trock front.  We've been catching all the local Trop bands, and have traveled to Philly a couple of times for great House Concerts at Conchy Joe's
     Mrs da Pyrate completes another trip around the sun in August, so naturally, there will be a celebration.  This year, she has elected to have a party on the deck.  Her plan features a House Concert by an act that's a personal favorite of her's, Davey Werkhiser and Cathy Jo Vine.  This duo is part of Davey & The Waverunners band, from Broadway, NJ.  They will be gracing the da Pyrate's boards on August 17th.  It's not Meg's birth date, but close, and the nearest time that Davey and Cathy could fit the show into their busy summer schedule.  I'm sorry.  It's a private, "Invitation Only" show, so no seats are available.
     Also this month, another exciting bit of musical event news has popped up at the da Pyrate house.  Charlie Imes, a Trop Rocker from Del Mar, CA, will be playing a House Concert at our home on October 4th.  Charlie is touring America right now, covering many of the lower forty-eight states, with his "Summer's Here" tour.  Charlie released his latest CD, "Summer's Here" a few weeks ago, and is on the road taking it to his fans, up close and personal.  Earlier this week he was in Spokane, WA, and will perform in Boise, ID on August 15th.  He's working his way across the country, trockkin' all the way.
     Anyone who is interested in attending this Charlie Imes concert in the Binghamton, NY area, should contact me at dondapyrate@gmail.com.  It's the only way you can get a seat.  There is a limited number of seats available, at only $15.00 each.  Tickets to Charlie's "Summer's Here" show are "first come-first served".
    There won't be much more on the 'live music at our house' front, this season. We are still planning to go to Key West during MOTM, this year.  Lots of details involved in that, so it's going to eat up our short attention spans.
     Below, I'm including a link to Charley's "Drive America" video.  I invite you copy and paste it in your browser, and discover the quality of his writing and musical performance.

http://youtu.be/4jz2Ag2xmIA

     It may not be a coincidence that just like the song says, Charlie's "seeing America from the window of my automobile".
     Enjoy the music, come out to meet Charlie Imes, and.... TROCK ON!

Road Trip! Thanks for This Life.

     July 2014 is almost over, but there's a lot more mid-summer fun to be had. There's a ton of music to be enjoyed, and parties yet to be attended.  We're about to hit the road again.  This time, to a House Concert to enjoy the talents of another fine singer songwriter.
     My GPS tells me it's about two and a half hours from my deck in Sanitaria Springs, NY, to Conchy Joe's patio and stage, in Lansdale, PA.
     It's an easy two and a half hour trip, and the listening experience at our destination will make it a pure joy.  There's good friends to share the ride with, and there'll be many familiar faces at the event.  Together, as they always do, this combination will make it a day to remember.
     Maybe this trip will be even more of a fond memory, since it's how Meg has decided she wants to spend her wedding anniversary.  Our anniversary is July 27th.  The few years it's been, have passed so quickly, that in my mind they seem like only weeks.
     It's going to be an amazing day, regardless of the weather, how well Tim Charron performs in Joe's backyard, or how satisfying the evening meal at Cooper's Cabana.  Cooper's is Meg's choice of where to enjoy her anniversary dinner, and I agree wholeheartedly.  It's going to be a great day because Meg and I enjoy each other's company, and sharing our time with good friends and good music.
     This blog entry was going to be a diatribe about safe driving.  A rant about how to keep from running me off the road on Interstate 81, and the PA Turnpike, during tomorrow's road trip.  However, I find it much more fulfilling to reflect on the time Meg and I have been together.  Time invested in raising our two children, the many wonderful things we've enjoyed doing together, and the good times we plan to continue enjoying for many years to come.
     Happy anniversary Meg!  I love you, and want you to know how much I appreciate that you've made my life so damn interesting, thus far.  It's been exciting, sweetheart.  I can't wait to see what happens next.
   
     

