Yes, but do you have experience with BingoBoppo2gBoolaWare?

My friend, Roger, is a Human Resources something or other.  He says, “an employer must match skills to need. Imagine the chaos if you hire a file clerk unfamiliar with the ColorCodedHorizontalReverseAlphabetical System!”  Who can dispute the value of knowledge and experience?

What if your local pizza parlor hired inexperienced delivery boys?  Pies would grow cold, taste buds would wither away, couch potatoes would faint from hunger and TV commercials would be missed.  The economy could collapse in the time it takes to learn the quickest route, where to park and whether to knock or ring the doorbell.

I thought about work experience as I listened to Diane’s side of the conversation:

 

“I ran ad agencies in LA and New York for decades…No, but I’ve worked with dozens of other software applications… No, but I’ve promoted hundreds of similar items… Yes it is helpful, but I’ve managed multi-media national campaigns…No, but don’t you want someone familiar with the big picture?...Can you think beyond the script in front of you?...Are you FRIGGING STUPID or what?”

This phone interview was over milliseconds after the ‘frigging stupid’ query.  Roger would have done the same; you must show respect for Human Resources, making the right hiring decision isn’t easy.

“The job was running a campaign blitz for a retail giant,” Diane told me.  “They wanted all the usual things, including working under strict budgetary and deadline demands.  They’ve also got the latest miracle software, it’s one more of a jillion applications that’s supposed to do everything but sign your paycheck,” she explained.

Diane has directed some of those TV spots with the girl in jeans sipping Scotch atop a towering, solitary butte in Utah.  She’s supervised teams of writers, designers, photographers, models and the other assorted folk charged with bringing promotional ideas onto print or screen.  Now she’s freelancing, and occasionally sending off resumes.

Diane kept shaking her head and mumbling, “You know what that dummy kept asking - Yes, but do you have experience with BingoBoppo2gBoolaWare?”

I didn’t know how to respond.  Everybody knows you gotta have experience.

JDA©12/31/10

You’re a better man than I am

John never cheated at cards, rarely kicked the dog and hardly ever abused his wife.  He could drink Jack Daniels all night, usually made it home by 4 am and only drove into a telephone pole twice.   He was quick to order a round for his buddies and only made passes at women who wore skirts.

John bought and sold run down residential rental units in Detroit, made a decent living and only lied when necessary to close a deal.  At age forty five he carried the size and shape of a Big Ten linebacker gone to seed.  He told lurid stories and seldom bullied a smaller guy.  He only beat one man to a broken, bloody pulp and everybody agreed that the son of a bitch deserved it.  Both men and women called him a man’s man.

Early one morning, while his wife was helping the kids put on their Sunday go to church clothes, John was still playing poker at an after hours joint.  He made another lucky draw, this time to an inside straight, and raked in the largest pot of the game.  “I’m out of here,” he said.  “Thanks suckers.”

John celebrated by grabbing a working gal who had hung around with high hopes.  Something to polish off the night before heading home.  He planned to plunk down a deposit on a new Caddy, and maybe give his wife enough for a ruby ring since he forgot her birthday again.  He never got the chance.  Two guys jumped him.  One hit him over the head with a pipe.  The other stuck a blade into his chest.

The doctors thought the operations were a success.  John soon began blustering about getting the bastards that messed him up and stole his winnings.  He pinched or slapped every nurse’s butt that came in reach.  Still, John couldn’t shake an infection that developed in his lungs, and his headaches worsened.  A few men dropped by, laughed at his jokes and listened to him brag about the fortune he was just about to make “if the damn doctors get their shit together and fix me up right.”  None of the guys made a second visit.

John’s half-brother, Ibrahim, was different; he came everyday at 6 pm despite being either ignored or called a wimp.  He was a short, thin accountant that wore glasses and winced at John’s dirty jokes.  He read everything he could find; John stopped after reading Gunga Din in high school.  “That’s why they make movies,” he said when ridiculing Ibrahim for still burying his nose in books.

Before long John became weaker, wheezed while breathing and sank into stupors.  He reluctantly informed his wife that he had let the life insurance lapse.  She cried.  Then moaned and tore at her hair when he revealed that everything was mortgaged to the hilt.  He said he just needed a little more money to complete some deals that would make them rich. 

That’s when John began talking quietly with Ibrahim during the daily visits.  Once he whispered urgently in his brother’s ear.  Ibrahim patted his hand and told him it would be alright.  He showed John some papers, Power of Attorney he called them.  John got mad, “you’re a four eyed sand nigger. It’ll take a real man to close those deals.”  The next afternoon he signed the papers in front of the hospital notary.  At 6 pm he handed them to Ibrahim, saying “I can’t have my wife and kids tossed out in the street penniless.”

John began pressing his hands to his head, squeezing tight and whimpering, “stop the pain. Stop the pain.”  His breathing became irregular and more labored.  One day he muttered to himself over and over, “if only he were me.”

The next day Ibrahim appeared in mid-morning.  He shook John out of a stupor and showed him three certified checks.  John cried for the first time of his hospitalization.  He couldn’t stop weeping as he looked at the checks.  Finally, still sobbing, he looked at his half-brother, grabbed his hand and held on for dear life.  He rasped, “you’re a better man than I am.”

John lapsed into a coma that afternoon.  He died three days later.


PawPawJack©12/11/10

Much later, not too long ago…

Twenty-seven men died in front of me one spring.  I remember them all, each and every one.  I was 10 years old, stuck in a hospital room with three other beds.  It was the room they brought men to die.  Some lasted longer than others, but every patient that came into that room died.  Except me.

At first, I didn’t know what to think.  Men came into the room for a day or so, sometimes a few weeks.  A few laughed and told jokes.  Some constantly coughed, hacked and spit up blood.  Several spent long periods in prayer.  One had just come in for a minor operation; he was bitter and surprised.  Others had known the day of judgment was coming.  They all died. 
 
My father told me it happened to everyone.  He said that I could be a comfort to many of them.  All I had to do was listen.  Some screamed and cursed.  Some never said a word.  Some told me the stories of their life.

In some ways I aged fifty years in a few short months; in other ways I remained a kid until it finally ended.  Each of the men had an affect on me.  I didn’t know it at the time, but it helped me survive. 

I didn’t die until much later.  Not too long ago actually.  Now I can set a few things straight.  They say that’s best.  They, the ones who used to be in authority.  And they, the voices still in my head.

Stay tuned.  Everyone has a story.  I have twenty-seven to tell.


PawPawJack©11/24/10

Polls confirm: men will vote for naked nips

A naked woman on the ballot would have dramatically changed the results in the recent November elections. A CNN/Gallup Poll says men love nipple visibility, and most think it’s more important than job creation.  A sweet thing could have overwhelmingly won the most hotly contested races in America.

Yes, there could have been Governors and Senators with a view.  And not merely a point of view.

Men love pert nips.  That’s a true fact for all ages, shades, wallet sizes and political inclination.  The just released election poll confirmed this.  That’s right - a big time poll asked males how they would  vote if given a different kind of choice.  The results are now disclosed and it's news!

A picture of a naked lady was shown along with photos of candidates running in the midterm elections.  Men were surveyed prior to voting, in exit polls and follow ups.

On November 11, under a Washington byline, the bare details of this poll were revealed. For elaboration on male voting preferences, including the effect of not wearing panties or a stance on kissing, see the national coverage.  You’ll also see the picture that the pollsters used - a young blonde with bare boobs.

You can go directly to CNN or Gallup Polls for all the particulars.  Perhaps you’ll find out more about bare naked ladies.  Or maybe you’ll wonder if the Onion was up to its usual tricks.  Still...

