• 

“There are, at present, nine-hundred, fifty-eight boroughs in Pennsylvania. A borough is a self-governing municipal entity, smaller than a city in its residential areas. I was raised in the borough of Hollidaysburg with close access to one of fifty-seven cities in our Commonwealth – that being Altoona, the “Railroad City” of generations with a footprint embedded in the Horseshoe Curve. A National Historic Landmark, this tourist attraction was built to help trains cross the Allegheny Ridge, a barrier to westward trade.”

Do you have any (bleeping) idea how difficult that last paragraph was for me to write? If so, raise your hand and I’ll buy you a drink. Geesh. Can you say, “adjectivally challenged?”… I can smell the halls of the school where books of expected middle school enlightenment were strewn face up at my feet. Stinky, prepubescent bullies on full tilt taking out their own insecurities on me. A single-minded, get through to the next class, should-have-been there already, hall “unfortunate” was I. It was in that very school above I would have written such a dry, colorless passage … no wonder. Save a few moments of private reflection, those days were stretched longer and tighter than the roughly seven hours allotted for state mandated public education. It was as if the pull of earth’s four cardinal directions acted in concert to tear apart the fabric of any normal, wearable smile I had before doors of entry. Day in, through the back IU8 off-yellow doors – and day out, through the same. Time after time.

We lived only a short block or two from the back side of the school – behind the football field as shown. Our house is seen nestled in behind the little black dot. In this archival postcard, the house was not yet ours, however. I was probably ten years too soon a thought when this picture was taken, mom hadn’t been swooned by a semi-bald sweet talking history major “dad”, and Richard James was ten years along manufacturing his Slinky toy only three miles away. By my estimate, sixty years have passed in this faded green and brown representation of a small borough located in western-central PA. These vanishing once vibrant colors being a small palette of superficial history. The memories I have of the past – in that school – are, by contrast, the formative, deeper, well-defined darker shades. On this basis alone, I invite you into my classroom of experiences.

If, in America, a reunion of adults who struggled through the terrible teens was ever organized, I’d gladly volunteer to head ALL the subcommittees such as the “gross locker room shower episodes” group, to mention one. At what point in the code book did mature, well-meaning adults decide a thirty second window was enough time for twenty-five icky, sweaty boys (yes, boys! .. not young men) to jam under less than twenty-five shower heads. To compound the problem, it was athletes vs. non-athletes pushing a way to the water spouts .. which wasn’t really a problem, anyway, because the jocks were the ones who “athleted” during gym, anyway. Most of us instrument blowers and finger peckers didn’t pore-sweat, but had to show success “after” the shower. Nothing like being embarrassingly naked having to prove wetness in front of a male gym educator for what, I now ask? … So he could check a box saying I took a shower? … which I never did because Big Billy, the football player, hogged the second to last shower in the corner. PS. I splashed a few drops of cold water on my bare chest from the water fountain. Didn’t take much. Don’t ask.

I also want to chair the “over-heated school dance” commission. If by, “over-heated”, you think I mean the large wooden room where, only hours before, boys and girls chucked their way around in tight, colorless unitards while sweaty big Billies swang a dirty dodge ball violently at sticky thin oboe players, you’d be wrong. I’m talking about genetic troopery marching through veins of anticipatory teens headed toward the front lines of heated first kisses. This, while clueless chapter-paws (parents & teachers disguised as chaperones .. my mash-up) adulted their way around in casual leisure suits pretending to monitor, but oogley-boogling each other across the room. Like we didn’t know. Bleaek .. and double-bleaek.

I went to two dances in three years. If you look to the left of the smiley part in the picture, that’s where the dances were held. Pillars representing, if you will, the teeth of the dragon – the mouth of hell where darkness invited a cascade of pulsing red, yellow, green, and blue lights filling a room already saturated with noise so loud an adolescent fart was only known by a vibration in your underwear. I entered my second dance expecting more of the same: 1. dirt on the backside of my faded jeans from leaning up against the racked bleachers, 2. not knowing anyone because I wasn’t a raccoon being able to spot trash in complete darkness, 3. acquiring Beethovian hearing by the third song due to the DJ’s complete obliviousness of his own auditory handicap, and 4. wondering why I was really there … it certainly couldn’t have been my idea. (Who invited me, anyway, and where the f**k is he..she…? “Maybe I should go talk to Mr…oh, wait. Can’t he’s snorking up to Mrs… What the …!! Now I’M getting over-heated and it ain’t the chick in the white David Cassidy t-shirt over there … Oh, wait, that’s sweaty Billy. Shit. I can’t see a damn thing.”)

Trauma never ending, over walked the twins. Not just any twins. THE twins. Now I remembered the “why” as in, “Why I came to the stale, drippy, hormone-burdened meat locker that night”. I promised I would … kiss … one of the twins. Just which one, I didn’t remember. Oh, yeah, this was epic for sure. Nearly deaf, blind, and alone, being approached by a set of babes beset with beguiling beauty,…eer…. actually at my age then, let’s just say “approached by ANY girls” …, I quickly realized a chance was close at hand to know FINALLY what girl lips felt like pressed, voluntarily, against mine (don’t ask). Trauma subsided into anticipated pleasure zones as blood quickly rushed to my formerly muted cheeks. This was my chance….

… Although, I did agree earlier in the day – at study hall where I never studied – to kiss one of my gal-mates at the dance NOT because I liked her … just because I was soooo lonely. Even with that foreknowledge, as the twins approached I couldn’t remember with which one I agreed to have early-teen magic lip bonding. They were identically equal and had similar ideas on how to confuse me. The best idea in their duplicitous (see what I did there?) plan? Take this neophytically numb newby outside behind a bush – with two male friends of theirs – to witness the act. Sure, why not, right? Twins girls, two dudes (one not sweaty Billy), a lot of bushes (as it turned out), a brick wall, darkness, dirt, aaaand me.

So tempting to stop. Right here. I’m a well-adjusted adult. You are, probably as well. I can assume nothing more needs to be written and your life will go on …

But, I won’t do that. Even though I really, really, really ….. want to …

I didn’t like it. Uck.

And by the way, for the record, I don’t remember which twin it was so don’t be looking back in any yearbook and calling out names. I’m also going to assume she liked it more than I did. She HAD to. There can’t be anything worse than what I experienced that night. Take any ordinary garden hose, dip in in gasoline, have an elephant spit on it, set it on fire, then jam it down my throat for five seconds. THAT would’ve been better. Heck, sweaty Billy may have done a better job!

