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

American Pride & Prejudice

September 11, 2013

     I'm up on my soapbox today.  What's eating me?  Glad you asked.  I made the mistake of reading my facebook news feed on a national day of controversy.  It's no surprise that the anniversary of 9/11/01 would bring out a lot of comments and opinions from every side of the issue.  A series of horrible things took place that morning, while we all witnessed it via live television.  I remember exactly what I was doing all day, as my wife and I stayed glued to the tube, wherever we went.

     Today I'm ranting about the posting and cutting/pasting of a piece about the Two Million Bikers proposed siege of Washington, DC.  It's well publicized that a large group of people riding motorcycles plan to break the law by swarming DC in protest of the legal American Muslim's Against Fear demonstration and speech-fest.  The story going around the Internet via facebook and other sites gripes me because it is so flawed.  It is biased and decidedly anti-American because it negatively singles out a particular group of people.

     Yep.  The AMAF received a permit to gather: = legal.  Nope.  The TMB didn't get a permit: = illegal.

  

Let's examine that:  

     The Muslim group applied, in plenty of time, for a permit to gather peacefully, in protest of the strongly negative feelings some Americans harbor against them, as a religious group.  Those feelings mainly stem from the actions of a hand full of foreign based terrorists, who attacked the US in 2001.

     The Bikers were denied a permit to travel in huge numbers, non-stop through DC, for a few hours, mid-week.  The number of police and the logistics of a mid-week parade by protesters, was deemed too costly in both monetary consideration, and disruption of the daily lives of DC citizens and employees.

     You say, "but Don, there's millions of Muslims, so why can't two million bikers be accommodated, too?"  There's the another problem with the accuracy of the circulating articles.  There is actually only a few hundred Muslims expected to show up, and at most about three thousand bikers.  Bikers are expected to way surpass the number of people they are protesting.

Here is my response to the anti Muslim article being passed around the Web:

 

     "This is United States of America, isn't it? Doesn't America stand for freedom? Should we suppress any form of religious freedom? What if masses of joggers turned out in protest of a collection of Christian extremists, on Easter? Let's think about this a bit differently. Probably well over 90% of the Muslims involved are Americans. It wasn't "Muslims", or a religion who did so much damage on 9/11. It was Muslim terrorists. Look what Christian terrorists did in Oklahoma City years ago. The leader of that pack of idiots was even a military veteran.  We all revere Vets, don't we?  Hey, I'm one of those!

     There's a big disconnect, here.  Most Americans trust many Muslims every day, and treat them equally. (Look at your doctor, or the family who owns the corner convenience store or motel in your neighborhood.) Why are otherwise good people against them peacefully speaking their minds?

     Bottom line: This is an American display of ideology, by Muslim Americans. It is a peaceful gathering to support America, and show that Muslims are regular American people like Catholics, Baptists, Presbyterians, Buddhists, Jews, or any other religious leaning. Like the rest of America, they are black, white, Asian, and other racial origins. The "Bikers" also have a right to state their case. Only, let's not let that be based on the religion or cultural origin of the Muslims who are making their statement. 

     There won't be any more than a couple thousand (three thousand, tops) riders there, anyway, so why not let 'em roll through DC?  

     Two more thoughts: 1.) I ride a motorcycle, but my creed is,"live and let live". (Today's "bikers" don't want to be considered bad people, or "Hell's Angels" types, just because they ride, do they?) 2.) No Muslim ever woke me up 2 or 3 times nightly, accelerating his muffler-less Hog past my house between the hours of 1 & 6 AM. Unless, of course, he was a rare "Muslim Biker"! I dout the "late night noise terrorists" are even real bikers. If they were, they'd respect the sleeping public and spring for mufflers."

"The Button" (previously Bob The Elf)

This is the proposed cover of my upcoming Christmas book.  It's a story about a Christmas that almost wasn't.  You'll be caught up in an adventure of young Elf love, the foibles of faulty equipment, and a South Florida crow who just may have the key to turn it all around.

Coming (hopefully) before Christmas '13.

'Follow' my blog, and let me know what you think.

Thank you for your participation!

Don

Retirement Life As I Know It

I will admit to not being too attentive to what's going on around me.  It could stem from many things.  Possibly it comes from my living hypersensitive to my surroundings,for the decade I worked with criminals.  Always looking behind, and sideways.  Walking in the center of hallways while passing through intersects, was a good idea.

