A Goomba Tune Playing Widget! - Young Rebel Goombas's MySpace Blog |

A Goomba Tune Playing Widget! - Young Rebel Goombas's MySpace Blog |

Bob The Elf (and the missing button)

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From a thousand feet above it looked like a shimmering jewel glistening in the noontime sun. It caught Ralph’s eye so he dived in for a closer look. Ralph was an outcast in the crow community. He never preened, wouldn’t eat carrion, and had a few curiously stray feathers on the very top of his head. Today, alone as usual, he’d been following I-95 looking for something to eat or pique his interest. He was busy picking up shiny objects and passing time until someone threw the last bite of a burger or some fries out of a car window. Ralph tried to not let his estrangement from the flock bother him. He knew he was as good as any other crow, and suspected he was a lot smarter. “What’s with that eating nasty road kill?” he thought.

Ralph zeroed in on the shiny object, and as he floated nearer he realized it was under the mesh of a storm grate. He landed on the grate and immediately found that the shiny article was a few inches out of his beak’s reach. Ralph cocked his head to one side and gave the gold button a closer look. “That looks like an engraving of Earth with a Christmas tree on it,” he mused. “I wonder where that came from?”

*

In a chilly workshop six thousand miles north, a diminutive, fresh faced, and very worried little fellow in a green suit and pointy red hat, rubbed his neck and kept repeating, “oh me, oh me, oh me.” Bob, a very minor cog in Santa’s multi gear network of elves, had made a new discovery. Bob couldn’t decide if he should run and tell his supervisor, the red haired and volatile Petunia Elfson, what he’d just learned. The big sleigh was scheduled to roll out and fly away in fifty-nine minutes, and suddenly everything had gone wrong.

Yesterday, December 23^rd, a frantic e-mail arrived from a gynormous toy factory in Taiwan, bringing the worst possible news to the North Pole. Every single Wobbleezer Action Figure had to be pulled in. The recall was urgent and all-inclusive. Toy testers in a rural Irish village had easily disassembled a Wobbleezer and eaten 13 pieces. Both four year olds were being closely observed, and the tiny parts were expected to pass within a day or so. Nonetheless, danger lurked in every Wobbleezer, and they all had to go back to Taiwan for modification. Bob knew that this meant they’d all be scrapped at the toy stores where they were sold and replacements would be rushed out from the factory. This time of year, a rush shipment took about five weeks. That would be about five weeks too late for Christmas.

Although Bob was worried he took this news fairly well. After all toy procurement was Horner’s job. Horner was an elderly elf that’d seen over 200 years of evolution in Santa’s Workshop procedures. Horner could remember when he and 10,000 other little people labored all year long to make enough wood and metal toys for all the children of the world. Due mainly to computerization over the past couple of decades, various cutbacks and downsizing had reduced Santa’s workforce to sixteen harried, nervous, and overworked elves. Each of the sixteen had very specific jobs, and none overlapped. Days were long and stressful, but Horner was at the top of his game.

Elves don’t get sick and the last injury was when Mrs. Claus accidentally sat on Moe way back in 1934. She was distracted by news of the escalating war in Europe and very worried about the children there. While parking her oversized posterior in a loveseat near the radio, she failed to notice Moe who was napping before his shift. Poor Moe suffered a cracked ulna and sat out four weeks of work in late October.

Horner had happily stepped up and was feverishly making arrangements to get new toys to replace the defective Wobbleezers. Old Santa was in his usual laid back state with wisps of smoke encircling his head and a smile on his cheery round face. Nothing seemed to bother the man in the red suit, as long as that pipe was lit and smoke kept filling the air.

Bob was currently worried about the sleigh recall. A small company in India had bought out the failing Japanese carriage maker who had produced Santa’s Sleigh since the early sixties. That’s when Toyota and the rest of the Japanese manufacturers took over the auto industry. The sleigh makers just got sucked into the vortex. Now, at 11:01 PM on Christmas Eve, an urgent phone call from India had thrown a major monkey wrench into the works. Santa’s one and only sleigh absolutely could not fly tonight. The flaw which Iranian testers found in its construction was terminal. The Quality Control Manager at Happy Sleigh Works in Scalpur, stated point blank that even one attempt at landing on a rooftop would certainly kill Santa and probably many innocent Christmas celebrants. Santa was grounded.

“Oh me, oh me, oh me,” Bob repeated. “What ever will we do? Santa surely must make his appointed rounds.” It seems that elves frequently talk like that.

As Bob was thinking there was no solution in sight, Petunia saw him standing in the workshop with his forlorn face hanging low. “Bob, you must go fetch Santa’s red outfit. We need to get him suited up, no matter what,” she shouted. “Christmas has been happening for 2008 consecutive years, and it won’t be stopped by a couple of silly little glitches,” Bob took off like a rocket for the climate-controlled closet where the internationally famous red suit was kept. With great care, he pulled it off the rack. The hand hewn wooden hanger always seemed to keep the suit perfectly straight and ready for action. “That’s strange,” Bob thought to himself. “Why would it have been hung up with one button left undone?”

“Oh me, oh me, oh me!” Bob wailed. “This is the worst possible thing that could have happened!” His fingers trembled as he held Santa’s splendid red suit up to the light for closer inspection. There was no doubt about it. There were only seven buttons. The eighth gold button was missing!

Hearing Bob’s exclamation, Petunia dashed into the huge closet with a worried look on her chubby pink face. “Whatever is the trouble, Bob?” Quickly seeing the problem, she cried out “Oh my stars! The gold button is missing!”

The two elves were stunned. They just stood there in the humidor staring at Santa’s one and only red outfit in total disbelief. How could this have happened? Every precaution is always taken. Nobody ever touches The Suit until it’s time for Santa to go out on Christmas Eve. A thorough search of the obviously empty closet was complete in less than ten seconds. The red Santa Claus Suit is the only thing ever kept in the climate-controlled room, and the floors and walls are kept immaculately clean to avoid contamination of the two thousand and nine year old garment. The button truly was missing.