Every guy that’s sat at a bar, had a sip of scotch or belted down a few beers already knows the power of a little peek.  We love seeing the good parts.  And men will put their money where their mouth is, and where they want it to be.  Reported polls now confirm - we would cast our votes the same way.


PawPawJack©Novemeber 12, 2010

How to tell a trial lawyer

Trial lawyers aren’t in their office during the day.  They’re on their feet in a courtroom, a jury in the box and a witness on the stand.  Very few lawyers try cases before a jury.  Most lawyers couldn’t find the courthouse with a day’s head start, GPS and a couple boy scouts leading the way.  So… how do you tell a trial lawyer?
 
Not by his clothes.  One of best I ever saw represented working stiffs when they were badly hurt in an accident.  Izzy wore shirts with frayed collars and cuffs, tomato sauce stained ties bought 3 for a dollar and pants that ended at mid-ankle with mismatched socks.  It was all topped off with a large checked, many colored sport coat.

Not by his smooth talking.  Izzy spoke to judges, defense attorneys and juries alike in a slang laced plain talking style filled with dem, dese and doses.  When someone used a legal phrase, a flowery quote or even words of more than two syllables he was quick to say, “what, what dat mean or talk English.”  Defense attorneys, read that as lawyers for the insurance company, with their polished language, tailored suits and country club manner could never accept that this guy could possibly beat them at trial.

Izzy’s clients, or their husbands, dressed and spoke kind of like he did.  So did many of the jurors he picked.  And they didn’t mind that he reeked of whiskey after lunch.  Izzy didn’t lose many cases in his home county.  And he tried a lot of them.

So… what do you do if you can’t tell a trial lawyer by his clothes, his talk or the scent of his breath?  Go see him in action – trying a case.  Remember that even lawyers at the courthouse don’t do much more than poke their heads into a courtroom and scurry out as soon as possible.  Some look splendid at a routine appearance or arguing points of law on a pre-trial motion.  Very, very few actually try cases in front of a jury.  It’s a lot easier to shuffle papers, plea bargain or reach a settlement.

It’s also a lot easier to be a Monday morning quarterback.  Trial lawyers have to make decisions based upon the case they have.  Then they make more decisions, on their feet with a moment’s notice, based upon the way a witness comes across or the evidence comes in.  Here’s an example: 

“You’re scum, an admitted two time loser, aren’t you?” the lawyer sneered.

The lawyer pointed at the witness, “you’re worse than scum - you’re a snitch, aren’t you?”

The lawyer looked disgusted, shook his fist at the witness and shouted “You’re a dirty snitch, a lying rat.  Do you really expect this jury will believe anything you say?”

This line of cross examination went on – for 2 entire days - with little change except for the poor slob on the stand looking sadder and sadder.  Throughout it all the defendant nodded and grinned; he loved the way his mouthpiece stood up for him and lambasted the snitch.

I believed the snitch.  Scum or not, and two time loser that he was.  The jury believed him too.  It took less than 30 minutes for them to come back with a verdict of guilty on all counts.

Some would say the lawyer stunk.  I thought so too; he never gave one solid reason to believe his client wasn’t guilty as sin.  Except for the undisputed fact that the main witness was indeed a snitch.

However; there is a broader perspective of the lawyer’s ability.  His client never spent a night in jail – even after being found guilty.  That’s a pot of gold for a criminal defense attorney... and the defendant.  One reason is that the lawyer raised a fuss before the judge– made a good record – about evidential issues.  He insisted some proofs should have been kept out of the State’s case, and maintained that the judge erred by preventing the defense from introducing various matters.

The case became mired in an up and down appellate process.  Questions concerning inadequate disclosure by the prosecution, lost proofs and “newly” discovered evidence by the defense also became part of the defendant’s appeal.  The client remained on the street; he eventually plead guilty to reduced charges and was put on probation.  The lawyer may have had a plan.

A trial lawyer needs to be prepared and know what he’s doing to have any chance at success.  A witness is useless unless you can find him, get him on the stand and have him testify credibly. That piece of paper in a file doesn’t do a damn bit of good unless you can wave it in front of the jury. There are rules of evidence that govern such things, and sometimes more important – the rationale behind the rules.  A trial lawyer wants his proofs to go in plausibly and believably, and the other side wants to keep it out or make it look bad.  It’s not as easy as it seems on TV.

So how do you tell a trial lawyer?  He presents and argues cases before a jury.  Go to the courthouse and watch him.  Do you believe his version of the case?  Did the jury?


DJO©11/7/10


*** Caveat for the cautious, curious or cynical reader:  the author makes no claim as to having been big time, or even a very good lawyer.  He did, however, try 18 cases to a jury verdict [getting his ass soundly kicked back and forth across the courtroom in the first 6, to both his and the clients’ chagrin] and favorably resolved dozens more at some point during a jury trial. ***

When money grew on trees

Money once grew on trees.  Green bills, legal tender, dangled from the branches.  One simply had to reach up and stretch for them.  Sometimes they just fell, like leaves in late October; one merely had to grab them as they floated in the breeze.

It was a time when use of the phone meant talking to a live person.  When we still manufactured goods for ourselves and most of the world.  When everyone expected quality goods and services, and businesses competed to provide such things.

It was a time when blue collar workers merged into the middle class and could acquire “necessities” and toys that the rest of the world could little imagine.  A time when white collar men worked in jobs where they could stay a lifetime, get annual promotions and a gold watch when they retired.

It was also a time of struggle, of new frontiers and broken barriers.  A time when girls were still told a career in teaching or nursing was their limit, or maybe they could be an executive secretary.  For a while, until they married… the alternative was being a spinster with cats.  A time when blacks only appeared on screen as a maid, an ‘ain’t they got rhythm’ entertainer, or a token outfielder.  A time when most parts of the country had never seen or spoken with Hispanics or Asians.  A time when much of the globe’s diversity was something we only vaguely knew of from books.

We had yet to see girls gyrating on MTV let alone Lady Gaga’s costumes.  We didn’t have minute by minute accounts of a possible thunderstorm.  Nor did talking heads dissect, analyze and interpret each word or gesture of politicians and movie stars.  We discovered for ourselves that there was no such thing as a free lunch.  Yet, we knew that piece of the American pie was out there.  We could grab our slice of it.

Automation, downsizing and outsourcing changed a few things.  So did burst dotcom and real estate bubbles.  Companies now renege on pension and health plans without a second thought.  Swindlers and scammers use high tech to reach millions. And many can mutter under their breath ‘shoulda, coulda, woulda.’  Some of us (raise your hands with me) might have been better off skipping some afternoon naps, closing a few less bars and not stretching 3 day weekends into self indulgent sidetracks.

Money doesn’t grow on trees anymore.  Some continue to sigh wistfully about the good old days.  Still; a wealth of knowledge and information is available globally and instantaneously.  Expertise is at our fingertips.  So are opportunities.  Most of us can be amused or educated, even make a buck, from the comfort of home.  And the rumor is – with luck, hard work or foresight – we can have that pot of gold.  The one just beneath the rainbow.


PawPawJack©10/29/10

Moonlight, foggy mist and shadow creatures

The two men grinned.  Started walkin closer.  The big brutha grabbin his crotch and gruntin.  The scruffy white guy leering, “We gonna have us a party.”

“Dog!  Dog!!  DOG!!!” I screamed.

I’m at the end of the boardwalk, by the abandoned old casino.  The town was a fancy seaside resort in its day.  New Yorkers came down by the trainload.  They strutted their finery, rode on hand painted wooden ponies in the carousel, ate greasy food and got sun burnt.  That was then.