Jimmy Buffett Night at the Drive-In Theater

   Last evening "The Shore" sent the resident pillaging plunderer, Don da Pyrate to the theater.  Yep, I went to a drive-in style movie lot, under the stars.  Sometimes we have to sacrifice, eh?
    Jimmy Buffett's show @ The Drive-In was nothing short of spectacular. The Circle Drive-In in Dickson City, PA was a near perfect venue for the show. They featured a clean and spacious concession stand, sparkling rest rooms, and popcorn and snacks for those who didn't bring enough goodies with them.
     Any regs that may prohibit bringing your own food, alcohol, cooking aparatus, and entertainment, were suspended for the night.
     The large crowd enjoyed Jimmy & the Reefers' performance on the gigantic screen, and the sound was definitely concert quality. I don't know the numbers nationwide, but if the other theaters showing this live show had similar crowds, the total attendence must have been huge. 
     It had all the atmosphere, camaraderie, and outlandish phun of any Buffett show, at a fraction of the price. It also no doubt brought Jimmy close to tens of thousands of fans, who for once, didn't have a need for long distance travel, and/or overnight accommodations. There was no need to carry all your tailgating goodies and cooking paraphernalia hundreds of miles, then throwing away a ton of leftovers. 
     Before the show, there was JB music and tailgate parties everywhere. I've been told that some venues even had live Trop bands playing in the theater lots. The Boat Drunks' Mike Miller was in a Drive-In, and Big Papa & The Escape Key Band was in one in upstate NY. I'm sure many others were playing in the open air last night, as well.
     Da Pyrate believes that live drive-in Buffett shows should become an annual event. It would bring Jimmy & The Coral Reefers to untold thousands who would not normally be able to see them live. The concert was the real thing. The Parrot Head party was the real thing.  Jimmy Buffett Drive-In Night has got to be a win/win for both Buffett and his legion of rabid Parrot Head fanz.

Where The Hell Have I Been? Where Am I Now?

     It's June already.  I look at the "North of Disorder" blog, and I'm stunned to realize that I haven't blogged in over a month.  Really, now? There's simply no excuse for that, and it's time to make amends.
     There has been a whirlwind of "life" in the month of May.  The "Write On The Edge, NY" blog has taken off.  Sure, we don't have as many readers or submissions as we'd like, yet.  The operative word here is, yet.  Our next deadline is in June for a July publication date, and we know that there are more writers and poets submitting than in our first issue which arrived on April 15th.  
     It goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, anyone reading this blog who's like to submit to Write On The Edge, NY, should not hesitate to go to the following Website and get your material in our hands: http://writeontheedgeny.wordpress.com/.
     It's the cusp of the busiest season of the year, for Trop Rock shows and charitable events featuring Trop Rock and Americana music.  The Summer brings events from coast to coast, and the Internet radio station I work on, "The Shore", www.wnyshoreradio.com, is busy as a cat covering waste matter, keeping abreast of all the acts and exciting occurrences in our fairly narrowly focused music genre.
     There is one thing that's true of both Jimmy Buffett's Parrot Head Nation, and the Trop Rock Music Nation.  They share a demographic that consists of some of the most generous people in the world.  It's my experience that there is never a major Trop Rock event that is not for the benefit of charity.  I'm not selling Trop Rock here....well, yes I really am. It's the music of your vacation and summertime party.  If you want a good time with a laid back party atmosphere, attend any Trop Rock show, whether it's a single artist House Concert, or a multiple act regional event.
     I have heard of a man called "The Sauce Boss" for some years.  It's said that he plays the music of the Louisiana delta region, and serves up actual gumbo at his performances.  That's a show I'm going to attend in Johnson City, NY this weekend.  I'm looking forward to that with great anticipation.
     The following weekend, Meg and I are going to Lansdale, PA for a House Concert with not one, but two important Trop Rock acts performing.  We're having a mini vacation, staying overnight in the Philadelphia area, and enjoying music and friends 'til the wee hours.  It's going to be a show to remember, for sure.  I'll definitely blog about both of these upcoming shows after I've experienced them.
     There's so much to share, that I don't even know where to start, so I'm going to end here.  That seems reasonable, to me.  I ask that you check back and see what unfolds during the next two weeks, and throughout the month of June.  I plan to finish up the first half of 2014 with as much fun and excitement as I can stand, and I'll share it all with you.
     I'll be posting one of my recent stories, for your enjoyment, later this week.  Keep an eye out for that, my friends.
     Be sure to leave your comments so I'll know what you're thinking.  Remember, if you like the blog, please tell your friends.  If you don't like it, tell your enemies.  Thank you!
     
     

The Barber's Chair

     “Good morning, Charlie,” the tall stranger said. He hung his baseball cap on the rack by the door as he strode into the tiny one chair barber shop. Two of the three customer seats, along the front window were filled. He took the empty seat. He smiled and nodded toward the barber, who was sweeping up hair clippings around the barber chair. “How's your wild love life coming along?” he asked.

     The barber bent an eye on the newcomer. His name was Pete, and he wondered why the stranger called him Charlie. “What was that, bud?” Pete asked. “Haven't seen you in here before, have we?”

     “Funny, Charlie,” the new arrival laughed. “I was just wondering if everything is good with you and that little blonde you were with last Saturday night? I believe you two were about to head for the nearest 'no-tell'.”

     “Whaaa...what?” Pete the barber sputtered. “Look, pal. My name is Pete. I'm not Charlie, and I don't believe we've ever met. You've mistaken me for somebody else.”

     “Maybe,” The stranger smiled. “But how else would you know my name is Bud?”

     “I call everyone bud if I don't know their name.” Pete said. “You're confusing me.”