Look, I’m not blaming her at all. I think she was a sweet girl. Pressures of those years can be horrible. She saw me as a possible target and that’s ok. I was willing to be because I had flaws as well. The whole kissing thing was so stupid, anyway. So was trying to get through the halls without a bully knocking books out of my arms. That school is a place of memories, … fantastic, great, good, bad, and horrible.

We have them. They’re not unique to any of us. Middle school years are tough and that school, to me, represents the hardest years of my life save a few adult years recently. My dad and I had really hard times back then. Fortunately, we’ve been able to patch all that up lately – forty years later.

My days were stretched longer and tighter than the roughly seven hours allotted for state mandated public education. Maybe, looking back, I’m glad they were because being pulled apart early on opened up spaces. Spaces in between the pieces of my life I only started to know later in life that were missing. Chances to heal. Chances to enliven the adjectivally challenged and bring color back to a once vibrant soul.

There are, at present, nine-hundred, fifty-eight boroughs in Pennsylvania, but only one way to heal in each one of us. Revisit your past, live through it and laugh. Find your sweaty Billy and maybe give him a kiss on the cheek for me.

It was necessary for me to turn right because I forgot where I parked. Exiting the office store with more items I planned on buying, that turn seemed the correct course of action because the dinged up pylon over there looked familiar. Not that yellow, concrete, scuffed pylons are rare, mind you, but this one had battle scars unlike any I’ve ever seen. It was, and sadly still is, bent and twisted, dented and puckered, …. red, blue, and silver bumper-scratched from years of neglect and abuse. I thought maybe I could find my car and brain somewhere in that general area … remembering I had passed the memorable pylon ten minutes prior… I thought. .. or, had thought, or was thinking at that time … whatever the correct grammar is here🤦🏻‍♂️ …

I suffer from DDDD. Doug’s Destination Distraction Disorders. I use the plural because there is no one itteration from what I can see. Happens pretty much everywhere I go – including leaving office supply stores looking for my car that, apparently, someone moved. My equally sorry automobile wasn’t anywhere near my disformed friend as I remembered. What would you do?

Me? Well, why not go into the local pet supply store, right? Distraction is key to solving the problem at hand. That’s what I figured, anyway. DDDD. An automatic response required for survival of my kind of species. In generations past, over-hairy, grunty cave dwellers in my lineage must have done evasive maneuvers similar to this. “Getting away from the situation” became the option of choice when over-hairy spouses’ constant nagging about the state of affairs, or losing the family dinosaur in a parking lot, knocked on their cave door. So, I dragged my knuckled self – albeit willingly – into the pet store because my preprogrammed, habitual mind told me to.

Pet stores have that certain smell. It’s a mix of new puppy, hamster poop, dog food, rabbit sweat, and cat shampoo. Once I opened the door, this woft of non-human odor molecules rode its way into my still car-less nostrils.

I wound my way around the leashes, treats, and nuggets – with partially full office bags still in hand – gliding seconds later into the marvelous, colorful, fishy-fun-filled, fantastic under water world of organized clear, stacked bubble tanks. Homes to many where directions don’t matter to orange, yellow, blue, and red inhabitants living in gravity free no-parking zones with cars they don’t own. Swimming randomly, bumping cautiously without harm, communicating with ease, joy aplenty just being there. Me, myself, and the fishes.

Watching for a few minutes was my take away from life. I do believe they posed for me … the pinks, the whites joined in. A symphony of silence for my enjoyment. With enough time, I would have named each friend swimming quickly by. Some said, “hi”, then found a new direction to make room for another to do the same. Some blew kisses. Some lifted their gentile fin in passing. Others had a glimmer of hope beaming in their ever opened eyes. What matter most to me, however, was their presence. They were there.

I had the unfortunate situation of still not knowing, though. Deep in reflection about inner self-worth in a scented box store filled with over-priced rats and snakes wasn’t exactly fixing my original problem. Asking my friends, the fish, where my car was parked wasn’t going to produce any results. Fish can’t talk and I’m pretty sure dry-erase boards don’t work in water. I had to solve this by sauntering out of the pet store and attacking the issue bumper-on. Certainly my car HAD to be out in the lot somewhere, I surmised.

It was. Just one row over, down from the battle scarred pylon soldier, hidden beside a rather large beast of a truck. Perhaps if I would not have turned right to begin with and continued forward, I may have seen my car. InDDDDeeed, I say this with all the confidence I can muster. I also know, had I done that, my magical moments in a pet store, alone with many friends, would have been lost forever.

And that is something I’m glad my hairy ancestors passed on to me.

…That’s putting it kindly just in case someone underage is reading this. I don’t appreciate shivering under my ten layers of clothes whose main job this time of year is keeping me warm. I’m not plagued with an internal flu bug ravaging my innards (that I’m aware of), nor do I have ice cubes hanging in dark, intimate places. Granted, at my age, there’s a few less insulating layers of squamous cells occupying my outer crust, but still …. I have a warm heart at my core – that should count for SOMETHING, right?

Western Pa winters aren’t what they used to be, I guess, but neither am I. My intolerance kicks on just about the time I hear the furnace doing the same thing. The basement monster klinks and clatters as my bones and blows hot air similar to what my friends claim I do in the midst of bloviating ad nauseam. My words don’t seem to take the chill off their opposition to my wit and the supposed snuggly indoor puffs of ventilated air churning about inside my home aren’t much better. Intolerance, indeed. Blankets, coverlets, afghans, quilts, duvets, a crash rhinos, a waddle of penguins, … cover me with anything this time of year. It doesn’t matter. I won’t warm up.

The energy I produce by shivering – in watts, amperes, or volts (however it’s calculated) – has to be enough to fund the light bill for a day’s use in a small city somewhere warm. The only problem I see with that plan is hooking up the electrodes through my multiple layers of glad rags. The only exposed skin available is my cherry-red nose sticking out through a tattered knit green ski-mask making me look like an ugly, oversized Christmas ornament. This plan, however ingenious as it may appear, may not be worth pursuing if, in the process, there would be a schnoozle-short and my conk gets compromised.