Now it’s the armpit of the Jersey Shore.  On Ocean Avenue, running along the shore, most of the buildings have been abandoned, just deserted shells of old dreams.  Some of the homeless live in em, and low lifes use em for toilets and crack ho sex.  In between bust out windows you see mangy mutt packs prowling weed, rubble and trash strewn lots.  The retail storefronts lining the boardwalk have plywood nailed to the windows.

I live here now.  The good thing is:  me, my man and his stupid dog got a great big beach almost all to us.  It’s like we own it, like we’re rich and livin a vacation.  The bad thing is – shadow creatures pop up out of nowhere.  Like now, with these two sorry slugs.

My man and I were takin a moonlit stroll on the beach.  Got into a fight bout somethin I can’t remember, and I left him an the dog by the jetty.  Huffed my way thru the sand and climbed the steps up to the boardwalk.  The deserted boardwalk.  Not a soul in sight.  Foggy mist just beginning to roll in.

Walked down the half mile section of boards mutterin to myself.  I didn’t think bout my man telling me to never wander around alone.  “At least take the dog,” he says.  Damn dumb dog always yankin my chain, sposed be other way round.  Was too mad to worry about it.  Too mad to be nervous.  That changed as I was getting to the old casino, about to exit off the boardwalk, go on to home.  This huge black dude was all of a sudden bout 10 steps away.  Just appeared out of the gloom.

He's filthy an nasty lookin, plus no mistakin he up to nothin good.  “I got a dog,” were the first words out of my mouth.  “Dog!  Dog!!  DOG!!!” I screamed.  Loud as I could.  Not that it would do a damn bit a good.

“Don’t see one,” the big f^cker said as he looked around.  That’s cuz it’s hell and gone way the shit the other side of the boardwalk, down the sand and munchin on dead crabs by the jetty, I thought.

What I said was, “It’s a big 65 pound yaller dog.  Just runnin down there on the beach.”  That’s when the skinny white piece of trash came out of the shadows.  One of those wiry tough boys born mean an dirty.  “You're not fooling anyone,” he said.  “We just want a little fun.”

“You jus can’t see it cuz of the fog.”  I yelled for the dog, “Come on here, dog.  Time go home.”  Hopin an prayin now.  These bastards want their way wit me.  Ain’t no chance the dog will hear me.  The sound of the surf in my ears, my heart thumpin even louder.

We all wait a few seconds.  They wanna mess with me; they don’t want to mess with a dog.  The dog don’t show of course.  The shadow creatures are givin me a good lookin over, nudging each other, sayin what a fine piece of big booty I am.  Ain’t gonna outrun em, an no way gonna hurt em bad enuff to stop em.  I’m scared shitless.

“Dog!  Dog!!  DOG!!!” I screamed again.

They comin closer now.  Gonna drag me into the dark.  Gonna turn me into a rag doll, do anything comes into their dirty devil minds.  Don’t know whether to kick an scratch, or jus try an do em quick an hope for the best.

All of a sudden, hear this pounding noise.  Sounds like quick burstin thunder boomin out of the fog.  Somethin roaring down the boardwalk.  I look in that direction, now recognizing the sound.  The sound of Dog racing, the click of nails thumpin the boards.

Dog appears out of the mist.  Runnin full out.  I watch as he slides to a stop just past me, givin this long heart stopping, full protect, don’t f^ck with me growl.  The scumbags have disappeared.  Gone as quick as they came.  Dog looks back at me, gives that silly all teeth showin grin.  Dumb dog.

My man comes strollin down the boardwalk bout 10 minutes later.  He sees me sittin on the boards, dog all nuzzling up and tail waggin, me pettin it an croonin.  “Dog was digging a hole, sand flyin.  Then he just stopped.  His ears perked up and he lit out like a firecracker went off up his ass,” he says.  I don’t say poop.  He watches me an Dog cuddlin for a bit, “guess you all friends now, huh?”  Guess so.


akaKeisha©10/17/10

I Got This!

Grinning from ear to ear, lighting up the neighborhood.  On a cloudy afternoon in October, the little girl is radiant with joy.  Mari’s walking down the street with her mommy.  Walking!  No stroller.

She’s waving something in her right hand.  In her left hand she’s carrying a bag from the store.  A bag the clerk gave HER.  After she walked down the aisles and picked it out all by herself.  She’s skipping down the street; she can’t wait to get home.

“Grammy, grammy.  I got this!”  Beaming with pride, Mari waves the receipt the clerk gave her, “and THIS!”  She pulls a shiny penny from her pocket and holds it out for her grandma to inspect.

“Where did you get that?” her grammy asks.

“At the store.  The lady gave it to me.  And I got THIS!!!”  Mari’s smile could not be any bigger; she raises the store bag, displaying the 99 cent bag of candy inside.

She’s 2 and ½ years old, no longer a baby girl.  Walking to and from the store with mommy.  Given an official piece of paper, a shiny penny and a 99 cent bag of candy.  All for Mari.  Can life get any better?    

  
JDA©10/15/10

For Sale

Another For Sale sign was pounded into a front lawn yesterday.  There are now four houses sitting vacant on the block; all foreclosures.

The town sits in that first ring of working class suburbs circling Detroit.  Two decades ago it was filled with blue collar workers living a middle class lifestyle.  Most of them had two cars, a little place up north, a boat, a gas fired barbecue grill and a couple kids they thought would go to college.

Bob and Mary had all that, plus the brick bungalow they had owned for just over twenty years.  Three days ago they packed up and drove off in a 17 foot U-Haul.  They left a lot; there was not much room in the used trailer home they bought.  “I’m glad our daughter is living up at Central now,” Bob said while his teenage boys were struggling to get a couch onto the U-Haul.

Work in the construction business dried up on Bob a couple years ago; the hours he picked up clerking in a hardware store barely covered the phone and utility payments.  Mary’s long time office job was changed to part-time independent contractor status with no benefits.  “We tried to keep paying all the bills on time, but things kind of spiraled down hill,” confided Mary.

Just a few years earlier, the couple got a second mortgage.  The market was at its peak; their place was worth $140,000.  “We weren’t frivolous with the money,” Mary explained.  “We did take a little vacation so the kids could see California, but the cars got fixed, some credit cards were paid off, the kitchen remodeled and a new roof put on.  The money just went.  And now you could maybe get $80,000 for the house.”

 
“You know that columnist Peggy Noonan?” Bob asked.

“Yes, I’m familiar with her,” I said.  “But I’m still trying to figure out how working as a speech writer for Ronald Reagan was joining the revolution.”

Bob laughed, “Yeah, in those days bad times meant double digit inflation.  Anyway, last summer she wrote that for the first time in America much of the population can no longer hold the basic assumption that their kids will be better off then they were.  That struck a nerve.  I always thought all our kids would finish college, do something rewarding and have a bigger, nicer house than ours.  Now I'm not sure if they'll find a decent paying job.”

He listened for a bit as his boys moaned about leaving a snowmobile behind.  "It just needs some tuning up," said the 16 year old.

Bob turned back to me after telling the boys to just listen to their mother.  “I sure hope things pick up soon.  We’re praying that the trailer park is a temporary thing.  If not… well, it’s an old trailer but those things hold up well.  Maybe one of our kids will need it.”

The parents of Bob and Mary came of age during the 1930s.  They believed in steady work, paying the bills on time, a savings account and home ownership.  Times could get bad, but virtue would prevail.  They tried to drum all this into the heads of their children.  Their grandchildren now face the 21st century version of the Great Depression.


JDA©9/29/10

Only Old People Eat Pears

“Tell your daughter she has a fat momma.”