Bob didn’t know that Petunia was the only living being who knew the importance of the missing gold button. Without that button, there would be no Christmas presents for millions of children and adults around the globe. It did the usual things that buttons do like fastening Santa’s big red pants to the coat so they could not slip down when he’s exiting chimneys. However, the same button that kept Santa’s coat closed to protect him from the cold temperatures of a winter night did something else that only Petunia knew.

The missing button was most important. It was the Magic Button! It was the talisman that made Santa’s big night possible. That single button had the magical power to carry Mr. Claus around the world in only one night, bringing Christmas presents to over 2.1 billion Christians and countless others who believe in Santa Claus.

*

In a Christmas Palm in south Florida, Ralph the finicky crow was roosting atop his latest prized possession. It had taken Ralph much time and great patience to finally get his beak on the shiny object he’d spotted in the storm drain. Shiny things were his weakness and near downfall. Many times Ralph had barely escaped being electrocuted while landing on wires to inspect something he’d seen reflecting the bright Florida sun. He’d spent a split second too long sitting in the center of the fast lane trying to pry some glistening bit of this or that out of the melted tar on I-95, on several occasions. It’s hard to judge the speed and closing rate of an 18-wheeler when you're fixated on a bauble.

Hundreds of short trips from the saw grass to the drain grate had done the trick. Slowly, Ralph had put enough grass in the grate so that a maintenance crew making a routine drain inspection had to pull the grate to clean it out. Ralph watched patiently perched high in a nearby palm, waiting for the right moment. The second the workers paused for a quick water break, Ralph swooped down from his branch. In a flash he grabbed the button and minutes later Ralph was admiring his latest prize in his Christmas Palm’s cozy nest.

*

The clock in Santa’s ‘ready room’ was moving at breakneck speed. The last 49 minutes had passed in what seemed like 49 seconds. At 11:50 PM the alarm bell on the tall overhead doors leading into the workshop storage area sounded. The doors slowly opened. Outside there was a line of tractor-trailers loaded with over a billion Wobbleezer replacements. These were labeled “Wabbleezers” but the subtle difference in spelling would not be noticed by the fevered recipients. The children of the world would be very pleased to have the safer and longer lasting knock off manufactured in Akron, Ohio. North Pole magic prevailed, and in a flash, all were wrapped and stowed in the faulty sleigh. Nobody told him of the recall and it looked like the clueless Santa would soon be airborne in his dangerous toy filled sled.

Bob’s fingers were bleeding. He’d chewed his nails beyond the quick and was still gnawing like a beaver building a dam. His nervousness did not escape the alert eyes of Petunia and Horner. They couldn’t do anything to make Bob feel better about the things he was sure were happening all around him. He knew the sleigh was dangerous and may harm Santa and many innocent people. He knew that the missing button was important, but not the degree to which it was necessary. Horner didn’t know the button was missing, but he’d seen the sleigh recall. He knew, though, that Petunia would never put Santa or children at risk, so he was just calmly waiting to see what would happen.

Bob once again glanced quickly at the clock. 11:59 PM. Santa laughed a jolly “Ho, ho, ho,” as he bounded out of the green room and jumped into his waiting sleigh. Eight tiny reindeer snorted and pawed at the concrete floor of the warehouse, waiting for the doors to open and let them fly. Santa grabbed a handful of reins and started calling each reindeer by name.

In South Florida, a black crow with a red splash of color on the top of his head was suddenly thrown high into the air above his Christmas Palm nest. Disoriented, he flipped over and over barely got his wings spread in time to avoid a crushing beak first head plant in the sand. As the stunned Ralph glided to the ground under his palm tree, he wondered what had blasted him out of his tree so violently. Finally gathering his senses Ralph flew back to check the damage to his nest. The nest was fine but his prized gold button was gone.

*

From a secret village near the North Pole, a jolly old man, eight tiny reindeer, and a very sturdy sleigh rose into the starlit Alaskan night. The jolly old elf was toasty warm in his heavy red suit. His pants were secure, and all eight buttons of his coat were intact. The missing button had miraculously reappeared at the stroke of midnight, its magic automatically making everything perfect for Santa’s big trip.

*

The elf named Bob breathed a huge sigh of relief. Bob and Petunia smiled as the sleigh disappeared from sight. All the children of the world would get their presents again this Christmas just as they had for the last two hundred years.

Copyrighted 2009, D. J. Winfield

New Year Next. New Face NOW!

I have decided to change the template of this blog to give it a completely different look than my other blog. This one is dedicated to my personal life, likes, bitches, pleasures, travels, and the occasional story. The other one is more oriented to Pirates of the Susquehanna, Parrot Head Club discussions, news, and verbal meanderings.
I think my readers will enjoy the change and find it easier to differentiate between the two forums. As always, I welcome all the readers I can get. Please tell others about this URL if you think anything you read here will amuse or interest them. I'm following this entry with the only Christmas story I've ever written. Its about an elf named Bob. Its brand new and, I'm sure, original. I hope it will entertain you and encourage you to share the blog to your friends and enemies. Sending it to your enemies will really piss them off, so just do it! There's another 'first'. I've added some graphics to the text in the Christmas story. I hope they show up as expected and add something to the storyline.
I solicit and welcome your comments. Please use this blog to respond to anything you see. I promise to post every response, positive, negative, or profane.
Thank you for sticking with me in 2009, and let's all wish for a more prosperous, prolific, and exciting 2010.
MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU AND YOURS!!!!

Beware! May Offend the Religious Among you!!!