I have hoodies, sweaters, overshirts, long-sleeved shirts, and heavy socks, Oh, not in drawers and closets … all on at once.. layered quite nicely on my 6-foot frame. Long underwear, khaki slacks doubled in a manner so tightly compact I must find ways of walking unnaturally, yet appear normal in public. Normal in public is a problem for me anyway, so in my comfort zone I may appear to many. One of the benefits of being slightly irregular.

Any hot, sweet liquid dripped first down the gullet only works the first second or two provided I don’t burn the mucosa off my tongue. If that happens, all bets are off because I’m concentrating on stringing together useful, colorful language – hoping most small animals can hear me three blocks away. Maybe my tongue is in good order, tea or coffee settled comfortably in the stomach, then there is no warmth forthcoming anyway …. because …. steam from said beverage has caused mucous to run from my electrode free snoot making me take off my ski-mask thus releasing head-heat causing me to shiver.

I can’t seem to get help from anti-cold pack wanna-be thingamabobs either. Plug in heating pads do ok, but they’re kinda needy. They have limited range and mobility (like my left knee) which leaves me no option but to feel sorry for them. Bendability isn’t one of the finer traits they possess. Now, I’m not looking for an Olympic gymnast pad here, but something a bit more flexible than a 2×4 board wouldn’t be out of the picture. Hot water bottles last 2.6 seconds and then turn to polar ice cap status. I do have access to a newer re-heat snappy gizmo gel paddy thingy that is sorta cool. Bendy and warm … Just like a fresh hotdog. Of all the options, probably the best.

I, simply, don’t like being cold. Period. This year is the worst. I don’t see it getting any better as the years go on. Whatever global warming is going to do, I kinda wish it’d get on with it. Of course, that is meant in jest. I want my own personal sun following me around for warmth, happiness, and cost savings. I seriously have to spend less on penguins. The import fees on those buggers are expensive, they aren’t very good snugglers, and the rhinos are a bit too heavy.

• 

I started thinking about buttons, switches, and knobs yesterday. My apparent inability to properly function inside an automobile I’ve owned for years started the whole thing. It’s not like I was nervously nestled inside a US F-16 Fighting Falcon at a local drive thru scanning the skies for any Russian MiG 21 Fishbeds on my tail; Although, my focus was on paying for the two McDonald’s sausage egg McMuffins I ordered moments earlier through their crackly flight deck Command Center a few yards back. Paying was necessary through an open window of a car I was – or should have been – all to familiar with. Thus buttons, switches, and knobs.

Flat black ones, skinny worn out rubby ones … semi-round, notched, protruding, convex and concave ones all at my command. A simple twick of my finger on one of the flat pancakey pads made all four plastic skinny sticks on the doors go up and down. With proper planning, my simultaneous action of turning a cylinder and pulling a knob at the same time could spit squishy blue liquid at odd angles into the eyes of passing pedestrians. A larger protuberance causing humans to speak angry nonsense into my auto space through airwaves designed, apparently, for the most radical of thought while comfortably to my right sat another thumb flicker controlling P-D-D2-N-and-R. Too much. Just too much for a guy wanting to simply pay for a couple of sausage egg McMuffins.

All this to say I was still sitting as an auto-pilot, in a line taking way too long, thinking a lot about buttons, switches, and knobs (BS&K).

It started at the beginning. The Genesis for all of us. No exceptions. Lift up your Wal*Mart Balenciaga knock-off t-shirt and see, or feel around down there. It is the first button we experience and, in the poker game of life, you’re either inney or outey. Guys, admittedly, develop a fascination early with these dainty dermos depressions that continues on into adulthood (which could explain my problem today)… while ladies move on to more mature, fancy button words such as Cloisonné, Mandarin, and Satsuma. Speaking of diaphanous design, male-right and female-left on shirts seems to be buttonous balderdash. At what point in the history of apparel did one decide, “Hey, here’s an idea: since I think most females are right brained, thus left-handed, and most males are left brained, thus right-handed … let’s manufacture all the men’s shirts one way, and all the women’s shirts another …”? I did some research on this very topic. Here’s my finding, in the most simplest of terms, and logical of explanations : MEN; WEAPONRY. WOMEN: BREASTFEEDING. Got it. Can we move on?

Cute as a button I’ve never been. Not even sure who ever was, in some twisted nineteenth century mind. Before precise language was invented in the 20th century, what child appeared so similar to a round, bulbous, plastic twinklet bottom feeding in a sewing basket that the only word to describe such a child was, “button”? A term, mind you, only two letters removed from, “butt”. A butt that’s starting to tingle from sitting too long. Where were my sausage egg Mcmuffins?

Switching to switches. The ons and offs of life. I have a mechanic who loves to work on the very car I sat in waiting for my highly sodiumized sausage sandwiches. His favorite word, I believe, is switches. Never a fix goes without a mention of it and, as evidenced by post fix explanations, apparently everything worth running in my car relies on switchery-witchery in some form. “This switch does this and that …. ” is what I hear. I’m not a switch guy, so he can go on (and off, perhaps) about the “medrodoflow valve switch not triggering a drugnut sluffer plug wetterpew ping switch” … and it is about the same to me as, “You want fries with that?”. Which I didn’t because it was still breakfast …

Knobs. Ah, knobs. Certainly plentiful, but I bet there are more pennies, toothpicks, and straw wrappers jammed in between all the cracks, creases, and crevasses in my car than knobs in the known universe. Nature has no naturally forming knobs of use to anyone … unless you count great Aunt Ethel’s hairy knees which are, now, of no use to her since the bad skateboarding accident last year. Why she tried a frontside/backside powerslide on unproven retirement pavement is anyone’s guess. She’s ok. Tony Hawk sends his regards to her frequently … and his sympathies to the rest of us more often than that.

Artificial knobs to turn in life for many, many things …. most important among them: doors. Specifically, handles for doors. Knobs we grasp in the dark while pulling doors mightily back – over big toes, perhaps crunching them with such early morning force we must use our loudest foghorn voice to awaken the spirits of the household calm. Doors and knobs opening forcefully forward into a loved one nose standing invisibly to you, but bloody visible on their face waiting impatiently for a quick apology… and a tissue you don’t have. And, if it was your wife? A knob forthcoming on your forehead after pan mysteriously appears from her right back pocket and places said knurl on your noggin. You won’t be ok for a while. Tony Hawk will not be sending you anything.