     “You didn't seem confused about who you were and what you wanted, Saturday night at Ollie's Oyster Bar & Grill. You seemed pretty focused on the blonde with her hand in your pants,” the grinning stranger said. “Hey, today is Saturday. You guys all going out again tonight?”

     “Knock off the bullshit or I'm gonna throw your ass out of here!” Pete warned. 

      Just then, the stranger's eye caught a flash of red hair. For a brief moment, a pretty face poked out of the door marked OFFICE.  Noticing his wife peeking from the office door, Pete renewed his threat to toss the tall man out.

     “Just knock off the shit, buddy! Bob and Roy here will back me up. They were with me all last Saturday night.”

     The two men waiting for haircuts stared at the stranger with wide eyes and open mouths.

     “Ain't that right, fellas?” Pete pleaded. “Tell 'em, Roy. Tell 'em Bobby.”

     The customer sitting in the chair by the door, said, “What the hell you talkin' about? Pete's name sure as hell ain't Charlie. It's Pete, and he was with me and Bob, like always.”

     “That's right,” the other man chimed in. “Texas Hold-em at my place, every Saturday night. Five years straight.”

     “Sorry, boys,” the stranger said, looking at the man closest to the door. “Roy, isn't it? How about that handsome young guy you were schmoozing up at the Oyster Bar?” The tall man casually scratched his chin and continued. “When you left together, weren't you were slipping out to hook up in the parking lot? Guess that's none of my business. Nothing's wrong with that.”

     “You son of a bitch!” Roy screamed, jumping to his feet. “You calling me queer?” 

     The other customer made a grab for him. Bob snagged Roy by the belt and hauled him back to his chair.

     “Settle down, Roy, this guy's just having a little fun,” Bob said calmly. “We know he's full of shit. No need to go all crazy.”

     The loud exchange among the barber and his patrons, brought the tall red-head out of the office. She stood in front of the three men, hands on her hips, green eyes flashing. Slowly, she turned to the stranger.

     “I don't know who you are, but what you're saying makes a lot of sense,” she said. “So, Pete calls himself Charlie when he goes out with these guys, huh? Every Saturday night he says he's going to Bob's to play poker. If I call his cell, it goes straight to message. When I call Roy's cell, there's never an answer. Same for Bob's. I can never get a hold of Pete 'til he crawls in, half drunk, about sun-up.”

     “Callie, honey,” the barber stammered. “You don't believe this guy, do you? Every Saturday night, the three of us do play poker at Bob's.” Tell her boys.

     “He's tellin' you the truth.” Bob offered. “We shut off the phones, so our boys' night don't get interrupted.”

     “Hey, I'm sorry fellas,” the stranger said. “I didn't mean to make any trouble for you guys. I didn't know it was so secret.” He shook his head slowly. “I only met you guys that one time.”

     The newcomer looked down at the barber shop floor. He seemed deep in thought.

     “Just one question, Bobby,” he continued. “Is that zaftig little brunette you were with your wife, or is she a secret too?” The stranger winked. “I noticed you had your hand on her ass all night.”

     Now, it was Bob who sprang from his chair. His face was livid, his mouth twisted in an angry snarl. “You son of a bitch! My wife was home Saturday night. And, you got a hell of a nerve calling her fat!” Bob's hot temper flared and he lost it. He lunged toward the stranger, flailing with both fists, hitting only air.

     Callie Postall stepped between Bob and the talkative stranger. She was the tallest, fittest, and strongest person in the shop. When the puny Bob moved to clobber the stranger, Callie stopped him in mid lunge. She flung him backwards, his feet off the floor.

     Bob landed like a rag doll, back in his seat. The old chair splintered on impact. Bob kept falling until he was on his back on the floor. He quickly scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was a White Knight. A man bent on defending his beloved wife's honor. However, he was slightly dizzy, and lost his balance. He crashed once again landing in the pile of splinters that had recently been a chair.

     The chair was kindling, but one broken leg was sticking straight up in the air. Unluckily for Bob, his butt landed dead center on that leg. He shrieked with pain, and struggled to his feet. In a frenzy and still screaming, he ran to the door at full speed. He reached for the knob. He missed it. The door didn't open. He couldn't stop. Bob crashed through the door's plate glass window and landed face first in the shards of broken glass on the sidewalk.

     In pain and disoriented, Bob regained his feet. He was bleeding from his hands, face, and ass. That's when the instinctive “fight or flight response” took over. Bob chose flight. With the chair leg sticking through the hole it had made in his shorts wagging like a dog's tail, Bob sped down the street wailing at the top of his lungs.

     He flew past an old wino sitting at the bus stop. As Bob passed, the derelict saluted with his brown bag. “Mornin' Bobby,” he mumbled. “What's your hurry?”

     Back at the barber shop, Callie was glaring at her husband and his friend. “Don't worry,” she snapped. “ Bob will be fine.  That's what he gets for being part of your lying, cheating scheme.”