Maybe that's not it, at all.  Maybe, I've finally reached an age where I really don't give a healthy crap what's going on around me, unless it directly effects me.  I've had a couple of marriages, raised a few kids, and held responsible positions while employed for a few decades.

Maybe why I don't pay much attention to what's going on around me, is that it's finally time for me.  

I'm not well off, or even all that comfortable by some standards.  All I really have in my retirement is time.  

I now have time to play at being a radio guy on Internet radio.  Time to learn to muddle away at the guitar and make what halfway sounds like music.  Time to write all the stories at which I've made so many false starts, and time to go out with friends to enjoy a margarita or a Dos Equis, without guilt.

Guilt?  You ask why I'd feel guilty over doing such mundane, normal things like having a drink with friends?  If you'd been inside my head and body for the 25 years leading up to my retirement, you'd know what I mean by guilt.  

I couldn't sit still.  I couldn't enjoy normal relaxation outlets such as golf, jogging, tennis, sitting around the deck and chewing the rag with friends.  

Why?  Because those things nagged at my sub-conscious as being a waste of time.  None of those things, or the thousands of ways other people relax, felt productive.  Chatting wasn't getting the roof on the shed patched, or the trim on the house painted.  Golf stole hours away from my life I could never recover.  I could have spent that afternoon or morning, mowing the lawn, 'eating' weeds, or trimming the trivet hedge.  

Writing while sitting at the computer (or in previous decades, the typewriter, then the word processor) would have eaten up more precious hours.  Why, I could be re-finishing an antique bed-side stand, or servicing one of my motorcycles.

Motorcycle?  People wonder why I have three bikes.  I own a 1973 Yamaha RD-350, a 1979 Honda CX 500, and my new bike, a 1985 Honda V-65 Sabre.  It's easy to tell folks why I own the bikes.  It's true, each is unique, and has an historic place in motorcycling, or my life.  But, that's not the real answer.  The truth is, none of them have very many miles on their odometers.  Upgrading to a newer machine would be a total waste. 

I own them.  I love them.  Except for the RD-350.  I love the RD most.  That's why it's a garage queen.  It's covered and protected from age and elements.  I maintain and ride them.  Not much, though.  Do you realize that while I'm out pleasuring myself riding around enjoying the scenery on my bike, there's work I could be getting done?  As a result, even the intention of taking a nice long ride was nearly always squelched by my guilt.  A short ride?  Perhaps.  That is if I could get it over with really quick, and get back to whatever task my askew sub-conscious had designated as the days priority.

Enough of that!  That's all behind me now.  I'm retired.

Now, I can ride one of my bikes longer.  Now, I can sit here and write this blog.  Now I can devote two days a week to producing a one hour Trop Rock show for Internet radio.

Now, I can go to 'house concerts' in Philadelphia, or a John Prine concert in Williamsport, and actually stay overnight.  Until retirement, I would not have considered going to Philly to see a musician in someones home.  I may have gone to see Prine in Williamsport, but I'd have driven home right after the show. I'd need to wake up in my own bed and get right to the tasks of the day.  Three hours sooner than if I'd stayed overnight.

I still can't see wasting my time on golf.

But I can see doing things I consider to be fun.  Right below this blog entry, is an example of something I place in that category.  It only took a couple of hours to do it.  I didn't have to waste time travelling far.  That two hours of pleasure are digitally immortalized, bearing witness that I do know how to have fun.  

Now, I can thumb my nose at the world as I laugh and say, "see?  Don does know how to relax and have a good time."

Screw The "News Media" - Misinformation Is Screwing You!

The Zimmerman trial has been over for a week.  It's five days since the NOT GUILTY verdict was handed down, and yet it's still all over the television news.  The big questions are, "will there be riots?  Will the Feds try him for Civil Rights violations?  Will the Martin family ever heal?  Will someone hunt George down and do him in?"  All valid concerns, but the big concern that can be put to rest once and for all, is the question of his guilt.  Sure, NOT GUILTY doesn't mean he didn't kill the man.  George freely admits he used his small automatic pistol and killed his attacker.

We have no reason to doubt his word on the occurrences of that night, leading to, and culminating in, the death of Mr. Martin. Why?  Because Zimmerman's story is consistent.  Liars' stories change as they're told, in many substantial ways.  His story made enough sense to the police and County Prosecutor, that he was not originally charged. At trial, the jury found the same thing.