Almost spitting with indignation, she told her daughter “That’s what he called out.  Right after we had such a nice talk.  Right in front of everyone!  I woulda went back, hit him upside the head.  Cept my arthritis was actin up, you know how it gets.”

The 30 year old laughed, “Momma, he didn’t mean F A T fat.  He said phat… P H A T.  That’s good!  He was paying you a big compliment.”  Momma looked at her child, puzzled, “He was?”

Upon reaching a certain age, older adults need translators. Every man and woman over 50 needs help to understand advertisements for the latest gadgets, much of the dialog on cable channels and most of what’s on the internet.  We all regularly call upon a teenager or friendly young adult to interpret the world around us.

Naturally, we try to repay the favors by sharing the benefit of years of experience with our ‘go to’ interpreters.  Just the other day I was at my sister’s house while my teenage nephew was thinking about getting some pizza.  Not seeing a Yellow Pages lying around I piped up, “if only I had my laptop with me - by the way you should get one, they’re real handy; you can carry them around and use them at some coffee houses - I could do a search and probably find out the number of a decent joint not too far away.”

My nephew opened up his hand, shows me this little gizmo.  It’s about the size and thickness of a single 3x5 index card.  Later he told me it was the new OrangeIMacSEplatinum5G.  On it, I see this pretty blonde in a skimpy pink thing walking on a beach.  “That’s my girlfriend.  On vacation in Jamaica.  Live.” he says.  I can hear the sound of waves lapping at her feet.

While I’m trying to absorb this, my nephew touches a button on the gizmo, then moves a couple things around on the side of the screen with his finger.  I can still see his girlfriend, now diving into the surf.  Two seconds later he tells me, “There’s the best cheese crust, deep dish, triple pepperoni, garlic flavored pie in town coming out of the oven right now.  The delivery guy is named Joe.  He drives a dual exhaust, flame red Ford Edge Sport.  He’ll be here in 9 minutes, and expects a $3.00 tip.”

Meanwhile, back at home, my wife is trying to share the fruits of her wisdom with her daughter Kelli.  “See, these are hand picked Bartlett’s.  Notice the color, and see how the skin indents just so when I squeeze… that means it’s perfectly ripe.  I just know that you and Giselle will love them.”   Kelli stares at the bag of pears, looks at her mother and says, “Giselle is only 10; she doesn’t even know what those are.  Only old people eat pears.”    

Okay, maybe the youngsters don’t need what we can offer in exchange for their translating services.  And maybe our eyes do glaze over when told someone just got buzzed, twittered or tweeted.  Fortunately, we can still communicate our own thoughts. After all we do try to remain hip… ummmmm, “mod”… “with it”… we’re “down.”  You know what I mean.  Right?


PawPawJack©September 20, 2010

Just Wait Kid

Just wait kid,” my father muttered.   The first time he said it I was 10, having finally beaten him in our weekly sidewalk race.  Flushed with victory, I laughed gleefully as he doubled over panting and rubbing his knees.

He said it again when I was caught jumping off a roof, leaping between tree branches and over a fence.  When I chuckled after he pulled up lame at the annual family reunion, trying to stretch a single into a double.  When I stubbornly plowed into over-sized alpha males, still dreaming of being a high school halfback.  When I laughingly teased him about being an old man as his back kept him bedridden for a week.  If he said it once, he said it a thousand times; I always laughed at the thought of age waiting in ambush.

In the 30 something years there were little hints of what dad meant, saying through gritted teeth “just wait kid.”  Muscles that didn’t instantaneously do my bidding.  Joints that buckled or swelled because of misstep or overuse.  Not so bad I thought.  It’s merely a matter of adapting.

The little hints became lessons when, despite stretching and caution, the elbow, ankle or knee wouldn’t work the next day.  Still; it wasn’t so bad, a man has to know his limitations, that there are some things he just can’t do much of anymore.  It became more irritating when there was no apparent cause - the back or a joint simply wasn’t moving anytime soon.  In a day or two, sometimes a week, function would return.  Could be worse.

Then came the nose and ear hair.  Huge tufts sprouting in bushy clumps like weeds. Again, not so bad; long gone were the days of a sweetie running the tip of her tongue in my ear. Trimming and whirring out unsightly growth was merely another unwelcome chore.

A more troublesome aspect of aging appeared next.  Sound sleep, dreams and snores were interrupted by a half dozen trips to pee.  Soon, even the days became an adventure.  All of a sudden there was a 20 second time lag between feeling the need to urinate and pissing one’s pants.  Oh, it could be worse – one makes preventative stops. And makes sure to not be caught out of range of a bathroom or bush.

Oh yes, “just wait kid” is a phrase that eventually takes on real meaning.  You think you know how much, limping and trying to straighten out as you drag body parts around to start each morning.  As you gingerly go up and down steps, rubbing your knee.  As you groan getting up from a chair.  As you grab your back and grunt after picking up your granddaughter.  Then you discover children are absolutely perfect mimics at the age of 2 and 1/2.  This is how one gets up and walks isn’t it?  Aren’t these the required sound affects?

It’s disconcerting to see every painstaking shuffle and moan impeccably duplicated.  Still, it can be amusing.  Perhaps not as hilarious as family, friends and neighbors think, doubling over and having laughing fits.  But funny nonetheless.

Then, just when you think you’ve weathered the storm of the aging process.  Just when you think there’s little left besides the ravishment of Alzheimer [as you hope and pray for blissful ignorance].  Along comes gas!  No, not flatulence thankfully.  Just stuff that builds up in sore, weak or tender areas of your neck, back, chest or limbs.  Touch it and a belch like sound comes out the mouth.  In fact, you must touch and massage it to relieve the soreness and tenderness.  So … press, rub and bend sideways – belllllllllllllllllllllch.

With age a man becomes less self-conscious.  Graying hair, wrinkles, sagging flesh – well… one sucks in the tummy occasionally, but concern is a lost cause.  Still; one tries to hide the remedy for gas.  Even so, it becomes ingrained as a means of relieving body aches.  You just do it discretely and surreptitiously.

Press, rub and bend sideways.  Discretely.  Surreptitiously.  Bellllllch.  No one will notice will they? The grandkid will.  Watch her do it.  Press, rub and bend sideways… belllllllllllllllllllllllch!  Just wait kid.


PawPawJack©9/8/10

Beyond chewing tobacco and broken toes to free beer and pudding skins

Blue collar boys in Detroit got their education making parts supplied to the auto companies.  Long before jobs were outsourced to the third world, before the Big 3 lost an undeclared war to Japanese imports and at a time when factory floors never saw adequate ventilation, air conditioning or robots.  We learned that men up from the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee had missing teeth by the time they were 23, that they chewed tobacco and spit the juice on factory floors.  We saw that some women strutted, cursed and fought just like us, and lusted after the same girls.  We came to know that swallowing salt packets kept us from dizzy spells while we sweated off 5 to 10 pounds a shift.  And, we discovered the value of steel toed work boots after our first broken toe.

Most of all we learned to move carefully, step quickly and avoid areas beneath moving cranes.  We soon realized the necessity or keeping body parts away from clanging steel and scalding molten metal.  And we found out that rickety walkways, slippery ramps and oil puddling between machines caused broken bones.  We saw fingers lopped off, hands crushed and quick as a flash third degree burns.  Is it any wonder that some of us finally decided to go to college?

Maybe our dads had the right idea in wanting us to be white collar workers.  Some of us had visited a college campus, ogled the cute coeds and had half filled out applications lying around somewhere.  Student loans were easy to get.  Book learning had to be better than getting patched up, sewn together and splinted at a weekly trip to the emergency clinic.