This morning I did something I would generally not do. I read Bill O'Reilly's column in the Sunday paper. If you're unfamiliar with O'Reilly, not to worry. You haven't missed anything worthwhile. He's a lucky huckster of verbiage, in the same vein as Barnum, Madoff, and other con men who instinctively sense what the targeted audience wants to hear and has the boldness, ability, and ego to push ahead with their schemes.
Apparently Billy or one of his staff saw a bus with a sign paid for by some Atheist movement. That sign advocated that religion be taken out of the Holiday celebrations which occurr this time each year. That's their right, just as it's the right of the religious to celebrate these holidays in their preferred manner.
Religion is always dangerous ground for anyone to tread. If you're not a religious leader or a believer in a flock, it's been deemed out of bounds for discussion. If you question the existence of an omnipotent entity you are an outcast to probably 75% of the people you know. If you fall into line and profess your belief in the same entity, you're a good guy and only about 5% of the people who know your feelings are against you. This shows that, for some reason it's fine to be convinced that some unprovable but commonly held belief is fact. It's far less acceptable to demonstrate an ability to analyze the situation and be waiting for more evidence in either direction before you take a side. I won't say where I stand on the issue, but I'll say that whenever I've asked questions about religion outside of the Philosophy classroom, I've been derided. Questions should not be misjudged and misinterpreted as a negative disposition toward any point of view. People should simply be glad that someone cares enough about an issue to ask questions about it.
With all the problems that clerics of various faiths have had over the milleniums, and all the horrible crimes so many have propagated against so many innocent victims, why is it still wrong to question the basic tenets they're pushing while accepting remuneration to do so? Is there a reliable total of the innocent victims who have been killed in wars instigated and perpetuated by religious factions? Does the common man placing money in the collection plate take a moment to remember that in most of these wars the same perfect entity he's supporting was backing both sides? Is that possible or even reasonable? Isn't it only arms dealers who profit from both sides during a war?
I believe that anyone who wants to celebrate this season should be free to do so without judgement from any source being directed toward them. If you're a religious believer of any faith, nobody should feel disdain toward you for it. If you are not a believer in an all powerful entity, you deserve equal respect from society regardless of anyone's personal beliefs. Whether you pray or question the usefulness of prayer, take the time to appreciate your personal situation during this holiday season. Think about your friends, children, grandchildren, neighbors (even the ones you wish would move), world leaders, and even sexual predators who wear a dog collar or a ragged tee shirt. Wish them all the best possible Holiday Season, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukkah, or whatever pleasantry you can bestow. Help whoever you can because it's the human thing to do.
This season, started by whomever and for whatever purpose, has evolved into a world celebration of charity, kindness, forgiving, and giving. Ignore the negative aspects and those who would make you feel guilty for your personal feelings. Have a grand Holiday Season and a very Merry Christmas!

Central Virginia and Pleasant Views

Monday evening, the 16th of November, I found myself in a whole lot of strange places all at one time. Central VA in the Autumn is no more lovely than say Sanitaria Springs, NY in the Fall. The drive down took all day. It's 420 miles to my friend's house. That house is nestled next to a brick Baptist church which has a graveyard starting about 8 feet from the building. Lovely arrangement, particularly if you're elderly or ill and about to croak. Not so far to go for God or the hole in the ground. Night was rapidly falling, but I snapped off a couple of shots for posterity. The take out Mediterranean kabob we had for dinner was superb. I admit to being a bit confused by the blob of green mush up in the corner of the Styrofoam, but since it was free, the price was very right. After dinner, Meg and I went to Cheeseburger in Paradise, a Jimmy Buffett themed eatery in Charlottesville for the first round of the indoor pre-Buffett concert tailgate party,. The local Parrot Heads had thought of most everything and the evening went well. Our host for the 3 day stay in VA arrived on a plane from Florida about 9:30 PM and had a Margie with us. Then we repaired to her home by the graveyard for a bottle (or two) of good wine and catching up on several years of missing conversations. Lizzy is a book publisher working with many prominent, and some very famous, lawyers who are writing books for her employer. I won't mention their names here due to the reality that if I offended any of them, I'd be ragged and hungry within a week or two. She had interesting tales of life in that circle. Yet I was much more impressed that John Grisham lives in Charlottesville, and the locals complain about his parking habits. Come on up to SS Johnny, and I guarantee you we'll let you park that 911 any damn place you please. It was a nice party the next day back at CiP, and the concert itself was as good as any Jimmy has ever done. 13,000 wild phanz filled the arena on the university campus and there were only 10 disorderly conduct arrests. This time there were no notable issues with the crowd, music, or the speedy getaway after the show. There were no reported kidnappings. One month ago, a 19 year old girl went missing during a concert at the same venue, and she's yet to be discovered, dead or alive. It was a great break in the routine of constantly trying to busy myself with something that will hold my interest. I can usually busy myself, but rarely become interested in what I'm doing. A real mystery there, I'm sure. Three days on the road, and I'm now ready to get out there and write, write, write, ........... right! Happy whatever! Oh yeah, have a truly great Thanksgiving, and be thankful for something that matters. You know, like someone else's health or happiness. It'll do you good.

Outside the Box

I recently discovered a long forgotten (by me) and never explored (by me) type of poetry. In the every Wednesday writer's discussion group I'm part of, we usually decide as a group what project to tackle next. While we all work simultaneously on one type of writing, we each pursuit our own general/major projects individually. Without actually acknowledging it, we seem to have discovered that this system keeps us tuned into our personal projects while helping each of us expand our horizons as writers.
One of our members is a good example of this. He spent his life writing as an occupation. His specialty and income producer was technical writing. The stories this writer initially submitted for discussion by the group tended to be reflective of his background. His pieces were very detailed and graphic in the description of objects and procedures. His writing consisted of facts and figures and were always very well written and interesting. Over time, this writer has stepped tentatively out of that familiar box and become much more creative. He is now quite comfortable with fictional writing and tapping into his imagination instead of relying exclusively on facts for his characters and story lines.
A similar story is reflected in the growth and development of the interests and styles of the other writers in this small group. Each has found the freedom to step out of their creative box and explore new avenues.
That gives credibility to the theory that it's good to explore styles and writing areas we've never had the interest or courage to look at. That's why we decided to write limericks. Not one of the group's members had ever written or even thought much about limericks beyond the ones we all sniggered about as adolescents featuring references to Nantucket. The more Puritanical of the flock had never even heard of those. Now, limericks have proven to be not just challenging but also a lot of fun. The originality shown by the writers in the group is amazing and very frequently side-splitting.
Needing to moralize and make a point, I guess you can all see where I'm going with this. It's most comfortable and easiest to continue down the familiar path for years and even decades at a time. If you think about it and see yourself doing that, consider that there are many other roads to the same destination. There's unexplored adventures and scenery over on those strange routes, and you're going to find them utterly fascinating. Who knows? You might even find one that grabs your interest and turns you in a whole other direction.
Create, explore, and live with enthusiasm. Life is better when each day is an adventure.