At this point, George is as much a victim as is the dead man. What?  How can you say that, Don?  It's true he made flawed and fatal decisions that night.  So did Travon Martin.  Neither man took the safe and sensible path, right from the start of the incident. As a result it ended up in the worst possible scenario. The death of one man, and a lifetime of shame and blame for the other.

"How is the news media at fault, for even more wrong being done?" Good question.  

Simply by not letting it go away.  It was newsworthy, but it came to a conclusion.  Lives are lost and forever damaged, but it's time to heal, and get on with life the best way everyone involved can. The television networks, cable and broadcast, are still stirring the racial pot.  The tension will die a lot slower, if it's shoved in everyone's face whenever they try to watch a newscast.  

I have a question of my own:  "What happened to Walter Cronkite type of news reporting?"  You know, tell the story.  What, when, where, how, and why, if it's known. The why is usually not available to news media, lawyers, courts, or the public.  We never really know the "why".  That's what news reporting should still be. Here's something to hang your hat on.  That "talking head" on the screen?  Their opinion and view is no more valid than yours.  You only need him/her to tell you what has happened.  You can form your own opinions.  Novel idea, eh?

If America wants this Martin  and Zimmerman thing to settle down peacefully, it's time for it to stop being the lead story on every news outlet.  Remove the publicity seekers platforms.  Once that's done, everyone, including the rabble-rousers, pot-stirrers, and disinterested, un-involved, protesters, will shut up and go the hell home.

More news media?  Here's another thing I recall from recent newscasts.  In March of this year, in Brunswick, GA, a white mother was pushing her white 13 month old baby boy in his stroller.  Only a few yards from their home, in a 73% black neighborhood, she was accosted by two black teens.  They demanded her money.  She told them she had none, because it was true.  They told her they'd shoot her baby is she didn't give them money.  She couldn't give up what she didn't have. So they proceeded to shoot the infant in the face, killing him on the spot. 

The mother suffered two gunshot wounds trying to protect her child.  National news agencies reported it in passing, as a "robbery attempt".  Two black teens, ages 13 and 15 have been arrested and charged with murder.  No media has mentioned the words "hate crime", or "civil rights violation".   No famous religious leaders or protest organizers have swooped down on Brunswick to publicize the wrong doing of the black teens.

While I'm addressing media issues, I also want to mention the Boston Marathon terrorist bomber.  His photo showed up on the cover of Rolling Stone, this week.  There's an outcry all across the nation, and maybe around the world, protesting the publication of his likeness on the magazine's cover. Many large chain retailers are refusing to sell the issue in their stores. 

Why?  Charles Manson was on RS's cover.  So was Patty Hearst after gaining fame as a terrorist. What outcry came from those covers?  The answer is, "not much!"  

Truthfully, Rolling Stone Magazine has a feature article detailing the life of the 'seemingly normal young man' who became notorious for blowing up the finish line at this year's Boston Marathon.  People were killed, and dozens injured.  That's news! Why shouldn't he be on the cover?  RS isn't saying he's a good guy. They're featuring him in their issue, to tell the wondering world more about this pariah.

I don't recall an outpouring of venom when his picture graced the cover of nearly every newspaper and scandal sheet in America, and several other countries, for a month after the bombing.  It's still a news story, just as it was then. If people don't want to read it, or wish to lodge a protest against Rolling Stone, they can keep their money in their pocket.  Leave this issue on the newsstand. That will cast their negative votes a hell of a lot more efficiently than a lot of huffing and puffing, and pulling the issue off the stands. 

I'm tired of the special interest groups, splinter factions, and self appointed 'political correctness police', making a lot of noise about nothing.  They seem inclined toward sitting back and shutting up about real, genuinely problematic, issues. I've given one example above, so don't hold your breath for more on that subject.

Notice how I didn't push my personal concern for starvation and poverty right here in the good old United States?

News happens, folks.  Get on with your lives.  More news and controversy will be right along.