I was waiting. Finally ready to pay. Money in hand. Btw, ya get a deal on the sandwiches: 2/$4 … plus tax. $4.24 ready. Buttons, switches, and knobs in place. Mind at ease. Hungry, but alert. Command Center gave the all-good as I saw the dual window slowly open to my left. There it was!! My reward…a steamy closed bag sitting on a counter only two feet away. One task left. Open MY damn window. Is that a button, switch, or knob? Sh*t. No manual override … for me or the frea**ing window. This one? .. wipers on. Really? 🤦🏻‍♂️ yeah sure. Let’s just go ahead and unlock the doors now, too.😲… oh, here they are. Sure THIS works!! .. I’ll open the BACK window first before finally figuring out what the right button is.😏….

I’m quite sure the young man didn’t notice anything. Had I landed a fighter jet in his drive-up lane, he might have. Regardless, it gave me pause to think about something other than January snow, politics, and everyday mental stressors. For $4.24 and a little more sodium, I think the sausage McMuffins were worth it.

Now, if I could only convince Aunt Ethel to fly a US F-16 Fighting Falcon …

Books I’ve read in their entirety, stacked cover to cover from the floor, wouldn’t reach my shiny belt buckle on even a bad, slouchey day. This doesn’t speak well of my lliterary background, does it? An organized pile of music manuscripts I’ve managed to prop in front of my eager piano eyes, however, would reach well beyond all the belts of my ancestors (and mine) fused end to end …. This is the reality of my non-Harry Potter, never-Lord of the Rings Quadrilogoyeaet existence. Reading words isn’t my thing. Never was. Speaking words?, …. well, that is more my companion lane.

I admire readers. Those who smoogle, in my book, on as much a regular schedule as breathing, have earned my respect. Bookstores are stocked with these creatures of the earth … quiet page flippers, humming affirmations to themselves while looking over their glasses wondering who’s watching them (ps, it’s me). Quick readers capturing charming chapters, or perhaps seeing sensational sentences, drawing them into enough of a fantastical frenzy to urge them forward toward possible purchasing. My fascination of the literary sphere isn’t only with them, but also the bubbling space around them filled with so much more than I’d ever believe we’d possibly need to know in one lifetime.

There’s also an added bonus of the self-help section. I’m always looking for a book to read … that will help me understand how to read a book … leading to a full understanding of the book … upon finishing reading of the book. There never is such a book resting on a shelf before me. I’d pen this best-selling short, descriptive, how-to tome if I actually knew the art of beginning-to-end readery. As it stands, “Mastering the Art of Sleeping during English Lit. in School” is a title best emblazoned in fuchsia on the cover of my book.

Reading people who smoogle is more my style. Doesn’t necessarily have to be in large, square rooms divided up into bookish cliques where history buffs buff romance romantics. I have ogled them at the beach, restaurants, medical facilities, churches, … really anywhere a set of eyes can look upon words sixteen inches away. Their faces speak when words can’t. When I see eyebrows raise at the slightest hint of excitement coming off the page and squinch at apparent terror striking at their soul, this is litellation for me. There’s an obligatory, unconscious chin rub at times accompanied by the slight nod as if to say, “Why yes, fine writer, that is well said.”. Then we have ear-nubbers. Special skill readers, ENs must hold open a stubborn book with one hand wilst, for no apparently good reason, reach back to nub-tug their ear. I see this more often than I care to mention – but I must. There is no scratch. No itch, No burn. In my very limited knowledge, I don’t believe hemorrhoids can exist on an earlobe, so why do this? Please, why?

Slow page turners are, to me, fascinating to follow. I love the process. I can start – and almost finish a Pepsi – in the time it takes them to finish reading page 34 and then start reading page 35 … an eternity away on the flip side. It is a slooooow process. I can spot one of this special breed a long way away by a finger. Not any of mine, though. Spying one of theirs carefully winding, word by word, down through the page is the key to their madness. Three lines away from the bottom, by my estimate, it begins. There’s a slow roll of the other hand toward the top of the page, slowly grasping the corner slightly above 34 being careful to not disturb the single finger action going on below. The leisurely buggler literally folds back the page as if it’s a Parisian 200 thread count silk bed linen – all the while still maintaining full head-on interest in the dialogue below. Methodically the page moves right to left … as the magic begins. I know it. I see it. The head starts to move in the same direction. UH OH!!

Certainly not a word missed? A phrase misunderstood? The process slows even more. The universal glue of page turning starts to set. Page Process Paralysis. My Pepsi half done by now, I see the dilemma as clear as the bottom of my glass. What happens next defies my logic. The process reverses. I observe the page corner heading back to a position exited a dinosaur’s lifetime ago. “What are you doing there?”, I ask silently in their direction. I want, in the kindest of ways, to go over and ask, but I fear prickly things being thrown at me from the indecisive page flicker.

In a sudden’s pace, as I mull over once again a smoogler’s dilemma and the bottom of page 34 is still being ingested visually, an event horizon is breached. I see a slight impatience arise. An anticipatory head tiltish peek around the corner looking into the new, upper coming attractions. The birth of page is about to happen by the crowning of 35’s top half… and … there it is: The final pat of approval, calm rub down, and massage of fresh, virgin words never before seen….and my Pepsi needs a refill.

These could be reasons why I’m not much of a smoogler. If intimacy is required in my life, I don’t want to do it with three hundred fifty-six pages, alone, in a library or elsewhere while some guy, drinking a Pepsi, watches me. Besides, I may not have a belt on to protect myself.

Books never, ever appealed to me. In first, second, or third person experiences with books, I was – and quite possibly still am – as attracted to them as black licorice on t-bone steak. I read, you read, they read … not much difference. Show me a short story or blog, I’m all over it. A Facebook article outlining binge-eating candy corn? On it. A headline leading into a story about possible marshmallow mountains in Brazil? Let’s go. Exciting blogs about writing titillating blogs? Absolutely. By contrast, ……. Here’s a free book a…bou..t…” — ” ….ah, wait, Ron Popeil has a new sliver-dicer on t.v. for my dirt pile in the back yard … only $19.95 …I’ll get back to you on that book-thing.

