Scene From A Gas Station

This morning I was running my normal Saturday errands and stopped at a Mobil station to fill up the truck for the week ahead. I like to have a full tank prior to the week starting, because I dislike stopping before or after work unless it's absolutely necessary. This must be linked in some way to my latent OCD, but I'm too lazy to give it much thought.

As I was pulling up to a pump, a gentleman exited the mini-mart and pulled up short, thinking I might run over him. I waved him by and he raised his hand in acknowledgement and walked on to his well used Chevy Suburban sitting just opposite of me. I followed him with my eyes and saw that the Suburban was occupied by an unattractive heavy set woman and an equally unattractive heavy set 20-something man. I took these two to be related, as they were both of the same general body type.

As I was preparing to put gas in the truck, I wondered how a reasonably pleasant looking fellow had hooked up with a really unpleasant looking woman like that. Had theirs been a marriage of convenience? Did he have a really crummy personality and she was the best he could do? Or was he being kidnapped by these two beasts?

These are the kinds of things that go through my mind in a split second, and I've long since given up on trying to figure out why I think this way. It's just me.

So, as I was spinning my story in my head, I happened to glance down from the woman's face to her arm sticking out the side window and saw that she had a lit cigarette in her hand. As I looked at the back seat, I saw that Junior also had his hand sticking out his side window, also with a lit cigarette.

I drew my hand away from the start button on the pump and stared at the woman. Then we had the following exchange, which went a little bit like this ...

Fat Woman: What?

Me: Oh nothing. I'm just waiting for you to leave before I start pumping gas so I don't blow us all up!

Fat Woman: Sputter.

Me: Morons.

Fat Woman: Fuck you!

Me: No, fuck you.

The husband/kidnapee put the vehicle in gear and left the station lot, but the fat woman managed to flip me the bird before they disappeared into traffic. I turned my pump on and began filling the tank.

Sigh ...

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

One of the good things about the end of my business "career" was that I didn't have to fly anymore. I believe that when I first started out, I enjoyed it. But as the years went by, I began to dread the thought of all the hassle that is air travel. Getting to the airport on time, checking in, waiting, being trapped in a metal tube 40,000 feet above the surface of the earth, and then more waiting. And then you had to come back and do it all over again.

Most of the time I flew in large jets, and sometimes I was relegated to small puddle jumpers. But one time, I flew in a 4 seat private plane.

One of our plant managers in downstate Illinois called me one day and asked if I would come with him on a visit to a guy who was starting up a small business, manufacturing some kind of "wonder" cattle feed supplement. During the late 80's and early 90's, it seemed like everybody and their mother was coming up with some new additive to get livestock to market sooner ... without the use of steroids. And every feed manufacturer was looking for an edge to improve their market share. It was an incredibly stupid period in the the history of the industry and logical minds have since took the reigns again and put it on the right path.

Anyway, the facility involved was somewhere in the wilds of Western Iowa and "Mel", the plant manager, had a great idea. Instead of taking a commercial flight to Des Moines and driving to the site, he'd hire an airplane and pilot so we could fly right from his place directly to the site, saving us a lot of time. I had my reservations, because it seemed to me like small planes usually crashed a lot more than big planes, but I didn't want to appear to be a mega-sized pussy, so I agreed to go with him.

Several days later, I drove down to LaSalle, Illinois to the airport where we would start our flight. Mel met me there and introduced me to the pilot, who had an uncanny resemblance to Wayne Knight, if Wayne Knight wore a suit.

Speaking of Wayne Knight, whatever happened to him? He was in "Seinfeld" for all those years, then he had a big part in "Jurassic Park", and then he was in "Third Rock From The Sun", but then I heard he lost a lot of weight, because he didn't want to be fat and unhealthy anymore, only once he lost the weight, no one would hire him again. Talk about a bitch ...

So, Pilot Wayne piled us into the itty-bitty Cessna, and we took off. At first, it wasn't too bad, except that I was in the back seat because I had forgot to yell "shotgun" before we took off and it was kind of cramped back there. I also noticed how shoddy the plane was inside. The seats had rips in them, the arm rests were broken and there was garbage all over the floor. Not impressive at all.

