Day 70 Plus blog post Plus Station Master Part 1 of 3

Day 70

 

Target shooting with the new

B-B gun into the new couch

 

 

“No! It won’t hurt the sofa!” It’s just a B-B gun.” I promised my wife as the “kids” and I pelted a paper target sitting on the new couch. I saw “dust” flying out of the fabric of the furniture piece, only, it wasn’t dust as Lady Candy keeps an immaculate house, it was “fabric”!

Soon, (very soon), we were banned from “target shooting” in the family room.Wonder why?

She truly should have been used to outlandish displays of “ir-reverence” from her “little boy”.

The “kids” (actually, our girls; I’m the sophisticated adult!?) had once instigated a snowball fight “in” the house one cold winter night (I wonder who brought the snow inside?). Playing “war” in Lady Candy’s palace with “pop”-gun rifles and throwing snowballs at one another led to one of the girls running for their life as “mature” dad chased them down the hall pummeling them with snowballs and shooting the pop-gun at them. When they sought sanctuary in the bedroom, they should not have slammed the door on me as I was hot on their trail.

Yep! The errant door slammed into the muzzle of my weapon and punched a hole through it.

Damn! The luck! Why don’t they make doors stronger so “kids” can play sans “trouble”?

At least I wasn’t so corrupted as to use the .22 rifles to shoot at the kids!---Hmm!...No!

Yeah! I know! Normal dads give their girls dolls to play with, but, I’m pretty pragmatic about life-issues and we live in a tough neighborhood

I may not be overly bright or well-behaved, but, I am not pernicious; they might shoot me!

 

Anybody out there in the market for a “slightly” used sofa?

That silver duct tape covers the holes and blends well with “purple”!?

 

Don’t forget---to…duck!

See you at the shooting “sofa”-range!

 

Ah! Cookie Jar “Hands---up!” Sweet Memories!

Plus:

 

 

Letter from a friend:

 

 

 

Old Times

 

Received a letter from a friend today; I had heard that his health had treated him badly and so I had sent him a “cheer-me-up type scribe as we had once been fairly close and I had lost touch.

His “high” intelligence rang through in his words; he has enjoyed a pleasant enough life and even took up flying (that surprised me as I was the “rebel, rascal, rogue of the pairing).

I had originally written to him to encourage him with a good attitude toward the conditions resultant of age, but also recalled that his birthday was January 10 and so commented on that.

We traverse many lanes in this life-endeavor encountering myriad pilgrims along the way; seems that it is sometimes good just to say “howdy” through a space of time past. Amen!

I got the distinct impression that my old friend is searching for some “life” answers to delicate issues and cannot put a peaceful finger on them. Such energy must be somewhat disconcerting.

Three times I have found myself in that “near-death experience” of the proverbial tunnel. (I dismiss such sacred measure on a wretch like me by joking that they sent me back, all three times, didn’t want me over there, either). No “church” can help you at that late point; hopefully their teaching already prepared thee for that inevitable journey patiently awaiting each of us.

Yesterday, I wrote in my blog that “religion” is each person’s most personal treasure. Such “reverence” is strictly between the “believer” and the Deity, exactly as it should be. The only “answer” to any query is simple and honest: Truth! To find the “key”, listen with an open heart, an accepting mind and a free spirit. Praise! Honor! Glorify! God! In every instant: thought, word and deed. Make such worship “habit” without thinking. The sacred “rewards” are self-fulfilling.

In condensed focus: Refuse lies, embrace generosity, live free, practice Love!

 

Live! Love! Laugh! Focus contemplate!

Vigilant be! Not one future be ever late!

 

Faith! Family! Freedom! Might just be all there really---Is!

In one eternal instant the only mercy-blessing will be…His!

 

Amen!

 

 

Best wishes! Friend Ron! Good luck! Longevity! God bless!

 

Carl

 

 

 

Plus:

(Part 1 of 3)

 

 

 

Station Master

 

     Sunny Philadelphia basking under a yellow-diamond sun-glow on a warm late spring morning under a cerulean crystal sky afloat with myriad flower-fragrances wafting on pleasantly warm air like a scented perfume bouquet; home of the infamous “Liberty Bell”, historic buildings, famous figures, brotherly love. Life is good! Mon Amie! C’est la vie! N’est pas?

All that claim to an important past, yet, full of present-day glory with modern urban hysteria to boot. The metropolis, sporting rapid transit amidst pastoral parks, art and music festivals, impressive architecture, professional sports teams, running headlong into the modern era.

Yes! Sir! The city had it all. Even those bright yellow and white newfangled “green” buses running on…What? Oh! Yeah! Pure, free air? No! Not yet. But---Promised? Soon! Somewhere in the marketing choreographed-hype about a “pollution-free” nirvana environment!  To be fair, the pure air was to be the output, not the intake. Yeah! Right! And, where, pray tell, do they recharge those pollution-free cure-all batteries of heaven-sent life-saving modern horse-hockey?

Of course, quite obvious to anyone interested in truth, with electricity from dirty polluting coal-powered facilities or “three-eyed fish” producing nuclear energy generating-station plants.

    Oh! What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. Really? Yes! Indeed!