As much as smoogling appears to be an isolated activity, I believe it to be more a habit forming social problem … only because I can’t participate in it. I’m a outlier hanging out in rejected alleys. The sullen shadows where I am flicking ashes, not pages, of sarcastic regret into the streets of book clubs everywhere. Ah, to be enlightened by the views of others over the sipping of tea, dark chocolate biscotti munching, and merriment. To be told I am a Gryffindor – with no possible clue as to the meaning – and have no one … NO supporting shoulder to cry on during a Monday evening book club where someone named JoEllen can quell my Potterious query. It is a conspiracy against us non-smooglers, to be sure.

Before closing, I do have to own up to one small lie. I DID read a book this past summer. It was horrible. I said to myself, “Let’s do this …”. So, I did it. Out of respect to the author, I won’t mention either his name or the title. Loosely based on his life, it followed a love story back-and-forth between crazy and crazier. If there were ways to describe body parts and pieces using third grade language mash-ups, he did it. Drop in a few nature bits, hotel rooms, psycho episodes, potted plants, markers, tattoos, and, of course deeply thoughtful, introspective moments of spiritual zen … and you get my point. The guy is a published author – no intention to harm his character or success, but his book wasn’t a smoogler’s dream. At least not mine, anyway.

Why smoogle, the word? Honestly, don’t know. The urban dictionary defines it as a word meaning, “a word that is said to reduce the awkwardness of an awkward silence.” I didn’t know that until googling it just now. Hmmm. Seems a bit appropriate, don’t ya think? I like when coincidence, i.e. fate, meets up with me. Hopefully, writing about my lack of reading reduced the awkward silence in your day.

I’ll see you at chapter’s end – that’s my style no matter the means. I could be peeking around the corner watching you nub-tug, or be in the self-help section glazing over hundreds of “How to Love Smooglers” books. You’ll know I’m there ’cause I’ll speak. That’s more my companion lane … and you’re my faithful reader.

Smoogle on, my friend.

Almost .08 cents a piece is about my limit. Didn’t realize this was my maximum price per cheap, China-made key holder rings until today. Had they not been color coded, my ceiling would have been far less AND, if the previous little impish bag of key holders I bought two weeks ago wasn’t missing, there’d be no need for this .94 cents purchase at all.

See, I lost ten of the twelve. Eighty-three percent of a previous bag of key holders are, still, playing with my mind. Two are in use, happily, but there’s no appeasing a distraught, mildly tense man who has since made repurchase ring reparations … and I’m just getting started.

Today is one of those weird days in January, so to assume the normal is, well, wrong. Snow should be blowing along with the crackling of salt and ice under the tires of slow moving cars. Instead, there are near 50-degree dry roads with an old, white pick-up truck in front of me, a few minutes ago, wanting to make a left turn while the red left turn arrow clearly was begging him not to … as was all the oncoming traffic. No harm done, fortunately.

Earlier, a regrettable error in shipping, and a few emails back and forth “over the pond”, did add some levity to my morning. I’ve fashioned a rather nice business relationship with a couple and feel quite jammy over it. Their business has been so kind to me. Wanting to show my appreciation, I thought sending them some small things to demonstrate same would be a good gesture. Yesterday, I carefully packaged up two items and was quite chuffed about it .. until this morning when I realized only one of the two actually made it into the box – which was, yes, on the first leg of a week long package vacation. You may think, “Codswallop, there Bloke”. To which I reply in Australian for no reason, “No, Mate. There’s more…”.

Hoping to send said second package this morning to the U.K., I quickly realized, prior to sending it out, today wasn’t going to be normal. The second “gift” couldn’t be sent. Details can’t be disclosed. Suffice to say, I had a hunch that turned out to be correct. Thus the following email to my ever so patient friend and business correspondent:

“…aaaand, of course THAT plan backfired after I realized one unalterable fact existing between the US and UK. I had to, once again, be quick on my feet. Not what I originally wanted, but hey, you’ll get a chuckle and enjoy the merriment of the moment upon opening envelope #2″

Her reply, as a follower of my blog:

“I can see a new blog post coming on…”

Well done, my friend. You are a prognosticator of the highest order!

Three. I ate a Big Mac for breakfast. Ugh. Why?

All of this … getting me to my key ring problem about which I’m still miffed. Not the price. .94 cents…uhm, I can live with that – top of my range, but ok. The color assortment problematic with the tan in there, however the dark blue makes up for it. Looooove dark blue. Where are the other 10? Yes, THAT’s still a looming cloud over my day.

Here’s the problem: checking out at the register. Not normal, anymore. With my expensive little bag of foreign plastic key nuggets in hand, all I wanted to do is hand her $1 US and get back .06 cents. It was already a long day. I’d lost ten of the little darlings to fate, digested more than my daily allowance of sodium, and couldn’t send a simple trinket of thanks to the U.K.. Please, with all that is good in this blessed world, help me….

The clerk, after clearing up a break room food discussion with another clerk two registers across, did finally attend to my large order. Scan. “Bing” … and then it happened.

“Your phone number, please?”

“What, why?”

“I have to put a number in our system.”

“Why? I’m only buying $1 worth ? You need my phone number for that?”

“Yes.”

“How about I let you keep the change (knowing it’ll be less than $1 .. been here done it) … and I don’t give you my number?”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Ok. Can I have your number?”

“Why?”

“I just asked you that”

“Huh?”

“Sure, I’ll give you my (fake) number … it’s …”

Where’s the privacy anymore? Not to mention receipt sizes equal to the size of the order? I could line up all my new key rings end to end and STILL be shorter than the receipt purged out from the dingy spitter. What’s with the question ..? I’m sure they want to know what dudes (ettes) walk through the store. Gettin’ the vibe there. What’s wrong with: “Hey, where Y’all from?”, or have a freakin’ key on the register labeled, “Person refuses to answer the stupid-a&& phone number question”, because he’s paying cash, not buying a Porsche, isn’t in line to be King of England, has no intention of replacing you as “Cashier of the year”, and can’t even keep track of twelve little pieces of imported plastic from two weeks ago.

This was not a normal day. I sure hope it was for you. Let me know if you need a key ring. Sure as tomorrow is the day after today, I’ll find the lost buggers. Blimey.

• 

They say it starts with a dream. I disagree. My theory: It starts with a few extra dollars in your pocket and a proclivity to gamble. A theory I’ve proven to be true over and over again.