How's This Gonna Help?

Yesterday, my brand new iPod Touch arrived via UPS. What's up with that. you say? Let me tell you, and you'll be running out and getting your own, on the next bus.
My Verizon cell phone is sue to get replaced free or cheap, as I've slogged my way soddenly through still another two year contract with the old Cherry Chocolate phone. It's a good phone, and I can't really see replacing it yet. It holds a lot of my favorite music and even uses an expansion card to hold more if I want. Great phone!
What I really longed for, however was a mobile device that would connect to the internet. Funny, not too long ago I was looking for a cheap laptop so I could connect to the web when I'm away from my beloved PC. Time marches along and hey! I'm a guy and guys want the latest techno goodies. Right? So I need a hand held computer to do my e-mail at 75 mph down the interstate while munching a taco and staring into the fuzzy screen of my vibrating GPS device. Everybody's doing it. It's ok!
As of yesterday, I can now send e-mails, read spam, check out anything on the WWW (that includes porn, you guys....I know what you're thinkin'), and even get maps and directions in case the GPS satellite is secretly out to get me. I know it is. I've already got Charo, my chupacabra looking into the situation, and expect results on that real soon. That's another story, however, and I digress.
This slippery little device is magical, I tell ya. It has only 2 real buttons but it can be controlled more easily and more precisely than any other mp3 player I've ever held in my sweaty little fist.
Here's the deal: Don your lightweight overcoat, and a Panama hat (it's Summer and hot as hell), go hang out near the playground, and snatch one out of the first kid who passes hand. Oh yeah. He got one. He only listens to rap music and hip hop, so you'll be improving his brain to steal it. Doing him a favor, so to speak. Then sneak behind the first hedgerow you see and start surfing the www. You'll find games to play, friends to chat with, YouTube videos to make you howl, and more entertainment than you probably deserve. In fact if you're reading my blog, I know you don't deserve that kind of pleasure.
This is the kind of high old time you can have on your own personal/stolen iPod Touch: (cut/paste)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qiip8NOeZEo

Have fun!

The Ides of July 2009: This day, July 15, 2009 will always linger in my mind and the minds of everyone who knows my family as a landmark day. He was picked out by a little red headed girl who, at age 3, knew just what she wanted in a puppy. Her older brother concurred, and well before he probably should have left his mother, the tiny brown puppy moved down the street to live with us and change our lives forever. It's been nearly 14 years of excitement and anxiety, joy and pain, and enduring love and faithfulness that can only be given by a Labrador Retriever. Murphy wasn't a registered Lab but a cross between a registered Lab mother and a registered Chesapeake Bay Retriever. The results of this pairing was a huge chocolate Lab. Headstrong, opinionated, domineering, and always friendly and compliant with most reasonable requests, Murphy flunked out of obedience school when the trainer simply threw in the towel and told me he was not trainable by the classic definition of dog training. It was her determination that Murphy would always be his own dog. He'd be a Super Alpha Dog and would probably do what I wanted him to as long as he also wanted to do it.
Behind a door, he was the ultimate watchdog. His bark was enormous. It resonated deeply with "I'm huge and you better be someone who belongs here". Every stranger at the door was immediately aware that there was a large dog inside, and most just wanted to leave without even seeing him. The visitor who waited for the door to open and met with Murph's approval, was immediately set upon by a wiggling, licking, and jumping dog who only wanted to be petted, loved, and hopefully fed a snack. If that stranger didn't measure up to Murph's standards, however, they'd find an impenetrable brown wall between them and his family.
Food was the primary motivator in his life. Food brought him much pleasure but caused a few anxious moments for his family. His quest for food once led him to eat 2 loaves of rising bread dough. He then learned that 2 bottles of hydrogen peroxide would make it come back out before rising in his stomach and exploding his poor starved intestines. On another occasion, his search for a late night snack was determined to be the cause of the fire which could have been the end of us. One hot September night in 2002, Murphy innocently placed his enormous paws up on the stove top to get a better look at the goodies which might have been there. The big feet turned on the gas, electronic igniters clicked, and only a neighbor who had to take a late night whizz, saved us by hammering on the door at 2:00 AM, getting us out safely. For the next seven years a baby gate was put up every night to keep him out of the kitchen.
Nobody will ever forget the wonder of 130 pounds of love and gentleness rolling over and springing a leak at the mere touch of either Heather or Chris, my two eldest children. Those moments and the thousands of memories we share are Murphy.
Murphy is not gone. It is not possible that a presence so large and so powerful could just fade away. His body, now buried in the back yard, is only the vessel which contained so much love and personality for nearly fourteen years. The real Murphy is not gone and never will be. His personality and the effect he had on the first 16 + years of Ashley's life and the lives of the rest of the Winfields, will live forever.
If there's a hereafter for dogs, Murphy is right now licking God's feet and looking for a tiny bit of Milkbone. Sail on old pal. You'll be sorely missed and never replaced.

What's the Con-Census?