College life was much easier than factory work; more fun too.  It opened up whole new vistas.  Not only as to learning; we found out that education could be more intriguing than memorizing dates.  But also for the exposure, particularly to kids who had actually traveled more than 20 miles from home (besides the annual visit to Aunt Dot out in the sticks), stayed in hotels and motels, ate at restaurants at times other than prom night and swam in the ocean.  Thus, we developed goals.

The first goal was to visit Europe.  Yes, indeed, skip Chicago, Cincinnati and Cleveland.  Bypass hotels, motels, and fancy restaurants; fly right over the Atlantic to dance with long legged French girls.  Travel books said it could be done on $5 a day, and a week of factory overtime would take care of plane fare.  Even better, every campus had brochures and flyers that touted, “Work in Paris, Rome, Athens… college students desperately needed.  No experience required; work permits and visas no problem.  Earn big dollars.  Offices at all the major gateways to the European experience.  Placement guaranteed!”

I was on a plane to Brussels the day after the semester ended. It wasn’t as exotic as Istanbul, but turbans and scimitars seemed better viewed in picture books.  It was also closer to those French girls than Vienna, the other “gateway” choice.  There were hordes of other gullible college kids standing, sitting and laying in and near the Brussels office.  Most of them had been faithfully waiting, some as long as 5 or 6 weeks.  It apparently took time for an opening to develop in Paris, Rome or anywhere else a teenager might actually want to visit.  The immediate guaranteed jobs were all located within a days train ride of such hot spots as Budapest, Helsinki, and Damascus.  Hmmm… the $30 hidden in my shoe might not be a big enough emergency fund.

The rumor was that one could easily survive on free beer, bread and cheese in Amsterdam.  Amsterdam was on the way to an English speaking country; I got on the road and stuck out my thumb.  By the time free Heinekens, canals and sleeping in the railroad station got old I still had just enough money for a one way ticket across the English Channel to London.  By this time I had learned that major hotels in big cities, like the factories in the Midwest, were always hiring.  And similar to the factories, there weren’t a lot of questions – it was just best to show up shaven and not falling down drunk.

As it turned out, speaking English was also a big plus.  The first hotel I walked into was located in Grosvenor Square, which was also home to the U.S. Embassy.  The head housekeeper was the first person of authority that I bumped into; she avoided inquiring about a work permit.  I could start earning shillings the very next day, and was directed to a rooming house on the other side of the Thames River.  Many of the hotel’s dishwashers, porters and other menial workers were sheltered there, 3 or 4 to a room.  Most were Spanish or Portuguese.  Some could even speak a few halting words in English.  But, like workers everywhere, there was no problem communicating the essentials.

How to eat without money was the first matter of a concern.  The other employees quickly pointed out (quite literally, by pose and gesture) that if a place served food, one could eat well.  It was an unauthorized perk, but those on the lower economic rungs take care of their own.  Steak and codfish from dropped plates and trays became a dietary staple.  Plus, hotels provided room service.  Hence, everything on the menu became available – if you weren’t fussy about someone else having taken the first bite or two.

A fancy English hotel has lots of brass as well as plate glass doors.  They all required daily polishing, not the slightest smudge was allowed, but few things are funnier than watching a tourist smack into a door.  The other main benefit was a break room with steaming pots of tea and a vat of pudding freely available.  The pudding had skin a half inch thick; it was a meal in itself.  The secret of making skins like that remains the most closely guarded British secret.

Once I got around to inquiring about the cost of getting to Paris, I learned that shillings weren’t worth much to anybody outside of England.  More than pence, but a lot less than pounds; it took a bunch of months to turn it into dollars that would just fly me back to the States.  So, nope – I never did get to dance with those long legged French girls.  And darned if that wasn’t the first - and only - question that any dude has ever asked me about my European experience.


DJO©9/1/10

Sometimes it all works out

[you may wish to first read the initial part of this story –it’s in Around Town, entitled Just across 8 Mile, another day in the burbs and posted on July 31, 2010]

The porch plants couple thought themselves good-hearted.  They felt bad, peeking out their window (like everybody else on the block), while Durell scurried back and forth along 30 yards of his worldly possessions.  All of which were now strewn alongside the curb in the pouring down rain.  They saw Durell stamp his feet and heard him cry and moan.

They heard him shout to the scavengers pulling up in cars and pick ups, “don’t even think about it!”  They watched as he finally slung a couple black plastic bags over his shoulder and set off to cross the street.  He started a dozen times, but would stop, twirl and run back as another vehicle stopped to look over the piles of goods.  “Don’t even think about it!” he screamed.  Over and over.

They watched as he finally made it to the other side of the street.  Durell twirled again at the sound of another old pickup truck.  But this last time he shook his head, dropped the bags, threw his hands in the air and groaned loud and long enough to wake the dead.  He then picked up his two bags and left, not once looking back again.

The porch plants couple, Dan and Sally, didn’t know Durell but people told them he regularly came and bought items at their summer yard sales.  What happened was a shame.  Poor guy.  Still, they told each other, he just didn’t take care of business.  It wasn’t so much that he didn’t make arrangements before having his belongings tossed out on the street.  It was that he didn’t show up at all while his stuff was put by the curb.  He told Donnie he was coming back but…

Durell didn’t come back to grab a few things.  He didn’t come back with someone in a truck or car.  He didn’t come back to ask friends and neighbors to store something.  He didn’t come back at all.  Not until it was too late.  And as Rose had said, “all that gonna get gone.  What don’t get gone is gonna be ruined by the rain… everybody gonna be grabbin, why not us?”

The porch plants couple discussed all this as Durell disappeared into the night.  Dan said, “I wouldn’t have taken a damn thing if that dumb shit had just showed up.”  They sat in a living room filled with framed pictures and paintings, next to a dining room now filled with a steamer trunk, a thick planked antique cedar chest, assorted art and knick knacks belonging to Durell (don’t even ask about the basement and garage!).  “We don’t even know where he went, or if he’ll get another place,” they told each other.

Their daughter Beth walked in the door at 9:30 that night, looked around and exclaimed “You’ve got Durell’s stuff!”  Sally started to explain the whole situation, but Beth said “I know what happened.  Durell came in and asked the boss if he could borrow a shopping cart, but Mike wouldn’t let him.”  Hmmm.  Then she added, “He’s so sweet.  He comes by the store every day and tells me something nice or makes me laugh.”  Oh.

Dan and Sally knew they couldn’t keep the stuff now.  But they didn’t want some crazy homeless dude stopping by at all hours over the coming months.  They didn’t want him to rummage through the house and then just grab one of his things.  Dan ended up writing a letter to Durell listing his goods and telling him to call and arrange to pick them all up over the next 30 days.  He went over and asked Rose if she had seen Durell carrying on that night.  “Yeah.  That dummy!  He shoulda came sometime durin the day.  Now I feel like poop.”

Dan told Rose that he and Sally weren’t going to keep the stuff; they were giving a letter to Beth to hand to Durell when he stopped by her store.  Rose nodded her head and responded, “it the right thing to do.  I’ll do a letter she can give him too.”  They both agreed that a lot of eye catching yard sale stuff was going to be lost.  Still; what goes around comes around.

When Durell got the letters he put one hand to his heart, fanned himself with the other and went, “ooooooooooooooooooooh.”  Then he didn’t call.  As the weeks went by Rose said, “Nobody else is returning anything to Durell.  Maybe Venus had the right idea when she said ‘I ain’t givin back shit’.  Damn, I even tole him in the letter I’d bring him the stuff in my truck!”