Father's Day On the Road

     I just realized that I haven't blogged in a couple of months.  No need to go into the details of why, but it's a busy schedule, and I've always more to do than there is time.  For example, I haven't had time to search for someone to publish my children's Christmas book, going on 2 years.  Possibly it's self doubt or laziness that contributes     to that, but I'm almost sure it's because I'm so damn busy.         Whatever it is, something keeps me from hitting this space more often.  I'll definitely try to rectify that.
     It's Father's Day, 2013.  I celebrated yesterday, with my wife, Meg,  and my 2 lovely daughters.  Today Meg and I are embarking on a short-ish journey to Lansdale, PA.  About 150 miles from Binghamton, it's a suburb of Philly, and a truly beautiful place on Earth.  Major Trop Rock aficionado 'Conchy Joe' resides there, and today, he's hosting a House Concert to be performed by John Reno and Eric Ellis.  Their current tour is a "Jim Croce music" tour.  Many may not recall Croce, but he was a purveyor of Americana/story-telling/folk music, back in the 1960's and 70's.  His career was cut short by a single engine plane crash in Louisiana, in 1973.  He was just 30, and his career had only recently hit 'head-liner' status.  His songs "Operator", and "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" are possibly his most memorable contributions, but as a prolific singer/songwriter, he had a vast catalog of music.  An interesting side note:  Croce was born in Philadelphia, PA.  It's exciting to me, that this show is so close to his birthplace.
     The show is scheduled to start at 3:00 PM, and I'm about 2.5 hours away.  I suppose that means I better throw my cooler full of booze and snacks into the 'grocery getter', and prepare to hit the road.
    John Reno is one of my favorite Trop Rockers.   I confess I don't know much about guitarist Eric Ellis, but I'm looking forward to meeting them both and enjoying their show.  I can't wait to see how they interpret Jim Croce's music.  This is bound to be a Father's Day I won't soon forget.  It's a nice road trip with Meg, good music, and the company of the best people on earth...Trop Rock fans. 
     I'll write a short blog-note later, to tell you how it went.

               HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, EVERYONE!

Stupid Kills

Spring is approaching.  The real Spring...warm weather, sunny days, and the sound of motorcycles accelerating from the curve near my home.  Here's an opinion piece, reprinted from this blog.  It was originally published in 2010.

I estimate that 95% 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 someone else who's the cause. Old age gets credit for nearly all of the natural (non-stupid) deaths, even though the autopsy usually names a more 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, Throws in the towel. But, 'natural causes' is not what this rant is about.  Unless, of course, stupidity has achieved 'natural cause' status.

 

Today, I went to the scene of an incredibly tragic act of stupidity. Wednesday, a relative of a man who belongs to an actual social organization that I am a member of, became a victim of blatant stupidity. A few minutes after noon, while most people and maybe even the victim, 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 stupid act 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 an acceleration ramp of a major highway, some damned fool pulled the stupid stunt of stopping in the driving lane. The key to successfully negotiating an acceleration lane is to accelerate! Stopping is not an offered option. There's no stop sign there. I looked.

Except for the obvious, no one will ever truly know the final thoughts and actions of the victim.  But, it's likely safe to say he was following a vehicle up the high speed acceleration lane. He was presumably accelerating to blend into the 65 mph plus Summer traffic heading north on Interstate 81. I would be looking in my mirrors, glancing over my shoulder to the left, and gauging the speed of approaching traffic. That's what you'd be doing, too. That's what you are supposed to be doing. It's the safe 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 idiot right ahead of my friend's brother-in-law, stopped. He fucking stopped!

 

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

From my own experience, having ridden a motorcycle for several decades, many automobile drivers operate under a shroud of misinformation. Generally, they feel that motorcycles are dangerous, foolish contraptions, and only ridden by mouth breathers who's knuckles drag on the ground. That is, of course, if they think of them at all. Too large a percentage of the automobile driving public ignores motorcycles.  They offer them no common courtesy, and operate under the false impression that bikes can stop on a dime. That entire train of thought is flawed, and kills hundreds of motorcyclists every year.  

A motorcycle can't stop as quickly as a car.  The unforgiving laws of physics prohibit it. That said, they can sometimes swerve as nimbly around an obstacle as a car is able to. Don't count on that.

When you are in your car, be aware 360 degrees around you.  Just like the Driver's Ed instructor taught you. When you're out on your motorcycle, scooter, or even your old blue bicycle, be many times more careful and alert than you are in the relatively safe steel cocoon of your car. It's your life on the line.  Remember..Stupid kills. Don't be stupid.

Opinions stated here are mine alone:  Don Winfield