For this broken down blogger at least, the 2009 segment of the 2010 decennial census is at an end. It was a great amount of fun while it lasted, but it came to an unexpected end on a day it was expected to end. True to the 'soap opera-ness' of my daily existence, I was brought down by a somewhat comical occurrence. As most exciting Census stories do, this one starts looking past dark and threatening "POSTED! KEEP OUT!" signs, flanked by a couple of "NO TRESPASSING" signs for good measure. Well, hell! Now anyone's curiosoity is bound to be piqued! Especially mine. My life of crime has brought me to the mindset that most people have something to hide, and if they're so blatant about doing so......well, where's there's smoke there's generally fire. Right? My ID badge, and the fact of my sworn duty to do everything possible to serve the Census to the best of my ability, tell me to just go up that hidden driveway.
Editorial note: This a good time to state that the US Census Bureau's mission is legislated, has been occurring for much of our history, and every American citizen and everyone else living on US soil and it's territories is subject to being enumerated during each decennial census. This means EVERYONE. If the Department of Commerce was held at bay by every Private Drive and No Trespassing sign which everyone could potentially hang up on the corner of their property, the government could balance it's budget with the enormous savings of never having to do another census. In short, Census Bureau Enumerators have the authority and right to enter all properties for the intended purpose of enumeration only. It should also be said that if a person who is present on that property asks the enumerator to leave, it is policy that they simply leave and report that the location could not be enumerated, and why.
Up the steep and winding driveway goes your hapless hero. My Dodge Dakota has a growling V-6 engine,. It and the knobby tires running on gravel are quite a cacophony of sound in a quiet pastoral setting. In short, my arrival was announced way ahead of my door closing as I disembarked the truck. The first thing I hear is not the barking of the two large German Shepherd dogs the neighbors have warned me about. From out of nowhere, a soft feminine voice asking me what it is I want. Far better than being bitten by snarling police dogs, I'm sure.
That's what I thought, anyway. Turns out I'd have welcomed the dogs. I can deal with dogs.
The phantom voice told me to state my business, so I did complete with holding my Census Bureau badge out for viewing. However, I'm about 15 feet from the window which I've no noticed is the origin of the voice, and probably my fine print was illegible from that distance.
The Voice tells me to, "wait right there". Compliant me. I did as told. In seconds, I can hear conversation coming through the screen of the half open window. "Now we're cookin'", I'm thinking to myself. "She must be discussing census with someone, and I'll soon be done".
Not so fast, Mr. Enumerator! Suddenly what appears to be a telephone comes from off stage and is thrust against the screen window. A highly agitated, and very authoritative male voice suddenly demands, "You are not supposed to be on this property. We have posted signs, and this is private property" or words to that effect. "Get out right now!" the second disembodied voice continues. "I'm dialing 911 and you're going to be arrested".
The irony is that if the lady had said for me to leave, I'd have been gone before she could have dialed the phone.
I reintroduced myself and stated my business, but the male presence would have none of it. I was a criminal, and the cops would deal with me. In the meanwhile, while I could have been gone, he's continuing to ask me questions. "What's your name?" he asked. By now, I am alerted to the fact that this guy is quite possibly not altogether all together. There's no way he's getting my name from me, as I live too close to that address, and have an aversion to firebombs in the wee hours. There may be several other things a whack job could do if so inclined, so I gave my badge number and a phone where he could inform my superiors that I'm doing my job. that's what I should have said, but just gave him the numbers and had to actually interrupt his tirade to get back into the Dakota and drive away.
But wait! There's more!
I naturally, posted the aborted effort as per Census Bureau policy, and stated why I was unable to get the location registered on my hand held computer. That was nearly a week before I met with my supervisor for a bi-weekly meeting. Nothing was said at the meeting, and I believed that the nutcase had blown off his steam, showed his wife what a real man he is, and had forgotten about it. I grossly underestimated the depth of this guy's need to me a pain in the ass. A day after our regular meeting I received a call from my supervisor requesting a meeting at 10:00 AM, and "bring all your Census materials with you". I'm no genius, but even I could guess the meaning of that caveat. Sure enough. The off the wall citizen had "gone all the way to the top". My boss was ordered to "take a statement" from this ex-enumerator, regarding the "incident" at the loonie's house.
So, it was all over, the day it was going to be anyway. The strange thing is this: I've been asked if I'll join the team later for further activities, and been told that this is one of the things that sometimes happens even when you play it by the book as I did.
At least the wild man didn't find out where I live, and therefore I assume he wasn't given my name. That gives me a good feeling when I think of the 2010 Census, and how I found that one individual out of at least 1200 I covered who will not be dissuaded from being a total jerk. But then, sit-com or soap opera, you pick which , but I definitely live one or the other.
See? I told you when I took this fun job it would be interesting.

Celebrate Life Without A Head

There's a huge celebration in Fruita (froo-ee'-ta), Colorado, this weekend. May 15th and 16th are Mike The Headless Chicken Festival days, in Fruita. I'm not kidding, pulling your leg, or having one off on you. It really is Mike's big annual weekend. Cut and paste: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baCL6J27-Q4 and www.miketheheadlesschicken.org I know. You're thinking that the old Pyrate has finally lost his sword and fighting a losing battle with dementia, swinging a wet noodle. Here's the skinny on old Mike and how he remains so important, 62 years after he finally toppled over with a mournful gurgle and died. 18 months previous, farmer Lloyd Olsen of Fruita, decided his plump Wyandotte rooster looked ripe for dinner. He went out and promptly lopped poor Mike's head clean off. Well, maybe not so clean. It seems that Mike refused to give up that precious thread of life, and continued staggering around the barnyard, attempting to crow and preen himself. Of course, that was out of the question, but when he was still going strong 2 days later, Lloyd decided to keep Mike alive. He fed him a mixture of milk and water with the occasional kernel of corn, and Mike thrived headlessly. In no time, farmer Olsen and his 'Miracle Mike' the headless chicken became the hit of regional and some far reaching carnivals and state fairs. In short, Mike took in about $40,000.00 in the 18 months he survived, and that wasn't chicken feed in 1946. From that September morn in 1945 until he finally choked (human error-Olsen accidentally left his neck sucking syringe at the last show) to death in March of 1947. If you're wondering what all that means to you and me, here's the deal. We go about our little lives, clinging to this big blue ball and hoping for the miracle that will save us, fix our lives, make us pretty - you fill in the blank. Then there's Mike. He continues on in spite of the biggest handicap of all: NO HEAD! Not only did he survive and prosper way beyond any other chicken before or after, he lives on as an episode in human and chicken existence we can all look to for inspiration. This Friday and Saturday the 15th and 16th of May, take a minute to honor Mike and all he stands for. Have some hot wings, a chicken salad sandwich, or maybe some Jamaica jerk. Whatever. Go on now, celebrate! Think about it!