Durell finally stopped over.  Unannounced in the middle of the night.  Later, like he was firmly reminded, he called and arranged a day and time.  He didn’t show.  Weeks more had now gone by.  Both Rose and the porch plants couple were getting sick of holding onto a lot of stuff they weren’t going to use, or sell at their upcoming yard sale.  “I guess I won’t sell anything, but if that boy don’t get his ass over here it all goin back out the street where I got it,” said Rose.

A few days later Durell saw Rose in town, told her he rented a storage unit and was coming by at 4 that afternoon for all his stuff.  “Nothing like him just up and deciding,” Dan said when he got home and saw Rose, “What if we weren’t available?”  At 5:30 Rose said, "5 more minutes and I’m tossing stuff out on the street.  F^ck his sorry black ass.”  Then Durell showed.  On foot.

“You need something to haul ALL your stuff,” said Dan.  Durell came puffing back an hour later pulling a big wagon with wooden slatted sides.  As Dan pulled stuff out of the house and garage, Durell bounced up and down with glee.  “The steamer trunk, oh my!” and, “I LOVE this table!”  and, “Be still my heart, the Marilyn Monroe mirror!!!”   When the dozens of pictures and paintings were put on the back porch he ran up to them and clapped, “My pictures, my Pictures, my PICTURES!”  As Rose carted stuff over while Durell was lovingly packing his goods in the wagon, he got teary eyed.  Durell touched everything, telling where he got it and how much it meant to him.

It took Durell three wagonloads and a couple hours to get his possessions moved to the storage unit.  He laughed, cried and jumped for joy the entire time.  He said “thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”  When he left with the last load Rose and the porch plants couple looked at each other.  “I feel good now, don’t you?” said Rose.

Two weeks later the porch plants couple and Rose were hearing around town how these three dear people saved all of Durell’s treasures for him.  “It must have been some other guys,” said Rose, “we only got an itsy bit of it all.”  Dan, thinking of the thick planked antique cedar chest still in his basement, and the heavy silver arc lamp that Rose sold for $50 at the yard sale replied, “Yes, it must have been some other folks.”

JDA©8/28/10

Demons, graveyards and razor-sharp steel i.e. the lighter side of life.

Do you like scary movies?  Not me, seen too many shadow creatures pop up out the gloom.  Some like fu^king on cool marble slabs, I got too many buried friends.  Always carry a blade, stuck one man and sliced another, but it ain’t any solution.  Not under a full moon, not on moonless nights and not when the dog pack is howling.

Now I lay me down to sleep

Ten years old, woke up blind;
only lasted 30 days, no big deal.
At nineteen, woke up in a cell.
Iron bars didn’t scare me, not that first time.
Woke up broke, woke up hungry
and woke up drunk too many times
on dirty sheets, near filthy toilets,
and once –
in a swamp
naked, bloody and all alone.

Woke up on fire.  Twice.
One lesson was don’t smoke in bed.
The other?
Don’t fall asleep.
 

akaKeisha©August 24, 2010

Black & White, sexy seedy secrets.

We movin along slow, passing potholes and dark alleys.  In a rundown part of a rundown town.  Half industrial, lots of razor wire.  Half boarded up, broken out, boiled over shacks and two/three storied tiltin stoops.  And half vacant lots, with doorless frigerators, burnt sofas and weeds. Here and there hoopdevilles  sittin on rims.  Over that way a pack of mangy, rib showin mutts.  Over there behind a dumpster some raggedy ass pissin.  Buncha working girls struttin their stuff, even more posing, wigglin and waving.   Lone dudes cruising the stroll, front windows down to shop the meat market.

Comin up on big concrete box, steel door, no windows neon BAR with the A out.  Lottsa cars parked up an down the street.   Three big ole hogs right out front.  Looks like that’s our destination.

Friday nite in a hot July.  Two white guys I with lookin for some reaction.  Got my stone face on still.  Took me through the Holland Tunnel into the Jersey stink to show me they know a place do some drink.  I’ve been in NYC two months, tryin on the ‘if you can make it there…’ thing.  Bustin my black tail, not raisin a fuss.  Office guys finally ask me come along, after work TGIF.  Take me to some vanilla bean, 101 variety of ferns, nobody dancing “tavern”.  I say, “sheeeeeeeeeet, you want me sit here drink PurpleGinFreezeSplash with 3 olives shaken or stirred?”  So… here we are.

Big rectangular bar fills the room, a two pole stage in the middle.  Neon drink em up signs, reds and blues and oranges, all sizes, on the walls.  Otherwise smoky and dark cept for the lights on the girls.  Two on, two off workin the money.  Place is bout full up:  Four, five slick back eyetalians, three beer belly bikers, few old black guys you know gonna be nursing that one beer all night, couple young brothers being real cool, soft suits putting off wifey and kids, some college boys whooping, scattered old farts drooling and a couple hard cases down the end.  Two half hos tending to drinks, the dancers and me, blouse buttoned up to the neck, the only females.

Me fresh outta college, raised to be polite.  Dudes I’m with  know the way of the world, one or the other gonna try an change their luck sometime, but right now they both on full protect mode.  Nobody gonna fuck with this lil picanny on their watch.  Maybe that’s good.  This a place man can find a game, some flake, a piece, Chinese acrobat, whatever he want.  Look around real good, every nook, door and cranny, as they cute escort me all the way over front of the far pole, sit me tween em.  Can smell the trouble brew an boil up stains, but got the feel of nothing ever gonna get out of control too long.  Fine by me, but I’m in my comfort zone.  Didn’t just get off the bus from back the Bama pines.

The redbone tender comes over front of me, hard staring, points to the bikers, saying “Bull wanna buy you drink.  He da big one.”  I take a look, they all topping 300 and lookin to be bout 7 foot if they straighten up.  Give em a smile and nod, look slow at the white boys flankin me, say to the gal, “You tell Bull thank you.  Be honored to have my first on him.  And my good friends here wanna buy him and his buddies a round.”  Pull a Jackson out my own bag, hand it to her, “this for you.  Get me a Johnny Black, water on the side.”  She look at the paper, stuffs it in her safe spot, nods and says, “want some ice honey?”  Yeah, we friends now.  Gonna sit back, enjoy the show.

Two young thangs shakin, bakin an popping bout the stage tittie flashin.  The dark one   peeking at money on the bar, searchin eyes see who like her stuff.  Tit, pussy, ass, floor work – you got the money, she got what you want.  The milk chocolate has the college boys locked up, ka-ching ka-ching, an she don’t leave em cept long enuff for them to wave bills in the air, beg for more.  The two off dancers circulating now, keeping the crowd cool with a smile, touch, or short word.  Make em all think might be sittin with em next break, laugh at their jokes, admire their studly, party with em maybe.  Rotation time - milk chocolate runnin to the potty, the other one goin right over stand by one the hardcases, rub her boobs on his shoulder, wait til he tells her the play.

Ms. Moneymaker mocha girl legs up on the stage first.  Glides from one pole to the other, gives a hip, roll an wink to every suit.  Then makes a beeline right smack front of us, does a shuffle wiggle, and fuck me long look to the guys with me.  Cunt.   Takes both boobies out from her top, jiggles em.  Damnnnn… those some long ass purple nips.  But neither boy paying attention now, the white thing on an high stepping.  Lookee lookee at that…

Blonde hair hanging to the shoulders. Gotta be six foot, not countin the heels.  Legs up to her eyes.  One piece outfit with a hundred slits, aint nothing underneath and most everything look like it pop out any second now.  Titties, jus right bouncing, touch me touch me, and not a bad ass.  She moves good for a white girl.  Hmmmm… got her some rhythm. Yeah, she moves real good.  Saunters round the edge, workin the whole stage.  Stop one two three, rock an sway, makin eye contact, showin a different piece, different part, different rock an roll to the whole bar, bein Dream Queen for each an every one.  Owns the stage.