     Roy and Pete were speechless. Their faces were blank. They looked past Callie, at the stranger standing behind her. They saw the crooked grin on his face.

     “Wipe those stupid looks off your faces!” Callie shrieked. “I'm going to divorce you, Peter Postall! As for you Roy, before I call my lawyer, I'm calling your wife. Regina has been looking for an excuse to kick your ass out, for years. I'm sure you and your 'boy toy' will be very happy. Looks like you and Pete both screwed.”

     “But Callie,” Roy whined. “I love Regina more than life itself! Please don't tell her these lies. I work twelve hours a day, six days a week, just to give her everything she wants.”

     “Don't make me laugh, Roy. All Regina ever wanted was your attention, but all you do is work. Your gardener, who by the way is screwing you, is screwing her too.”

     “It looks like trying to cheat the IRS just bit you on the ass, Peter. Signing everything over to me, wasn't such a great idea after all, was it?” Callie became calm. She turned on her heel and headed for the office. “All of you get the hell out of my barbershop!”

     A deathly silence settled over the little shop. There was nothing left to say.

     The tall stranger slowly ambled to the rack and retrieved his cap. He turned and smiled at Pete the barber. “Well,” he said. “I guess I won't be getting a haircut today.”

     The stranger walked out through the shattered door, onto the street. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cell phone and hit speed dial number one. The call was answered almost immediately.

     “Mr. Serling, you were right,” he grinned. “It went just like you said it would.”

                                                T H E   E N D

Author's note: All characters and events portrayed, are fictional.  This story is the product of the twisted mind of Don Winfield. If you like this story, please tell your friends to subscribe to this blog. Thank you.

Moishe's Legacy (From the tales of "Hiding in Plain View")

Prelude:

     Billy the horny antiques hanger-on, and sometimes transporter, would never know that his uncontrolled sexual appetites would forever change the lives of two petty miscreants and an honest antiques dealer.  By the time antique dealer Moishe Sterlingstein had an unfortunate meeting with a bear in the backwoods of Northern Maine, two brothers had been living off his legacy for nearly a decade. Neither Billy nor Mo knew, that in a fortune lurked within a well packed box hidden inside a purloined van.

Moishe's Legacy:  