As we got higher, it started to get cold. In fact, there was a cabin thermometer on the instrument panel and when I peeked between the front seats to read it, I was a little alarmed to see that it read 36 degrees. I was going to tap Wayne on the shoulder, but he had head phones on and seemed a little busy, so I asked Mel to turn on the goddamned heat. However, it turned out that the heater was broken, but this wasn't any big deal, because it was Spring and it was warm outside. Except that it was warm outside on the ground, not at 12,000 feet.

As we started out slow descent, it started to get warm again, and I could see details on the ground. And I was seeing a lot of brown poofy stuff racing along the surface. Wayne took time out from listening to his Walkman, to explain that a windstorm had rolled in from Nebraska and the brown poofy stuff I was seeing was dirt from the newly plowed fields being blown this way and that. Only the brown poofy stuff didn't look like it was merely meandering this way and that. It looked like it was going someplace with a purpose, and quickly.

I asked Wayne how fast he thought the wind was blowing. He said he had checked about a minute previously, and the wind on the ground was blowing at about 45 to 50 knots. As if to drive this point home, it was right at this moment that the wind grabbed the plane and started tossing it around. Wayne stopped talking and started a cage match with the steering yolk.

I sat back in my ripped seat and grasped the broken arm rest, and thought, "well, 40 to 50 knots isn't too bad". But then I remembered that knots isn't the same thing as MPH, and when I did the conversions, I sure as shit didn't feel any better. I looked at the back of Wayne's head, and there was sweat running freely in rivulets down the fat folds in his neck and into the collar of his white dress shirt, turning the material translucent. I glanced over at the thermometer on the dash ... 50 degrees ... not good. Then I looked at Mel in the front seat. He looked very pale.

Definitely not good.

I've read that it's not good form for a blog post to go on too long. So I'm going to attempt something I've never tried before and do a two parter. Join me later and find out if I live or not.

Or don't ... it's entirely up to you.

Cyber Snub

Friday nights after 10 p.m. are a favorite time for me. Almost as good as Saturday nights after 10 p.m. but lacking just a few elements. This is the time I get to sit at the computer and catch up on all the things I missed during the week.

I can think up ideas for posts, or look at comments on my blog, if I had any. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. I'll go through on-line magazine articles, read blogs that I've earmarked and enjoy, or search for new ones.

And I like to look through facebook entries to see what's been happening with my "friends" during the week.

This evening I was doing just that ... looking through the weeks entries, when I clicked on my "wall" page and glanced over to the left at my "friends" listing. It said "4".

Wait a minute ... "Four"? The last time I looked I had five. What the fuck?

Before I go on here, I want to acknowledge something before all of you wise-asses out there start sniggering to yourselves. Yes. I have (had) only five people on my friends list. And yes, I know that YOU have 30 or 40 ... or 300 or 400 ... or more "friends". Well, let me tell you something. I may have only five (four) friends, but they are REAL friends. Every single one of my five (four) friends are the finest people I know and we are TIGHT! As far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't trade 500 of your friends for even one of my five (four) friends. So, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Anyway, I kept looking at that "4" and the first thought that went through my mind was "All right! Who's the dirty, rotten SOB who dumped me!" And seeing that I only had five friends to begin with, it wasn't all that hard to figure out who was missing.

Immediately, I started wondering why she dumped me. Was it something I said? Hmmm, I caused a stir earlier in the week by commenting on people who put mayonnaise on their hamburgers, but the person I offended was still there, so that couldn't have been it. Did she die? Did she go into the Witness Protection Program?

I had no answers, so I started contemplating how I felt about this loss. Was it the same as losing a face-to-face friend? Would I have to avoid her in social situations, or walk the other way if I saw her coming down the sidewalk. Would I still send her a Christmas card this year? I think the answer to all of those questions would be ... No.

So, I'm in a semi-social quandary. Should I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me and shed a tear? Or should I bravely utter "C'est La Vie" and go on with life?