December 31st of “last year” was no exception. My usual non-alcoholic watering hole – where I frequently purchase lottery tickets – is a local gas station at the intersection of a north-south PA route and main street going through town. “Watering hole”, because it’s a place for bottled iced tea (an obligatory, daily personal refreshment) and gas necessary for automobile re-fuelment. These are my two top reasons to stop in, frequently, and “impulsively” (yeah, we’ll go with that word choice) discharge some hard earned money into the abyss of the monster known as the big green lottery machine. When the number of zeros in the odds of winning equal the numbers in the actual monetary prize … yeah, it’s a chasm of the highest order.

The gap between my wanting to win and forking over the loot is very narrow, however. That’s the tendency to gamble … not the ridiculous dream. More on that in a bit …

There are a number of other places to obtain gas and tea. I like this place. A home away from home … away from home. A second resident cousin once removed, if you will. My car has so much a familial relationship with this building I believe it could find a way there itself. I, as well, have a wonderful connection to the family. They are a tight, well-bonded Indian family who have graciously accepted my silly humor, bad days, and family issues. Sometimes, I see my life as one big colorful geisha fan. Between the folds – in the dark creases between the tints of splendor everyone sees – there are friends, everyday friends, who are simply there. This family is in the one of my folds. Always.

The oldest son wears the brightest colored shirts. For me to go a week without complimenting him would be a strange seven days. Not only are the colors vibrant , but the designs are not your typical, standard conservative, plain …. pick an adjective. Motivated, young, personable, presentable, kind, … again, pick a personality trait among the rainbow of choices and you wouldn’t be too far off in describing him.

His dad is all business, all the time. A over-used cliche (I dislike these), but so appropriate. A more conservative dresser than his oldest son and the matriarch of the business empire stretching across the ocean to India. Always respectful toward his customers, as expected, demonstrated by the “Hello, Mr. Doug” immediately spoken to me .. every… single … time I enter. He could be in the back shouting from the freezers, doing paperwork at a desk in the side room, or wiping off a coffee counter – always acknowledging a customer’s arrival. There is no other establishment in my hometown where this occurs. Yes, there’s the, “May I help you?”, or the, “Is there anything I can do for you?” … kinda not the same, though. In fairness, there is one other place, however, this gas station / iced tea gentleman doesn’t ever use sarcasm, so a different category of customer service.

Iced tea in hand and a few extra dollars, I decided to play, again, yesterday for the drawing tonight – New Year’s Day. Why not, right? No use in making a New Year’s resolution I have absolutely no intention keeping. The small gap in my wallet should match the infinitely smaller space between an urge and an implementation. I carefully place my six one-dollar bills down on the black stained counter in front of me thinking, “If the scratch-off maniacs would simply wait a few seconds and dig into their addictions somewhere else, … like I do” internally chuckling at the irony.

As quickly as the thought ended, the green monster spit out my ridiculous-odds tickets. My friend casually handed me the “proclivity to gamble authorization passes” notated with the numbers $220,000,000 unimpressively emblazoned in small, abbreviated form: Powerball Jkpt. $220 Mil. This is why I don’t believe in the dream theory.

The odds are sooo incredibly bad, THEY don’t even print all the zeros of the jackpot on the ticket. “1 in 292,201,338” are the actual advertised odds (www.cnbc.com google search). Apparently I have only three of the possible combinations @ $2 each. Fair trade, right? My calculator doesn’t have enough zeros on the right side of the decimal to calculate the percent dividing 292 million into 3.

Buying a ticket does not start with a dream. It starts with driving onto the parking lot of a wonderful convenience store, day after day, walking into a welcoming handshake, and plunking down a few well-earned dollars on black-white-and-red little pieces of paper.

I could not do this and save the money. The iced tea and gas would still be available for purchase. My days would fold out into weeks .. into months … into years if I am so lucky and blessed to have that. My fan folds wouldn’t change much. I’m sure my Indian friends would appreciate “Mr. Doug” whether or not I buy lottery tickets.

Eleven p.m. EST, knowing my day, I’ll be sleeping – probably dreaming. The lottery system will be up a running with the Powerball drawing broadcast live on t.v.. My tickets will be in the usual place. If the magic balls fall in my favor, I will not know until the sun rises tomorrow, January 2nd , 2020.

I’m debating a follow-up blog tomorrow. Should I? Shouldn’t I? If I don’t post anything, is there a possibility, in my absence, a jackpot win is assumed? If I post up a completely different subject, am I being coy? What if I say, “I didn’t match a single number.” – would you believe me? (you should, btw…). I’ll leave it at: “Happy New Year” for now and let’s see what the ‘morrow brings. ‘kay?

Until then, “… to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep … what dreams may come…” (Hamlet)

• 

I fell in love today.

It took only one bite to realize my original plans of a year-end silent soliloquy was toast. To be fair, the wheat toast was already ingested when, after one forkful of an omelet barely eaten, I espied the most amazing of shapes before me. Peppered plate un-rotated, friends surrounded me in unimpressed amazement, and I – a willing accomplice in this jovial platter of blog-worthy coincidence before me … were all together on this last day of 2019.

Who knew? Certainly not I. The ordering of a simple sausage, egg, and cheese omelet earlier should not have, under normal circumstances, required a quick holster draw of a camera phone. This morning was not a normal circumstance. If it was, I’d be uploading the pre-planned writing saved yesterday and attaching pictures of flowers, moonbeams, and stars. Well … not really, but you get my point.

As it seems to be, I am not doing that currently. What I am doing is posting up a camera shot of a ever-so-partially eaten omelet. “Unimpressive”, by your standards, perhaps, but “Magnificent” in my eyes. As an aside, you continue to read, so I know your infatuation with “Amulet” the omelet (yes, I’ve assigned a name – don’t judge me) is equal to my initial attraction. What drew me in? What stopped me from another viscous tining into the eggy breakfast fare?….

…. Why, the shape? The luscious shape. Look at her. Is there anything more beautiful than a head, dorsal fin, caudal fin, and pectoral fin glistening back off a porcelain peppered plate? Ah, my Amulet.

I’ve been wanting “different” lately. My friends knew nothing of this “different”. I entered the cafe hungry. I knew it was not a hunger for food, but longings and connections with seafaring, romantic impulses missing in our landlocked community. The wanting of warm waves rippling in my toes. Salty ocean breezes and greased air from boardwalk fryers crossing beneath my nose are so absent here.

As is stands, I take my pleasures where they are. Omelets and all. Imaginings take shape in our wonderful minds. In these places live oceans of ideas. Today, I have a friend … on a plate. And she’s special.