Swine Flew Over the Osprey's Nest

By Don Winfield

Swain “Swine” Aquinas awoke with a start and a feeling of impending doom. Last night he was being sought by the Quincy, Massachusetts Police Department, and had taken refuge in an unlocked semi-trailer behind a warehouse on the Quincy docks. Swine made himself comfortable on the cardboard boxes of imported computer paper, and hunkered down for a short nap. The nap lasted nine hours when it ended with a startled Swine jumping to his feet and careening headlong into the aluminum wall of the trailer. Slowly opening the trailer’s roll-up back door, Swine could see he was in a totally different world than the one he’d fallen asleep in. He was in a truck stop parking lot. Drivers were laughing, tossing friendly insults at each other and the general mood seemed festive. Scanning the area with squinty eyes, half blinded by the bright sun, Swine could make out the truck stop sign. Florence, NC. “Holy shit!” thought Swine. “How could I have slept through a trip like that?”

When he could see nobody around the back of the trucks, Swine slipped out, leaving the door open. He made a bee line for the restaurant. The sign above the yellow door read ‘Mae’s Truck Stop & Strip Bar”. Swine didn’t give it much thought. He had problems of his own to worry about. Broke, filthy, and less than a dollar in his pocket, Swine felt more alone and lost than he had in all his 25 years. Being an impulsive man, Swine sat down at the counter and ordered up the biggest breakfast on the menu. “Once it’s in me they can’t take it back”, he thought.

While wolfing down three runny eggs, three link sausages, four hotcakes, a mountain of gummy home fries, and three mugs of burnt coffee, Swine felt a tad more human and his brain was working a little better. He’d spotted the shy red haired waitress who was working the counter, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. “Too bad”, he thought, noticing her eyes were bluer than the summer sky. When she caught Swine looking her way, she looked down, and scurried off to wait on another trucker. It was on one of her look down and walk away phases that the rejuvenated Swine had his first winning idea of the day. As the young waitress walked toward the other end of the counter, Swine bolted. Out the door and across the parking lot at a dead trot, went Swine Aquinas. He had no idea where he was going, but needn’t have worried, as his flight was suddenly halted by a size 16 work shoe stuck in his path. The shoe’s occupant, Harry “Steamboat” Coe, marveled at the flying young man’s spectacular trajectory. Swine flew four feet into the air, arms and legs flailing wildly. He did a half gainer with a twist to the left, and landed on his back in the gravel with a sodden "whoomp" as the air exited his lungs.

Before he could collect his wits, a huge hand grabbed his grubby shirt front and yanked his scrawny butt straight up. Swine found himself suspended in the air with his feet dangling a foot off the ground. “You planning to pay that bill, brother?" Steamboat asked. “That young lady’ll have to pay it if you get away, you know.”

Swine in fact hadn’t known that. Now he did, he didn’t particularly care. At the moment, however, he was jacked up dangling in the air, scared for his life, and ready to agree to anything that would get his feet back on the ground. He desperately wanted to continue his flight, but then he saw the pretty young red head holding the unpaid check in her hand. She was waving it at Swine, all shyness gone and replaced by obvious anger.

“Just where do you think you’re going, pal?” she demanded.

Pinky Helms was a pissed waitress. She’d been eyeing Swine on his stool inside, and thought he looked alright though a bit dirty and disheveled. She thought he’d clean up just fine. Then he up and bolts on her check! What a disappointment.

Pinky had seen a lot, including near-do-well check bolters in her four years at Mae’s. She’d learned early that that’s the nature of business along Interstate 95, the main corridor for travelers heading to and from Florida. Four years ago, Pinky’s mother had said, “wait here by Magic Mountain, sweetie. Mommy has to go to the ladies’ but I’ll be right back”. Three hours later, a family from Ohio became curious about the skinny teen walking aimlessly around the Goofy Lot crying and mumbling, “I can’t believe she left me and took off!”

The Bromleys from Akron offered her a ride, and in a confused stupor Pinky accepted. Although she lived only an hour and a half from Disney in Ocala, Pinky didn’t think much about her trip north with the family of four. By the time they stopped to eat at Mae’s Truck Stop & Strip Bar, Pinky had had enough of the parents bickering, the kids fighting, and the pet Jack Russell Terrier chewing on her clothing. She pulled her mamma’s trick. After excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she slipped out the back door of Mae’s and hid in the card board recycling dumpster until after the Bromleys gave up looking and hit the road to Ohio again. Mae’s owners noticed the young girl hanging around for two days, and offered her a job bussing table and dishwashing. A room to stay in came with the job, and a year later, Pinky became a full-fledged waitress, making barely enough to survive on and expert at fending off passes, pinches, and lewd suggestions. Her frugal lifestyle had helped her accumulate $6,437.68 in savings. She kept it in a savings account and used her Visa Debit Card to access it only in dire emergencies.

Pinky’s question to Swine about where he thought he was going caused him to pause. “Good question,” he thought. Here he is. Middle of South Carolina, no money, no luggage, no transportation, and absolutely no prospects. Harry had let him regain terra firma, and the three strangers stood in the middle of Mae’s lot just looking at one another.

“Well." stammered Swine. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. One minute I’m dozing off in a paper hauler and the next thing I know, I’m 900 miles away from home, broke and hungry. At least I didn’t break my back when this dude tripped me.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Harry. “I saw you running, and Pinky coming after you waving that check. It was just reflexes, man.”

“No problem, I guess I deserved that crash.” said Swine, though he seriously doubted he really did. Still, the Quincy police were 900 miles behind him, and worse things could happen to a fellow. He didn’t regret stealing those Girl Scout Cookies and selling them on the street corner. He just regretted getting caught and having to leave the proceeds behind when the cops tried to grab him up. That was a hard earned $37.50 and would have bought him meals for a couple of days, ‘til his first paycheck from the shipping company arrived. “Oh, yeah,” he mused. “That job is probably gone now, too.” They’d warned him about ‘no-call-no-shows’.

“I’ll take care of your check.” said Pinky. “But, you owe me big time.”