I think I'll choose to move on, without regrets. So JE ... hasta la vista baby.

And as for you other four ... don't even think about it.

Dilemma

There's a bit of information that Jan shares with me twice every school year that never fails to flatten all of my tires, no matter what kind of mood I may be in at the time.

"I have evening conferences at school this week".

One would rationally think that this would be great opportunity to spend some quality time alone, or to go out on a weeknight and do things you wouldn't normally do. But for me it's just a pain in the ass. I guess after being married for 35 years that I've just become accustomed to having her around in the evenings, and even if there are not two words passed between us, there's still the comfort of physical companionship. Of being in proximity to each other. For me anyway. I have a sneaking suspicion that she enjoys the hell out of it when I'm gone for the evening.

Dinner is a particular problem. What's the point of going to all the trouble to prepare something when you're just going to sit there by yourself and eat it? It's just not worth it. Yes, I could go out to eat, but I tried that once and I didn't care for it at all. I went to a local restaurant, book in hand, and sat at a table for four in the middle of the dining room, trying to eat and read at the same time. I had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone was staring at me, read only four or five pages of the book and never even tasted the food I ate because I was so self conscious. Once, I took Sean with me and since he was only three, I kept myself occupied trying to get food into him without causing a major catastrophe. I doubt that would work now, as he's going on 25 and learned to feed himself several years ago.

This afternoon, I must have spent an hour trying to figure out someplace to stop on the way home and pick something up. But, I'd already had a hamburger this week, tacos didn't sound any good, take out fried chicken is too greasy and pizza was out because we're having that tomorrow night and I hate to double down on the same food two nights in a row.

So here I sit, stomach grumbling, pondering what I can shove in my mouth to shut it up. Maybe I'll go have a couple of pieces of turkey pepperoni and an ice cream bar. Yeah, that should fill me up.

Shit ...

Family Secrets

When I was a kid in grade school, I loved comic books. I'd walk over to the IGA every Tuesday, when the new comic books would hit the stands. I'd spend an hour or more deciding which two I would buy, because after all, they cost 12 cents apiece. Twenty-five cents if it was an "annual".

"Batman" was always a must, but it only came out twice a month. So I filled in the between weeks with things like Sgt. Rock & His Howling Commandos, Our Army At War (with Captain Johnny Cloud) and even Superman once in a while, even though I thought he was kind of gay.

But there was one comic book that I was always on the lookout for ... Donald Duck. Even as a boy I had eclectic tastes. DD came out on a wildly erratic schedule. You were never sure when it would be available. It was my favorite because the stories were always well crafted, and filled with surprisingly sophisticated jokes.

I mention the above, because tonight I was doing some aimless surfing on the computer, and completely by accident came across this ...

Awesome!

(Click on picture to enlarge!)

After studying Donald's family tree for a few minutes, I came upon the answer to a question I had always asked myself. Where did Donald's nephews; Huey, Dewey and Louie come from? I mean, I always knew he called them his nephews, but I had thought that it was just a term he had coined to explain them, and that they were actually waifs that he had just picked up off the street in some fashion.

As it turns out, Donald has a sister. And her name is Della. And it appears that Huey, Dewey and Louie are her kids.

Okay, one question is answered ... but a big 'ole door has just been swung wide open on a whole new set of questions. If you look closely, you'll see that Della is linked to a character identified only as "Duck".

So, what the hell is the deal there? Did Della marry this "Duck"? Did she have a one-night stand with "Duck", and Huey, Dewey and Louie are the result? Are Donald's nephews bastard children? Is it like "Chinatown" and Donald's father impregnated Della so that Huey, Dewey and Louie are Donald's brothers and nephews?

And what the fuck happened to Della? Did she die? Did she run off? What's the story behind Donald getting custody of her kids?

Holy Shit! This is going to bother me for the rest of my life!

Who knew the potential scandal that had laid secret within the Duck family. First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to fire off a letter to the Disney Company, demanding that they give me some answers to this sordid story.

Either that or I'm going to tip off The National Inquirer.