     Milo and Jim Bob Bolton were not quite smug.  That would come later. They were extremely relieved, but not yet smug.  They were marveling at their good luck in escaping the Winona, Missouri cops and then acquiring a first class ride nobody was looking for.  They'd been able to abandon their stolen Camry in a truck stop, and get a legitimate ride.  For the first time in 6 months, their car was not on any law enforcement Hot Sheet.  For the moment, the Bolton boys didn't need to keep one eye in the mirror, scanning for cops. They kept looking back anyway, but it was purely out of habit and to keep their heat sensors fine tuned.
                                                    * * * * *
    They'd driven a “borrowed” Camry into a truck stop on I-60 to grab a grease burger and fries.  Just a quick bite to tide them over while they put more space between themselves and Winona.  When the stranger started walking toward them, they wanted to jump back in the Toyota and burn rubber out of the truck stop.  But the Camry's tank was about empty, so they reconsidered bolting long enough to hear what the man had to say.  He said his name was Billy.   He was dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a pink short sleeve shirt with palm trees all over it.  He definitely didn't look like a cop.  It turned out Billy was a kindred spirit who had an appealing offer for the Boltons.
     Billy was basically an antiques thief.  He was transporting a van load of goods belonging to a man named Moishe Sterlingstein, an antiques entrepreneur from Plain View, NY.  Although the Chevy van and it's valuable load of antiques didn't belong to Billy, he offered to sell it to them for $200.00.  He'd just tell Mo they were stolen while he ate lunch.  He'd later say he didn't call the cops because he wasn't sure that Mo had acquired the treasures legally.  As he talked he fidgeted and ran his fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair.  He glanced nervously toward a young woman in a tight pair of Daisy Dukes, that was leaning against a small Winnebago.  It was clear he desperately wanted to romance the lady.  However, she drove a hard bargain, and Billy had to come up with a hundred bucks to get his bells rung in her rolling fun house.
                                                    * * * * *
     The Bolton twins were on the run.  Shortly after noon that day, they had  escaped from local cops in Winona, MO, where they’d been arrested for robbing a hot dog cart.  The cart had been parked outside of a lumber mill, and the Boltons hit it just after the lunch time rush.  They were caught with the entire $166.75, which was suspiciously, still in the tube steak seller's cigar box.  They were coincidentally, driving a rusty 1979 Ford Bronco they liberated from the mill parking lot.  Milo and Jim Bob Bolton were ready to deal.          
      The boys were no scientists, but hard earned street smarts told them this was good.  The two recent escapees had a couple of pressing needs. One:  They needed money.  All they had was the $166.75 in the sausage vendor's cigar box. Two:  They needed a ride.  One that was not starring on a regional police BOLO.
     They'd still need gas money, so the Boltons offered Billy $100.00.  The antiques thief grabbed the wad of ones and quickly followed the truck stop hooker into her tiny trailer.
                                                  * * * * *
     Around two o'clock, Frannie and Johnnie, two of Winona, Misouri's finest, had pulled the Bolton twins over on I-60.  They identified the boys as the hot dog stand thieves from the recent BOLO, but the amourous cops had misplaced their last set of handcuffs.  Frannie thought they'd left the cuffs attached to the four poster bed in the motel room where they'd spent the first hour of their shift.  They'd have to wait to buy a replacement set, but it was almost a week until payday.
     While the cops were waiting for last night’s crop of drunks to be removed from Winona's only cell, fate intervened.
     The Bolton boys had been nervously sweating by the front desk, waiting to be locked up, when a passing tourist lost control of his pick-up and crashed into the corner of the police station.  The tourist, a fugitive pedophile from Ohio, decided to run rather than be caught.  He threw his Dodge Ram into reverse and smoked the tires all the way to the intersection of Main and First Streets.  He was doing thirty-two mph backward,  his tires screaming, when he t-boned a loaded eighteen-wheeler loaded with freshly cut logs.
     The big four door pick-up flipped and landed on it's top against Ferris’ Drug Store’s curbside flower box.  The box splintered but the poppies and azaleas were unscathed.  The noisy crash scared Frannie and Johnnie who dived for cover under the station’s front desk.
     When they finally crawled out, guns drawn, they forgot about the Bolton boys and ran, pistols waving in the air, up Main toward First.  When they saw it was only a wreck they slowed down and reluctantly strolled to the inverted  pickup.  The Ohio sex offender was hanging from his seat belts, gurgling like a plugged up drain and begging to be cut loose.  Johnnie took his hunting knife out of it's sheath and sliced the belts.  The pervert fell three feet to the top of the upside-down cab, landing on his head.  The weight of his obese body broke his pudgy neck.  He died instantly.
     The Bolton brothers' cumulative IQ almost equaled their totaled ages, but a lifetime of criminal activity had taught them to seize an opportunity if they tripped over it.  Jim Bob scooped the cigar box full of evidence off the police station’s front desk, tucked it under his arm, and ran.
     The love-struck Keystone cops had left the stolen Bronco running in the street.  It was still at the curb.  Milo jumped behind the wheel and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.  The Boltons were free again and headed east on I-60.
     The forgotten felons, were hungry.  A mile up I-60 they stopped at a 7-Eleven and stole a twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, two large packages of string cheese, and a party size bag of beef jerky.  Lunch.
     They cruised up I-60, singing along with a Warren Zevon song playing on the squeaking cassette player.  Blue Ribbon's tabs were popped, and they let the Bronco have it's head.  “Ra hoo!  Werewolves of London.  Ra hoo!”  The Bolton boys were free and running, with a cold twelve-pack of Pabst between them.  They though that life couldn't possibly get any better.
      At a KOA parking lot fifteen miles east of Winona, they traded the conspicous old Bronco for an 'invisible' beige Toyota Camry.  As the owner napped in her tent, they motored off in their new ride.
     Driving what may be the most inconspicuous car on earth, they were unnoticed as they headed East toward their fortune.  As they drove and drank, they contemplated their pathetic life of crime.  The boys realized that they had driven with with one eye in the mirror, most of their lives.  That's when the Boltons decided it was time to go straight.      
     Enough of this running from the law, they thought.  Firm believers in fate, the brothers began believing that something good was sure to land in their laps.  They were certain they'd soon be making a better life for themselves.  Jim Bob and Milo Bolton steadily progressed all the way to Exit 20 on I-95 near Lumberton, NC.  Indeed, as fate would have it, at the truck stop at Exit 20, their lives suddenly took a very fortunate turn.
                                                   * * * * *
     The Boltons pulled into the nameless truck stop.  They planned to get some food and maybe steal another car.  They had just parked the Camry, when they met Billy.  He casually strolled up to them with his strange proposition.  They were more than happy to give Billy $100.00 for the keys to the blue van filled with Moishe Sterlingstein's antiques.  They couldn’t believe their good fortune. They left the keys in the Camry and never looked back.
                                                   * * * * *
     Their newly acquired antiques inspired the boys.  They were sure they could go straight now.  By the time they’d reached Richmond their plan was loosely assembled.  Brothers Jim Bob and Milo were now Jon and Marc.  Who would think that the two crooked bubbas were a gay couple looking for a storefront to set up an antiques shop.  They knew nothing about antiques but both were thinking, how hard can it be?
                                                   * * * * *
       Shortly after arriving in Richmond, VA, they found a place that would do, in the peaceful western suburbs.  That's where Jon and Marc met a man named George Turnbull in an antiques shop.  They traded an old vase from the van, for twelve months rent in advance.  Now they had a well lighted, clean storefront with an apartment in the back.  They could live in the apartment while growing their business, and keep a close eye on their investment.
      George Turnbull was a shop owner and antiques expert.  He didn't ask questions when asked to appraise their merchandise for them.  That's when he made the discovery of his life.  Hiding his excitement, their new friend was grateful for the Boltons' ignorance and kept his cool.
      Unfortunately for the boys, they could have done better if they'd known more about antiques.  After a quick glance at the priceless Ming vase, George would have gladly thrown in the two story Victorian home he lived in, to close the deal.
George didn't care about giving away the store and house.  He'd already decided that after a year, he'd give John and Marc the deed and they'd own it free and clear.   George was sure they'd stolen the load of antiques, but knew it would be best for him to say nothing.  To show his gratitude to the gormless Jon and Marc he kept their deal and their ignorance of antiques a secret.
     He'd soon sell the vase, out of the country, and buy a one way ticket to some tropical paradise.  Retiring at age forty-four was better than he'd ever dreamed life could get.
                                                    * * * * *
      Eighteen months after George Turnbull gave away his shop, he was walking on the beach at St. Barths in the Caribbean.
      Two neatly groomed beach boys strolled along the white sand  beach.  Gulls swooped into the calm blue ocean, dining on tropical fish while tourists swinging in hammocks were sipping fruity drinks under palm trees.  The retired antiques dealer from Richmond, VA, was walking in the opposite direction.   He stopped in front of the two young men and stuck out his hand.
     “Well, I'll be damned!  Jon and Marc!  What a pleasant surprise!  What the hell are you guys doing here?”
     “George!  How are you doing?  We live here now," Jon said.  "We bought a couple of houses about a mile up the beach."
     “What happened to the Antique Boutique?”  George asked with a cautious tone.
     “Interesting story.”  Marc chimed in.  “Some guy from upstate New York came by one day about six months ago.  He asked if he could sort through some of the junk you left in the storage room.”
     “We figured hell, maybe he'd give us a few bucks for some of it and we wouldn't have to throw it out,”  Jon grinned.
     “Good luck with that junk,” George grinned.  “I felt bad sticking you guys that useless crap.”
     “Well, he must have been a real fool,”  Marc chortled.  “He came out of the back all pale and sheepish looking.  He made us an offer for the store on the spot, merchandise and all”
     “Yeah, George,”  Jon said.  “He offered us a million and a half for the whole shootin' match.  We figured he might go more, so we upped the price.  When he hit two million, we decided it was time to sell and find some place warm to live.”
     “I can't figure what he saw in that back storage area that would make him do that,” said George with a thoughtful stare.  “I only left some old brass engravings and a couple of cracked earthen pots.  Oh yeah, there was an old Pirate sword in there, but it was a worthless fake.”
     “Well,” Marc laughed.  “There was something in there he wanted bad.  We're just glad that old Mo Sterlingstein came along.  We're not really gay, ya know. Livin' that life was hard.  By the time he came by, neither of us had been out with a girl for over a year!”
     That left more questions than answers in George's mind, but he nodded knowingly.  As he strolled off down the beach, his mind was racing. Something in my storage room was worth over two million?  What the hell could that have been?