“The truth is, I can’t promise to repay you ‘til I get work. Give me your address and I’ll send it to you,” Swine lied.

“Oh no, mister. I’m not letting you out of my sight ‘til I get back this $5.23 plus a 15% tip. Harry’s been after me to ride to the Keys with him on a run, and today’s the day we both get in that truck and head south.”

Pinky looked pretty determined, and Swine couldn’t think of anything better than going off to Florida with such a pretty young lady. He’d secretly always had questions about certain aspects of red heads, so what the hell? He and Harry looked at each other, and the deal was settled.

After Pinky went back into Mae’s and quit on the spot, she filled a small suitcase and a brown grocery bag with her worldly possessions. She jumped into the Peterbilt’s spacious cab with Harry and Swine and they were heading for the sun.

Over the course of the next 700 they all got to know each other. Harry was amused by the verbal dance of two young people, obviously attracted to one another, striking up a relationship. Harry may have been a truck driver but was a smart guy who could see where this was heading, and wished the kids luck and good fortune. He wouldn’t be putting any of his own paycheck on it lasting, but what the hell. “God bless ‘em.” he thought

Sixteen hours, four truck stops, and three greasy meals later, the happy band crunched to a halt in the parking lot in front of ‘Bob’s Bike and Kayak Rentals’, Big Pine Key, Florida. This was the final destination for the cheap Indian motor scooters and plastic Indonesian kayaks in the trailer. Bob’s was going to expand into the scooter rental business, and the kayaks were supplemental to the current inventory of rentals.

There were 25 scooters and 57 kayaks on board. Originally 60 kayaks had been loaded in Michigan, but Harry ran short of cash in Charlottesville, VA, and the 3 frat boys considered themselves blessed to be able to buy them for $50.00 apiece in the Micky D’s parking lot. He didn’t feel he needed to explain that to ‘Saint’, the current owner of Bob’s.

It was a splendid reunion of father and son, there in Bob’s Bike & Kayak Rentals. Thomas Swain “Saint” Aquinas, Sr., and Thomas Swain “Swine” Aquinas, Jr. recognized each other at the same time. They came running together with raised arms and loud exclamations of how long it had been and how surprised each was to see the other after 10 long years. Once within swinging distance, Swine hauled back and round house punched the senior Aquinas, knocking him backward six feet, landing on his backside.

Dazed, Saint just sat there in the gravel. “Why’d ya do that, son?” He inquired indignantly.

“Why’d ya leave me at 15 to live on my own in Quincy?” Asked Swine.

“Damn, son,” muttered Saint. “You know that if I’d been caught for that third assault, they’d have put me away for three to five. I’ll tell you what, boy. I’ll make it up to you starting right now.”

“Just how do you figure to do that, pop?” Swine asked suspiciously.

“I’ve outlasted the statute of limitations in Massachusetts. And now the rental business is really picking up. Seems the lower Keys are getting too full of tourists so they're spillin’ northward. You can be my partner here. I’ll sign a paper and everything making it all legal. Life is good here on Big Pine.”

Until now, Pinky had just been standing back stunned by the revelations unfolding before her. Swine turned to her and said, “What do you think Pink? Should we take the old man up on his offer? Oh, by the way pop, this is my new girl, Pinky Helms. I met her up in Florence, NC. Aint she pretty?”

“Now don’t that beat all? You talk about coincidence. My new wife, Bobby is a red head and her name used to be Helms too. Come on out here, Bobby, and meet my son and his girlfriend.”

At the door to the rental shop, there appeared a young looking 38 year old woman. She had the same pretty blue eyes and flaming hair as Pinky’s. Pinky took one look and began running toward the woman starting across the lot. As they reached each other, Pinky fairly flew the last five feet and landed on the other red head, hitting, kicking, biting and pulling her hair. Pinky had to be forcibly pulled off the other girl. Some of the spectators boo'd when it ended, but Harry grabbed one female in each hand, separating them and lifting them into the air.

An Osprey sitting high in a mangrove had been observing the whole scene with a cocked head. He sounded a little disgusted as he screeched his mating cry and took flight. Pinky took his cue and spoke first. “I really had to get that out of my system. It’s been a long time, momma. Good to see ya.”

Bad Day in Black Rock

The world will not forget Binghamton's Black Friday. The real one! Friday, April 3, 2009, is the day forever etched in history as the most violent day ever in Binghamton, NY. It was a lone gun slinger. Not just some madman, but a specific individual with a family, neighbors, likely some friends, and ex-coworkers. Ex-coworkers, because the tale is that one of the things contributing to his act of terror had to do with his lack of employment. Seemingly the other contributor which initiated his heinous act was his inability to be effectively conversant in the English language. This in the 28th year of his residence in the United States. As far as is now known his name was Jiverly Wong, though he was known by a few aliases.
Picture this scenario: Jiv borrows his pop's old Camry, straps on his pair of side arms (duly licensed), stuffs tons of extra ammo into his carry bag, and zips up the old Kevlar vest. Next he's out the door and soon parks the Toyota against the rear exit of the American Civic Association building on Front St. He is now effectively blocking panicked escapees' only escape route. Then it's in the front door, shoot the receptionists, and move left into a classroom full of eager immigrants trying to learn English, the language which has eluded his grasp for nearly three decades. In that classroom he shot as many as he dared then killed himself. It looks like he was ready for a standoff, but courage eluded him as cleverly as had English.
At 41, Wong probably had reason to be embarrassed about his lack of linguist skills. I was in a foreign country for only one year, many years ago, but could communicate effectively with the natives, in their language within a couple of months. I was lost until then, and it was seriously debilitating. People laughed at my clumsy Korean mutterings. It's got to be hard to struggle with a language for as long as Mr. Wong did and still have your fellow immigrants snicker when you speak the tongue of the community. No excuse for a slaughter!
He lost his job in the local Shop Vac factory when the jobs emigrated to Mexico in November. Hey buddy! Everyone is losing their jobs now, thanks to current economic issues. Not a reason to murder innocents! So, it's obvious that he was a stick of dynamite with a long fuse lighted many years ago, which finally reached the gunpowder.
To get back to the original premise, he was assuredly crazy. The sane don't pack heat and go on murderous rampages against the unarmed gentle people of the world, do they? But he was a person who lived with other people. The above mentioned family, friends, etc., if you will. Nobody saw this guy's meltdown? Hell, I can't wear a pink tee shirt under my sweater without everyone mentioning it. If I get new shoes, I hear about it all day every day for a week or two. So, nobody sees this dude melting down and does anything to get him some help? Maybe. Unlikely. You can't blame anyone but the shooter, but I hope that there will be a few people out there burdened with the guilt that they sat on their thoughts and worries and never lifted a finger to help get this man away from situations where he could harm anyone. I hope that those people step up and do what they can for the dead and wounded this asshole left in his wake. I am happy that he seems to have killed himself, because this is America. Alive, he would never have had to pay for his horrid crimes.