Boys with me all in.  Nother round bought with a Cnote.  Five to the redbone, twenty for her to give to Dream Queen, rest stayin on the bar.  Yeah, like that.  White girl aint even did nothing yet but they don’t care.  She has… charisma; an they just got paid.  She strolls over now an gives em a move this part, shake that, roll this, wiggle something else.   Gives a look, bats her blues real real slow, promising golden pussy delights .  Good thing I like liquor, looks like we here awhile.  Lean back, take a sip, look around.

Night goes on.  Men come and go, street ho pops in now an then.  Otherwise, same old same old.  Except pretty soon, Dream Queen camping here with my boys after each set.  Turns out they got some patter, long with bottomless boola wads.White girl flirtin with me too.  Boys like it, she givin em sweet dreams.  Vamping, showin me her sexy.  Flashing peaches and cream.  An yeah, she a natural blonde.  Ask me sweet, soft, sensual, sultry, “Want to help me change costumes?”  Each and every rotation.  This last time I almost went.  Now I know what they mean, bi-curious.  She knew it too.

Getting near closing time now.  Crowd has thinned out to maybe a dozen.  But Dream Queen on for the last set, still snaring any wallet she want.  Does a drumroll strut to where we still sittin, then hops down from the stage, comes directly front of me.  Big smile.  Opens up her vest so only I can see.  See them stiff pink nipples.  Letting me know this one’s for me.  A private show, forget everyone else.  Little look this, little look that.  Not dancing.  Giving an exhibition.  Licks her lips.  Raises both arms, stretchin to the ceiling, turns around.  Spreads her legs, bends her knees, shows me her backside.  Wags it oh so so so slow.  Around again facing me.  Rubs her hands up, down, across, all over.  Does it again.  And again.

Song ends.  She stops.  Stands there givin me a come hither.  One my boys, his mouth open, jaw bout to the floor.  Other one goin, “oh yes.  Fuckin A yes!”  I reach over to the pile of boola, grab a twenty and hold it out to her.  She takes it.  Rolls it up real tight.  I’m thinkin she gonna pull out a vial, dump it and suck it up right on the bar.  Stead she takes the hand holdin the bill, moves it slow motion up to my lips, says “open your mouth.”

I do it.  Another tune blasting now, colors swirling, temperature rising.  She sticks the bill in about halfway.  I close my lips around it, she opens hers.  Puts her face front of mine, whispers “give it to me.”  I lean in a little, she closes her lips over the other half, can’t be a pussy hair from mine.  I feel their warmth.  Feel my nostrils flare, taking air in and out.  Feel hers doin the same.  Time passing.  We just there.  Breathe in and out.  I’m starting to feel heavy, swelling.  Melting into her eyes.  Our lips wrapped round that bill.  Not moving.  Gotta remember to breathe.  In and out.  In and out.  All of a sudden, the tap opens – I’m gushin wet.  Wet, wet, wet.  Breathin hard through my nose.  Damnation.  Tarnation.  Fuck me.

Music stops.  She pulls back a little, I open my lips an let her take the bill.  Gasping.  Dream Queen winks, turns, climbs back on the stage.  I’m about to jump over the bar, hop up after her.  Sniff, kiss, lick, suck any damn thing she want.  Grab a hand, stick it tween my legs.  She want more, I got two more holes.  She don’t wanna do me, I’ll hump her leg like a dog.  If only my feet would cooperate.  Come on feets.

Moments pass, lights flash off and on.  It’s closing time.


akaKeisha©August 20, 2010

Every man's dream

Every man dreams of imparting wisdom and sage advice.  He wants the listener spellbound, marveling at his keen wit and penetrating insight.  He wants him hanging on every word.  At least that’s how it is by the time a man reaches grandpa age; dreams of exotic adventures and erotic escapades have retreated backstage (in the bloom of one’s 20’s, the morning’s first thought, the day’s goal, and the night’s dream was about getting sumpin sumpin good). At age 60 we want an audience - any audience- to hush when we speak.  We want our every thought viewed with awe, as a pearl of wisdom with remarkable acumen.

Many of us old timers fulfilled one or two of those exotic and erotic flights of fantasy.  Sometimes it was almost as good as we dreamed.  But very few have anyone hushed - or even listening - to our advice. Not our friends or neighbors.  What can we possibly know that they don’t? Certainly not the wife; our wisdom?... hahaha. Our kids?  Nephews and nieces?  The youth on our block, at our church or on the bus? We can spout off about 10 seconds before their eyes glaze over and they start texting their 99 best friends.

Perhaps we should discard our fondest dream.  Would anyone remember, let alone apply, our wisdom? A dozen teenagers at a suburban mall were asked, ‘Can you tell me who King Solomon was?”  Nope, no clue.  A dozen twenty somethings, and twelve 30 somethings were asked the same question.  Only one had even the vaguest idea.  To be fair, it might have been different if 8 year olds from Sunday School were asked.  Most of them remember King Solomon as the one who threatened to cut a baby boy in two with a sword, giving half each to the two women who claimed motherhood.

To refresh your recollection, “King Solomon was greater in riches and wisdom than all the other kings of the earth.  The whole world sought audience with Solomon to hear he wisdom God had put in his heart.”  1Kings 10: 23 – 24.   Not only that, he was the greatest builder of his time and reigned for 40 years.  The Queen of Sheba came at the head of a great caravan to test his reputation.  She was overwhelmed with King Solomon’s achievements, intellect and wisdom as well as the splendor of his realm. She left him vast quantities of gold, spices and precious stones as a tribute to the world’s wisest man.

 
King Solomon also had 700 wives of royal birth and 300 concubines.  (He must have got sumpin sumpin good once in a while.) To top it off he wrote a couple books you may have heard of… they’re in the Bible - Proverbs and Ecclesiastes.  He lived every man’s wildest dream.

If few have heard of King Solomon, if there are those that haven’t read portions of his books… what’s grampa’s chance of fulfilling every man’s dream?  Of imparting timeless wisdom to a rapt audience?  Zero, zilch, nada some would say.  Still; once in a while someone will ask us what we think of such and such a situation.  Our hearts began to pound.  Memories from years of experience race through our minds.  We do mental calculations of all the variables, permutations and gender/generational factors.  Then we speak.  It takes about 20 seconds for us to realize the questioner was only being polite.  Darn.




PPJ©8/12/10

Growing up Blue-Collar

The neighbors had names like Dubicki, Kurkasian and Bertolini.  The men never called a repairman.  They could tell what part was broken and knew how to fix it.  They knew how things worked, having grown up when autos, washing machines and other contraptions had three moving parts.  The guys admired and critiqued every mechanical addition and improvement. When the old man said ‘the whatsit connects to the whosit and turns the thingamajig’ he knew what he was talking about.  He had worked on it before there was a whosit.

Blue collar men raised their boys to help every time something needed fixing,improving or tearing down.  The boys sweated on the roof, under the car, next to the sump pump and by the fence.  They became familiar with their father's hand powered tools.  Muscle cut wood, and more muscle made a hole with an “eggbeater” drill.  The endless fascination with circular and jig saws, electrical drills and all other power tools originated with great sighs of relief.  It also explains every man having pound, bang and kick in his arsenal of tools.  If dad wanted to see if the whatsit and whosit were tightly connected, if he wanted to dislodge something clogging up the works, if it was necessary to wedge or maneuver some &#!^!#* thingamajig – pound, bang and kick were essential techniques.  They still are – ask any mechanic or repairman.