                                                  The End?

NOTE:  This work of fiction is purely an invention of Don Winfield.  No person, living or dead, is represented or alluded to.  If you enjoyed this short story of mysterious adventures in the world of antiques, please look for "Hiding in Plain View", on Amazon Books in the Fall of 2014.  

A Personal Milestone

     Last Tuesday marked a day I've been hoping for, for quite awhile.  Not an active, "get up every morning, look to the East and pray" kind of hope, but a small ember burning dimly in a hidden cave of my consciousness.
     Tuesday, a few friends invited me to join them in forming and maintaining, a writers' forum style, on-line publication.  It was hatched in the rapier sharp mind of a young writer named Heather Tinker.  She contacted three of her writer friends, one of whom I am lucky enough to be.  Long time newspaper man and author, Keith George, got the call along with accomplished photographer and writer, Dave Elder. We'd previously been in a writing group together, and Heather chose us, perhaps because she couldn't think of anyone else foolish enough to bite into such an undertaking.
     As I headed out to the first gathering, I didn't know know who would be included. However, I knew that there is another writer that I always want involved in any project of this stature that I'm connected to.  She's a superb writer and coincidentally, my daughter Heather Humphrey.  I hog-tied her and dragged her the WOTENY organizational meeting at Barns & Noble in Vestal, NY.
     It's become obvious from the short meeting, and the follow-up details we've been following up on, that the two Heathers are going to be the driving forces of our fledgling publication.
     I invite you kind people who follow Somewhat North of Disorder, and my Twitter account, to join me and my co-conspirators as we embark upon this journey into on-line entertainment and enlightenment.
     You can find Write On The Edge NY, at: www.writeontheedgeny.wordpress.com, and on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/writeontheedgeny

     Thank you, and write on!