I chose the name for two reasons. First, should I ever compose a song, “Amulet” and “omelet” are close in rhyme and/or sound. Grammy worthy, perhaps not, however I can dream of her in my private evening nocturnes and be quite satisfied in that alone. Second, amulets protect against all the “bad stuffs” possibly coming my way.

I will have to take solace in only thinking about Amulet as time moves forward into 2020 and beyond. Reflecting upon our short time together this morning, I am so keenly aware she left me as quickly as she entered.

Because I ate her. And she was delicious. Fins and all.

Sometimes love requires sacrifice. I will forever remember beauty as her shape.

My sausage, egg, and cheese Queen. My Amulet.

• 

I detest tapioca pudding.  To use the word “detest” is to give more credit to this dessert than I feel it deserves.  The texture should never … ever … be allowed in the mouth of any human. Never and Ever.

Piccata, on the other hand, is a word I can embrace.  Any word describing, in Italian, the act of inserting strips of fat or bacon into meat before cooking should … at all times … be allowed in the mouth of any human being.  Always and forever.

As captain of this blog today, I declare the above to be true – beyond reproach.  Truer than “no round squares” and “no square circles”.

Now, unless you are the captain of this blog (doubtful), eating chicken piccata (questionable), or sliding vanilla tapioca pudding down your gullet (ugh), there isn’t a chance you have any idea what I’m writing about.  Frankly, I don’t have much of a clue either. However, “don’t have much of a clue” IS better than none at all, so I’ll take the helm and steer this puppy into uncharted waters if that’s ok with you?… 

I love words and numbers.  The title today is: “Tacos, Camels, and Pickles”.  These are words, but there are hidden numbers as well: 5, 6, then 7.  Easy, peasy – the number of letters in each word. (You went back to count, didn’t you?) No other order makes sense in a mind where O comes before C comes before D.  Unless, to be accurate, you suffer from C-D-O where all the letters ARE in the correct alphabetical order which, in itself, presents a paradoxical complication since then we have: Compulsive Disorder Obsessive. We may as well say the earth is the seventh planet from the sun if “pickles”, then “tacos”, then “camels” if the order doesn’t really matter. But it does. It has to. Has. To.

Trust me, as your captain.  Your land legs will return. Embark on a jaunt with me as we explore what I consider to be a mismatch of the highest order.  This is a short trip from here to there and back.

An unseasonably warm day in December gets me outside of the house – especially on Saturday when I need, badly, a schedule book for 2020.  Having multiple responsibilities requiring a delegation of time, scribbling here-and-there notes, names, and obligations in a book is a necessity.  In my, ahem, “younger” years, there existed enough reserve brain multitasking matter to accomplish any tasks without the need for the written word, save the occasional sticky note on the ‘fridge or car dash.  As things exhaustively stand now, an overpriced, bound, cheaply made reminder of how fast time is passing me by seems to be the only option. 

I present the box store.  Specifically, the “office” box store.  Additionally specific, the “office supply store”.  Very different from Amazon, of course. Ah, Amazon.  The “A to Z internet mega-behemoth get everything delivered to you in smiley boxes that talk” store.  A few clicks and my same schedule book would be wonderfully plopped on my porch in three to five days … for half the price … by a drone, maybe, and possibly filled in with all my appointments for the year.  I chose the former. Touch then buy today. That kind of a day. Also, I needed a drive, fresh air, and food for lunch.

I like this particular box store.  Easily navigable because the aisles are clearly marked in large block letters for the elderly, the layout hardly ever changes, and the associates are kind.  If there’s ever a time when I need a job – like now, it could be argued – finding myself in tan khaki pants and a red polo shirt is doable. The money I’ve spent here, back into my pocket and invested wisely, would be a nice little retirement.  Alas, I have a nice collection of binders, clips, computers, doodads, gizmos, jiggers, widgets, contraptions, electronics, and containers. Not to exclude pencils, pens, stickers, empty toner cartridges, papers, envelopes, markers, poster boards, tabs, and highlighters.  

What I don’t have, nor will ever have from this particular store, are ….. SOCKS.  

Yes, socks.  I’m baffled as to why socks are on sale in an office store.  Is there ever a time when a sockless executive enters this store thinking, “I can’t believe I left home not wearing socks! Suit? Check. Tie? Check. Both shoes? Check. ….” At what point in this person’s morning does it NOT occur socks are missing?  Furthermore, after realizing said feet are naked except for the imported leather Berlutis, this person, then, must get in his or her car, drive past J.C. Penney’s, Macy’s, Boscov’s, – name a store – and intentionally park within walking distance of this “office supply store” hoping they stock …. Socks.  

Oh, and here’s the sockless kicker:  the socks are NOT dress socks. Said professional slunks up to the display rack to find, in horror, socks of various, colorful, yet totally inappropriate design.  The guterall emptiness of an immediately apparent wasted trip. What is seen? Tacos, camels, and pickles along with various other pre-adolescent, toy store, bouncey ball themed footwear. To boot, the rack where “sushi” themed socks sold out (“why” I ask in amazement) remains bare, so if raw-fish-motif toe coverings are desired … Mr., Miss, or Mrs. Professional is, well, screwed.

Who is the customer?  I need to know. Perhaps a part-time job in this store is the right job for me if only to see one person buy one pair of these socks.  I’d like to be the sock stocker stalker. After satisfying my curiosity, I can quit to go back being a regular customer – spending my retirement savings on additional doodads and gizmos.

These socks certainly are a mismatch of the highest order.  As left is to right, they are perfect pairs unto themselves.  Between reams of paper and letter sorter options, I see no connection, however. Camels don’t eat tacos or pickles that I’m aware. Unless Mexican fare has changed recently, pickles don’t go inside tacos. I certainly didn’t need to see any of this today.  All I wanted was fresh air, lunch, and a schedule book.

You now have permission to disembark.  Before I, the captain, unhook the velvet rope at the head of the gangplank, I must explain the tapioca pudding and chicken piccata I have so graciously prepared as your departing gift.  

There could be some kind of hustle a-foot.  A CON, if you will, at this store. If there is a corporate game at play – a hidden camera “let’s see who pays attention to these socks” contest – designed to lure unsuspecting, but curious datebook buyers, I have my toes in the cotton waters. Let’s play.