The Dubickis, Kurkasians and Bertolinis all wanted their sons to be a white collar worker.  Someone who worked up front in the plant office, wore a tie and didn’t have to wash up and change at shift end.  The guy who came out on the floor once in a while, wandered around the thudding machines and then quietly told the shift supervisor about the next project.  The shift super then told the foreman, and the foreman cursed and barked orders.  That’s how you recognized a foreman – he did a lot of cursing and shouting.  He was the one you talked to when you wanted a job.

It took very little effort to get a job in Detroit, Cleveland and other industrial towns back in the 1960’s.   You got a ride to factory row, walked by the gate trucks came in and out of, over through the big doors and into the smoke, steam and stink of the plant floor.  “Need someone?” you asked the foreman.  If not, you just walked out the lot and over to the next building.  Manufacturing plants lined the road for miles.  Every Midwestern town had a factory row; Detroit had 100’s of them.

A resume wasn’t required, although it was best to shave and not be falling down drunk. Within a few hours a foreman would bellow, “so ya wanna work?  You’ll be doin that (pointing at a guy pounding on some machine), be here ready to go at 3:00.”  It was always the afternoon or midnight shift; the guys with seniority filled the day slots.  Blue collar kids didn't mind afternoons or nights, they knew about shift differential.  The extra hourly dimes added up when you got time and a half for overtime, double time for Sundays and holidays.  After a month of sweat, grime and aching muscles a guy could head to the used car lot and plunk down cash for that V-8 Ford.


DJO8/7/10

Just across 8 Mile, another day in the burbs

You or I would have left before the sheriff came pounding on the door.  Durell didn’t.  You or I would have found some place to store our worldly possessions.  Durell didn’t.  Two deputies escorted him out of the building at 9:30 am.  They allowed him to carry his cat and a lamp, nothing else.

The maintenance man changed the lock to the one bedroom apartment.  The bailiff supervised six assistants who threw Durell’s knickknacks, clothes, and accumulated treasures into big black plastic bags.  Everything was taken out and tossed on the grass between curb and sidewalk.  The brass rail bed, the glass dining table, and the solid oak bookcase were also put outside. So was the computer, television, entertainment stand, brass and pottery lamps, sofa and chairs and all sorts of paintings, prints, posters and other framed art.

The men dragged all of Durell’s stuff to the street on a pleasant April day.  Everyone on the that side of the 5 story Section 8 building watched  from their windows.  By the afternoon, as the goods accumulated, most of the people in the houses across the street were also watching.  People always watched when stuff was set out after a death or an eviction. There might be something needed, or an upgrade.  Or simply something easy to sell.

Passing cars stopped to look; so did pedestrians.  The bailiff announced that anyone but Durell would be arrested if they took anything before the crew left.  But everybody could come over and get a close look.  Durell had good taste, and enough stuff to fill a four bedroom home.

Everyone wondered how he could have fit everything into his small apartment.  A place without a litter box for the cat.  A place where the electricity had been shut off 8 weeks ago.  His best friend Donnie said that Durell loved yard sales and resale shops.  He accumulated, then crammed and stacked; there were only narrow paths between mounds to get from one room to the next.

Early in the day many were saying they wouldn't take anything.  Durell made people laugh.  Still; as the day went on, people began saying he had lots of time to move and “if he wants his stuff why ain’t he come back with some truck, or asked folks to watch over some of it for a bit.”

Why Durell didn’t at least come and grab some of the best stuff was a mystery.  He also knew lots of people that could help, having lived in town for years and still working as a gofer and delivery guy for many local restaurants and bars.  Some said he was a little slow, but he didn’t seem much different from most.  Donnie said that the judge at the eviction hearing told him that the agency just down the street could provide moving and living assistance. He himself asked him daily when he was going to try to get some help, asked, “what you gonna do?”  Durell kept saying, “I don’t know.  I don’t know.”

By late afternoon the sky darkened with rain clouds, and everybody had their eyes on a few goodies.  The 350 pound rolls of fat lady had spotted a big jar of coins; she proclaimed dibs.   The crotchety old white prude and his wife in the corner house wanted the big heavy lamps.  One gay couple kept circling the brass rail bed and cooing.  The two white boys living in their dead daddy’s house wanted the entertainment stand and gadgets.  The couple with all the plants on their porch wanted the pictures for their next yard sale.  Everybody wanted that giant brass cornered, leather strapped heavy duty steamer trunk with the small copper plate saying Macys 1911.

By 5:30 pm a light rain had started.  Trucks and cars were now lined up along the block; it was soon gonna be pick and carry time.  Rose, standing next to the porch with all the plants, directly across the street from the ever expanding piles, had a running commentary:  “Lots of yard sale junk over there, plus some of that stuff I could use myself.”  Then, a few minutes later, “Garbage truck shows up first thing tomorrow morning, it’ll take anything gets left.”  Then as the rain got heavier, “all that gonna get gone.  What don’t get gone is gonna be ruined by the rain.”  And a little bit later, “Ain’t like it just gonna stay there for him, iffen his black behind ever does come back.”  Followed by, “everybody gonna be grabbin, why not us?”  And lastly, “Better lace those shoes tight, it gonna be a race.”

The bailiff and his men didn’t finish until 6:30 pm.  Just before leaving they put a few pictures and other items into their own vehicles.  The rest of Durell’s goods were now spread out over 30 yards along the curb, covering the ten foot lawn area and spilling over onto much of the sidewalk.

Shoes were laced tight.  When the bailiff finally pulled off the hordes descended.  Black and white folk, young and old, gay and straight, doped up, drunk or sober - all raced over and started grabbing and carting.  The April shower had turned into a pouring rain.  It didn’t stop anyone; within the hour the neighbors had got all they wanted.

That’s when Durell finally showed up.  He ran to and fro along the length of “trash”.  Every now and then he stopped to sort through a pile or look into black bag.  He stomped his feet, wailed and groaned, “oh no, oh no, oh no.” Every once in a while he screamed, “my pictures, my pictures, where are my pictures?”

Durell moved a few things over by Rose’s patio door.  Next to other stuff of his.  Rose had hauled it there first, not wanting to waste grabbing time to take it into her apartment.  She peeked out her blinds saying “oh shit” as Durell stacked more stuff on her patio.

Durell then snatched some black bags and ran them across the street, placing them by the porch of some guys he knew.  As cars and trucks pulled up to assess and grab goodies Durell shouted, “don’t even think about it!”  He yelled that quite a bit.  The cars and trucks went away… for a few more minutes anyway.

Donnie came out while Durell was moaning and stamping his feet and again yelling, “my pictures, my pictures, where are my pictures?”  He asked, “what are you going to do, Durell?”  Durell moaned “I don’t know. I Don’t Know, I DON’T KNOW!”

Way into the wee hours, people in cars packed and crammed goodies into every spare inch; others just tossed bag after bag, item after item into vans and trucks.  Less than half of Durell’s stuff was still there at 7 in the morning..  The garbagemen took that.  At 7:30 there wasn’t anything left but some headdress stuck up on the iron fence.  Turned out it was a big busted feathered bra.  Rose cracked, “he musta used that when playin them tom-toms.  Who scooped them up anyway?”


JDA7/31/10

Writers write.

Sometimes

Sometimes I just want to be a comforting voice.

Mention the warmth of a summer sun,

talk of the colors on October trees.

Bring out the joy of a two year old

giggling down a slide.

Sometimes I just want to say something witty.

.

PPJ071710