A Pirate Looks at Census?

Holy god almighty! The hottest news on the street is that the U.S. Census Bureau has drastically lowered the bar. How else can it be explained? They've hired me, a lowly pirate, to enumerate census. I don't know how many censae there are out there, but if one staggers into my field of vision, I mean to enumerate it. Some may escape enumeration, but hopefully most will not. Really! April 8th, I go for the 'Orientation' festivities. All the local freshly minted and newly unwrapped Enumerators will be herded to an as yet undetermined location, and be oriented en mass. I'm hoping for some new recipes and to sharpen my woking skills. "Make the most of it", I say somewhat optimistically. April 13th, the fun begins! A whole week of training. I hope I can keep my appetite until then. I'm all giddy. If this gets as interesting as it potentially may, there will be updates on these pages. Stay tuned and feel free to comment at will. How else can he tell if you're out there?
Keep on countin' on!

Another Walton Voyage? Huh???

When duty calls, one should really consider shirking. Jen Zarrelli from WSKG Public Broadcasting had a need, a desire, and a wish as well, I'm thinking. A concrete lawn object maker had donated a load of very heavy lawn decorations to the current public TV and radio auction. Problem: That ton and a half of concrete is 57 miles away in Walton and the auction is in Vestal. "Don, could you get some of your club members to help you get it?" "Uh, uh, uh, why uh, sh sh sh sure, Jennifer", says the suddenly speechless Pirate. Later, you wonder what the hell you were thinkin'...........hummmm......
As cargo in the rear of a 1500 Chevy van hurtling down 206 at somewhere just past the speed of light, you wonder it again. Ever notice how much faster even the most lumbering vehicles can go when you're sitting helplessly behind the driver on a lump of concrete?
Job done, and how many people other than the four of us who made the trip got to see a real live cowgirl dancing in the streets of Walton at dusk? Rare sight for a small motley band of pirates on a Tuesday evening, but it was free and well worth the price paid.
Thank you Mike and Nick Haruk. Thank you Cap'n Ross. You're welcome Jen. It was our pleasure! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Census Sense Us (A Civic Message)

Today I had a dejavu experience. I flashed back to the late 1980's and my days of working days for the US Census Bureau as an Enumerator while slaving away all night long on the 11-7 shift at the Psych Center. Visions of putting little pencil spots on maps of the southern NY region, and stopping frequently for 10 minute power naps so I could keep on truckin', danced before my mind's eye. That was in 1988. Then there was 1989 and I was elevated to an Assistant FOS, riding heard on Crew Leaders while they rode heard on hoards of sweaty Enumerators. By the final year of the big do, 1990, I was the FOS hisself! By then there were literally dozens of Assistants, Crew Leaders, Clerks, and Enumerators all lined up for my attention by the time I got home from work at 7:15 AM. Ah, those were the good old days! Days of pencil and paper enumerating and hauling ass all the way to VERY rural Greene, Delaware, and Sullivan counties to wake up missing employees. I recall trying in vain to hire local people to do the easy task of counting the population, out where there about every resident spent several hours a day with a cow tit in their hand. Back then, the hourly rate was more than the state was paying me for loonie mind games, and when I added my hourly pay to my mileage check, I was rolling in dough. Ah, but sadly it only lasts about 10 weeks each year, and it's over.
Today, I went to the Chenango Town Hall and took the Census Bureau employment test. Some of the terms are the same, and it all came rushing back! Amazing how some things remain static. Others, however, change drastically. The recruiter was talking about everyone getting a wireless handheld device and eventually, in 2010, a laptop similar to the ones you see in police cruisers. Yep, pirates and other learned readers, this time it's an all electronic and very high tech enumeration. I had some reservations about getting on board when I darkened the test site door. When he started mentioning the electronic aspects of the job, he had me locked in. All I need is an offer, and I'm abandoning my sword and eye patch for a handheld device! You chuckle, "look what a whore to high tech old Winny is". Well, old chum bucket, it runs a little deeper than that. If those unwashed Enumerators of the '80s could screw up paper and pencil people counting so badly, the mind reels at how genuinely afoul this electronic wizardry can go. Imagine it. Now, I'm seriously hoping they call me up. I really want to see how this goes.
The bottom line: The Census Bureau needs hundreds, no thousands, of employees to pull off this monumental task. If you have any desire to help or any need for some serious extra cash, call the site up on your old laptop and fill out the application. Around here, it's about $12.25 and up for Enumerators, more for supervisory slots, and the mileage is up to about $.50 per mile. After the 40 hours of paid training (+ mileage), you can pretty well name your own hours. If your schedule permits only every other week, or evenings, or weekends, they'll have a slot for you.
Be civic minded, have some fun on Uncle Sam's tab, and get to know some seriously entertaining people. You'll have stories to last you the rest of your life! The test takes a half hour, and it's pass/fail with only 70% to pass. Good luck!

The Toilet Seat

Ceann, the Yankee Irish drinking music band we so love has a sense of humor that anyone I know can understand. The toilet in the blog picture above is their tip jar. They just want anyone who chooses to offer up a tip to know that any funds they accumulate will be placed appropriately.
More people should be so honest. It's comforting to know that some people know themselves so well. Do you?