Take the first two letters out of each word, Taco (TA), Camel (CA), and Pickle (PI) to get “TACAPI”.  Organize them in alphabetical order, of course: AACIPT. From this, take each letter of “CON” one at a time and add it to those six letters to form three individual words: Captain, Tapioca, and Piccata. Start a blog trying, desperately, to tie in a picture of socks with said words. Confirm success in brain.

Even in the insanity of this mixed up word play I found quite amusing to create, it still has more insight and wisdom inherent than selling bright yellow, banana colored, ankle-biter, food printed socks to absent minded professionals.  Just a captain’s opinion. Enjoy your meal.

I still hate tapioca pudding, btw. Yuck.

Blogs don’t, necessarily, have to be about personal experiences. I’m finding, however, building paragraphs on the life and times of a rather “sometimes” clumsy, clueless guy can fill a page or two. That guy being me, of course.

I make note of certain moments in my life by tagging them in my memory of shame. There exists, within my gray matter, an area reserved for remembering my slips-ups, errors in adulting, or shall we say, goof ball situational SNAFUs. Now, before you judge me, the only difference here is I am humble enough to share. You have these. too. We could sit together outside a quaint coffee house, slide our chairs up to a charming little bistro table, sip Voya tea, and compare notes. C’mon, now. You KNOW we could!

For purposes of a scene set-up, I was not in a quaint coffee house. Also, for privacy issues, I cannot divulge any more location details. Now, hold on! Don’t get all “I know you’re an amateur writer , but ‘no details’?” on me… Here’s what you need to know:

1. I was there.
2. I was at a beverage table
3. There were ceramic coffee mugs
4. There were plastic cold cups
5. Sugar, cream, stirrers, etc…
6. A bucket of ice
7. Very nice linens covering the table, AND

A large beverage dispenser with Iced Tea.

If you have any sense of senses, I think you can sense where this may be going. My lack of details, save the beverage specifics, should be a clue. Oh, I’m only beginning here.

Here’s the layout: Plastic cups to my left – upside down. Large beverage container immediately to my fore. Ceramic mugs to my right. Ice bucket in front of mugs. Red and white linens? Beautifully placed under all – diagonal to themselves as if the angels took time away from arranging the stars to do so. My visit there?… I just wanted a simple cup of iced tea. A. Simple. Cup. Of. Iced. Tea. Oh, and my food from the buffet was already at my table having been so elegantly chosen and placed on the plate in such a manner as I have never done before. Ah, the evening was going so, so well. Was.

I am right handed with cups. Left handed throwing balls. Right writing. (Well, both as a pianist …. but I digress). Cup under spout of dispenser with right, left hand turns on handle left-to-right and tea begins to fill cup. Note the “bold” type. This is important. Normal people would remember if left-to-right is ON for tea ….. what would OFF be, class? That’s correct….right-to-left!! Well, see I wasn’t happy with the rate of flow, so I increased the right-ness (correctly), BUT in the process FORGOT the L-R, R-L paradigm, soooooo when it came time to stop tea flow ….. well….

….. I went with Up ..then…Down…then…Up again. This did not work, duh. Enter panic override. Psychology: reaction vs response. I reacted. Remember I am right-handed, still. The tea is continuing to flow – aggressively at this point in the Doug vs. the Volcano of cold caffeine game. Also, I am alone at the table. Nobody is around to help. No-bod-y. My left handed, athletic dominance begins to assert itself.

My original plastic cup is volumed out. Proud that I’ve managed to not spill any, another cup has been awkwardly grabbed and placed under the spout. Now what? I am still not remembering to turn the handle back to the left…the simplest of remedies escapes me. Oh I know !! Be more aggressive on the UP/DOWN option! Most certainly this is the thought-through, mature way to handle the handle. And then the unthinkable happens…

The handle breaks off.

Sh*t! …. sorry for the language. Wait. I’m not sorry. You would have said the exact same thing. (check your notes)

Hours pass .. not really, but it felt like it. I’m pulling off plastic cups faster than the best shell-game con artist at the beach. Have you ever noticed, the faster you pull, the greater the suck-force between the one you pull and the next one? Oh, it’s real! You can, in the midst of panic, pull off ten at a time in one swift yank while cold, brown liquid runeth over thy finely washed linen. On..and…on. Seconds into minutes… into.. eternity…

After seemingly thousands of plastic cups and Einstein-blackholian amounts of time, I’m into the coffee mugs which are significantly smaller in volume (because THAT makes sense, right? … even though plastic cups are still available .. oh, about 100 or so). The pretty red and white linens are beginning to look a lot like NOT Christmas. I’m having my own personal Boston Tea party hell over at the beverage table while the cling-clang festival of happy little forks and spoons hitting plates of warm buffet food is Merry Christmasing behind me.

Snap shot this moment. Scene freeze. Iced tea, full force, pouring out of an untamed beverage container. Male, aged fifty-five, holding a wooden handle in one hand, pale, hungry, disoriented, other hand on a cup, mug, or open palm under spout “praying” for a miracle, linens soaking up the moment. I honestly believe there was a moment when said beverage container sneered in my direction as if to say, “Dude, I don’t know who you are, but this sh*t is funny …”

FINALLY, I caught the eye of a server who immediately came over, pried open my cold, dead fist containing the handle, and managed to stop the embarrassment. Oh, not mine. Hers. She didn’t know me. Actually, I’m confident she had no interest in saving me from myself. Pretty sure, if a large enough tray was available, she would have been able to serve tea to the crew of a small navy frigate – had one docked near by – considering how much I graciously pre-poured. … In many plastic cups AND small coffee mugs. How generous of me to provide two serving sizes, huh?

Well, I did get a chance to eat. Here’s the kicker. There HAD to be a kicker. Later into the meal, a server approached me …. not necessarily to talk about the tea-chasm of emotional torture, but to clear the table. The subject came up. “Maybe” I mentioned it first, your honor? Hard to know .. wink wink wink.

And, THIS is why I write. Her eventual reply:

“Oh, that happens all the time. We’ve mentioned it to the owner many times. Ten times an event, people try up/down because that’s what most of those containers do. That handle snaps off, but doesn’t break, We snap it back on. I’m thinking of just buying a new one with my own money, anyway. Did you enjoy your food?”

“WHAT THE @#$*(&^!&@&*$@& !!!!!!”