HAPPY NEW YEAR - 2014

     Everybody already knows that this week, 2013 is ending and 2014 is beginning. Since there's nothing newsworthy there, let's just think about it a bit.

On the international level this year, there was the continuing wars, pestilence, starvation, and misery in all nations, 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd, world. 

     Even here in the USA, there's unspeakable misery in so many areas, it's no longer news. In the US, our supposed leaders nearly brought us to our knees for the umpteenth time in a very short while. It didn't seem that they were even slightly looking out for us, the people who pay them to be sure all is well in our government and nation.

      As every year, people were cruel and inhuman to one another, and cruel and inhumane to their animals. I don't see a lessening of those behaviors, and definitely no end in sight.

      The preachers preach, the politicians expound, and nothing really changes in the way too damn many humans respect nothing outside of themselves. They don't even respect themselves.

      It's time for a change. It's been that time for years. “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step”, said Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu. It's up to each of us to take the first step toward changing the world. To affect that change, we must start here and now.

      How does an individual make any difference? An easy question with what must be a complex answer.

Not so complex, maybe. I'm not going to tell you it's an easy thing to do. It may mean stepping outside of your own comfort zone, and changing some of your own ways. It may even mean nudging people you know, and perhaps some strangers, to do the right thing.

      Sure, I or anyone else can suggest this to you. It doesn't matter an iota, what we say. It must, and can, only come from within. Even if you don't normally make a New Years resolution, each of us has to resolve to be kinder to everyone we encounter. We have to be determined to help our 'brothers and sisters' whomever they are, if they need a hand. We must immediately learn tolerance of differences and traits we've previously been unable to condone. We must not attempt to force our ideals and morals on others. Mostly, we have to learn to, and strive to, live our lives according to the one simple rule we all learned as children: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”.

      Wouldn't it be a so much better world if we all did that?

      Please join me in reinstating that ancient adage, and let's try our best to live it on a daily basis.

If you see me straying from that philosophy, feel free to remind me.

      Now, as the calendar changes years, I'd like you to join me in wishing everyone in your life, as far as you can reach, a very HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The Truth About Rudolph

By:  Don "da Pyrate" Winfield

My wife says I'm crazy. She should probably know. She spent her whole career in the mental health field. This time though, I'm pretty sure she's wrong. I guess she had to think something was wrong with me, however. She couldn't figure out why I spent so much time researching the origin of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.

Sure, I may be crazy, but I have uncovered the true story. With time, stories usually become different from the original, and often meander away from the truth. Lines spoken and not recorded can change completely in context and meaning from what was actually said. Such is the true story of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

The century was one in the higher end of the single digits, so it was a very long time ago. Before it was called St Petersburg, Novgorad was a thriving city in a vast cold land we now know as Russia. Winters there are always harsh but the winter that year was especially cold and brutal. In fact, it looked as though there would be no Christmas in Novgorad that year because of the extreme frigid weather. Everyone knew it was just too cold for Santa and his reindeer to fly.

All the children of Novgorad were very sad, but because it was so cold, they couldn't cry. If they cried, their tears would freeze on their faces. The icy tears would build up in layers, until the children became encased in giant ice cubes. That was unacceptable, because then they could no longer go to school, or do their household chores. It was truly a hard winter in Novgorad, with the cold temperatures causing the prospect of there being no visit from Father Christmas. Of course in Russia he was known as Ded Moroz. Pronounced properly, it isn't as bad as it seems. It means the same thing as Santa Claus, and he has the same red suit and long white beard.

Since it was so cold and with a strong likelihood that they would receive no Christmas presents that year, the dry eyed children of Novgorad just shivered in their cold little houses, looking sad and pathetic. That's how it was all over town including the home of Rudolph and Natasha Ivanov and their five children. Natasha was brewing up hot drinks and baking delicious wood fire cookies, trying to cheer up the Ivanov brood. Rudolph sadly shook his head. It wasn't working.

Rudy knew you couldn't cure the heartbreak of no Ded Moroz with tepid gruel and tasteless flat bread.

The science of meteorology was in it's infancy in the ninth century. Alright, you got me. In the 800s, nobody had a clue about scientific weather prognostication. It was a little before there were Meteorologists. Most everybody just looked outside and said, “yep, it's snowing.” Or maybe it wouldn't be snowing, so they'd say, “nope, it's not snowing,” However, young Novgoradian Rudolph Ivanov, took a more critical look at the situation.

Rudy (his buds down at the local pub called him Rudy) would look outside and see what the weather was like, then write it down in his journal. After 9 years of note taking, Rudy thought he could see a pattern. He eventually realized that if it was winter in Russia, it was probably going to be cold, and it was also likely that it would snow. He also noted that in Winter if it wasn't all that cold, it might rain instead of snow. He could even predict that if it was getting warmer in the evening, it might rain overnight. He also noted that rainy days in Winter were usually foggy, but that doesn't matter in this story. This led the quick minded Rudy to think he could extrapolate the data from previous Winters' notes, to predict what the weather would be tomorrow, by what it was like today. Yep. Sort of like an early Farmers Almanac.

It was the day before Christmas, 849 AD. We'll call it December 24th, but nobody seems sure when they actually celebrated Christmas way back then. Anyway, Rudy went outside early that evening. He looked skyward and predicted that Ded Moroz would be making his run as scheduled. Strangely, he was the only person in Novgorad who thought Ded Moroz as going to make it. Soon, the word was all over Novgorad that Rudy the weatherman had finally gone totally off his nut.

“He's coming, Natasha,” Rudy said. “It'll be warm enough for Ded Moroz's sleigh to fly.”

“No way!” said Natasha.

“Way,” said Rudy.

“No way,” said his good neighbor Boris.

“Way,” said Rudolph. “You'll see. It's going to be warmer. In fact, it's going to rain. He'll be wearing a slicker, but Ded Moroz will come tonight.”

Boris just rubbed his neck, shook his head, and walked back to the pub. “That Rudy's is crazier than a no legged cat trying to kick a flea,” he mumbled.

Christmas morning, when the good people of Novgorad looked out their windows, they were amazed to see rain dripping from their eves. There were familiar hoof and sleigh tracks in their slush covered yards.

The children cried tears of joy. Really. They didn't freeze on their faces! In the living room of every little house there stood a fresh, gaily decorated tree. Every tree was surrounded by piles of presents. Against every prediction, all the children of Novgorad had a very “Happy Christmas”.

Overjoyed, Natasha ran to Rudy, threw her arms around him and kissed him in delight. “Rudy, how did you do it? How could you ever have kept up such optimism? It's been below zero for the last eight weeks. What made you think you could predict warmer weather for Christmas Eve?”

“Well,” Rudy grinned and uttered the words that have been misinterpreted for all these centuries. “Natasha, you of all people should certainly know. Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.”

Over the years, that famous line became misconstrued to refer to the antlered animals who pull Ded Moroz's sleigh. Eleven hundred years later, a singing American cowboy would sing a song about it, making the fictitious red nosed reindeer, a Christmas hero.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

DNA - How Much Do We Really Want to Know?

     The morning news was a cut above it's general predictability this morning, by the appearance of Anne Wojcicki.  She is the CEO of "23 & Me", a genetic testing company who'll do your DNA profile for $99.00. 
     It's name comes from the fact that there are 23 chromosomes which make up the human DNA system.  Inside of these markers, and within their arrangement, combinations, and presence, lie the story of our lives.  They are unique because these story tellers can apparently foretell the future.  
     While our DNA determines our eye color, height, and many other common life directions, it also maps our propensity for obesity, diabetes, Alzheimer, and literally hundreds of other life guiding/altering conditions.  Scientists claim that your entire life, and even your ultimate cause of death, can be predicted by having a clear knowledge of your DNA.
     Would you kike to know what future diseases you can look forward to having throughout your life, and even what may bring your life to an end? 
     The test is only $99.00, which is not a huge amount in today's economy. Almost anyone with a job could realistically afford to have the road map of their life delivered in their mailbox.  
     My questions are:  1.) For this, or any price, would you want to know what the future brings, health-wise   2.)  If the news were bad, ie: if cancer, Alzheimer's,  diabetes, or some other potentially life ending malady were in your future, what would you do?
     Realistically, there are likely millions of people who may wish to know these things.  But how many are unable to handle the worst case scenarios. Would knowing where your health is heading, be something that you possibly couldn't handle?  What if thousands of perfectly healthy people get their DNA results, and become depressed about their predicted future? Could this information cause them to end their productive lives prematurely?  If you got bad news, would you take it as indisputable fact? What would you do?

     I'm very interested in what you think.  Please respond to this posting with your opinions, and answers to the questions I've thrown at you.  I will not publish the names of any respondents.

     
      

"Oh Sweet Lorraine"

     Nearly 4 million people have watched this video on YouTube.   96 year Fred Stoubaugh wrote a song for his recently deceased wife of 75 years.  Fred doesn't write music or sing, but he sent the lyrics to a recording studio's song contest, anyway.  Green Shoe Studio, & Jacob Colgan put music to the lyrics and recorded it.  
     It's a beautiful song, you'll enjoy.  Purchasing a copy of it from iTunes for $.99 will support Fred Stoubaugh.


View the video: 
http://youtu.be/KDi4hBWsvkY

iTunes link:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/oh-sweet-lorraine-feat.-jacob/id676472051