Rumors had it that some big wig in Congress had a brother-in-law who neither could nor would work at an honest living, so Mr. “I’m Very Important American Royalty”, a blatant lie on the bald face of it, U.S. Representative, self-appointed, self-deluded, self-proclaimed, self-deceived, found that errant “relative”, his sister never could pick a winner, not even after seven consecutive abject failures in less than ten years, some funds to start a bus manufacturing company, from scratch, so the good politicos of a major megalopolis could purchase the vehicles, at full retail price, plus some “picked from the air” premium added, just how much does a South Pacific island cost these days, anyway, and become a leader to be emulated in their selfless “going green” enterprise as an “I wanna be”-celebrity hungry for an idiotic following nationwide. Oh! But, too cynical? Perhaps? Yes. But not a thieving, lying politico. Thank you, one and all, once more---and…forever more! Amen!

Of course, none of that had any import on the dapper young man exiting a cab at the downtown building housing the luxury offices of his next victim, er, ah, client, on his list of buyers of prosperity, freedom and the good life; his successes, with purposed-intent; certainly not their own. After all, only the Royal-elites knew true value!

He paused for dramatic effect, as though anyone was watching, pulled his left sleeve high enough to display the richly gleaming gold Cartier as he seemed to check the time while actually hiding a surreptitious purview of his surroundings to see who might notice. George loved the expensive watch, a ten thousand dollar beauty, it was; of course, he had paid less than seventy-five hundred for the trinket, but, George lived in, of, by and for the material world of practiced- perception. And, any self-proclaimed “great” salesman loved a good deal; each one, always a savvy horse trader, an eloquent bull spreader; a gift of gab belying a silver-tongued evil-demon.

As he approached his prey’s lair, taking a clandestine slug from his silver flask adorned with a bounding buck deer delicately sculpted in fine gold filigree and adhered to the convex front of the decanter, a homeless man crouched near the front door grabbed his leg, begging for a taste.

He wore a dirty, faded and ragged maroon plaid sport coat, the sleeve edges threadbare, dark, grease-stained black pants, three inches too short for his long, skinny, bruised legs, and, worst of all to the sad, comical incongruity, the most laughable insult, a forest green derby hat, in merchandise presentation condition, atop a head of matted, filthy, bright red hair. A leprechaun!

George kicked at the bum and cursed him for dirtying his precious suit; the drifter seemed to be softly singing an off-key ditty which George could not place but which sounded vaguely familiar. In his embarrassment and excited effort to get away from the vagrant, he dismissed the seeming glow around the miscreant’s head as inconsequential, perhaps just the sun reflecting off the green top hat adornment.

“Get away from me, you tramp,” he spoke in a brash and berating manner, not at all like the suave and debonair formal conservational tone lavished upon his clients. The man clung tighter; George was nearly dragging him in his effort to escape. People were now beginning to stare.

To avoid additional humiliation, he tossed a sawbuck to the side of the man in a direction away from the gleaming glass and bronze doors; his attacker relented in his grip and went after the green bill; George quickly moved toward the safety of the waiting lobby.

“Go buy yourself a bottle, old man.” George spat the words, derisively, over his shoulder.

He perpetually tried desperately to keep that awful temper in check; this time, he had failed.

“The city should do something about vagrants like that,” he thought to himself as he entered the building to ply his trade on yet another unsuspecting victim. By the time he reached the bank of elevators, he had put the incident safely out of his mind.

George was a born salesman. His winning attitude: That stupid idiot has my paycheck; all I have to do is figure out how to get it from him. And, he had the necessary skills and confidence to do just that; George was very successful in worldly appraisal. His position afforded him a huge income, worldwide travel at no expense to himself, an unlimited expense account, seven residences strategically placed around the world, and, best of all, friends, lots of very close friends, the closest, in fact; most of the female persuasion. The un-spoken, un-admitted and, best of all, un-taxed bonus: Absolutely no commitments!

Foot-loose and fancy-free! That’s the way George liked it and exactly the way he lived it.

His favorite quip, “I’ve been poor and I’ve been sick and ‘Rich’ is better.”

Instead of being appalled at such outlandish sentiment, his “friends” loved it. C’est la vie!

Two hours later, philanderer George came out of the gleaming ivory-white marble tower glowing in that awesome sunshine of a perfect spring day in one of the most modern, up-to-date metropolises in the entire country. He was walking on cloud-nine, with a signed order safely cached in his alligator leather brief case and the CEO’s personal secretary’s home number added to his delightful little black book, modernly stored, in his handy latest generation  tech-phone.

The electronic device held the same information as its antiquated predecessor but was cold plastic, not the warm leather of the original keeper; the modern accessory costing hundreds of dollars and lacking the “romance” associated with the book. Truly a sign of modern man: cold, calculating, expensive; all-perception. Love was dead, worse, the hope and possibility of affectionate relationships, also, killed by apathy, distrust, instant gratification, lies. Immediate satisfaction, self-aggrandizement, self-appointment to importance, power, prestige, these demons masqueraded as the be-all, end-all for “modern” man. The accepted lie: Perception is everything!

George personified the “modern” man; all the gadgets, the newest toys, the right clothes. Brand name! Had to be, lest---Dear God! Oh! No! Not that! What might others think? Hell! He even sported the best addresses at each of his seven homes, all purchased at a worthy premium.  

Yes! Sir! George was living large, and enjoying every minute of the endless ride. He had celebrated in the elevator on the way down with another taste from his silver whiskey flask. The warm amber liquid soothed his throat like soft wind caressing sheer silk; the handsome commission would comfort his burgeoning bank account. What would he buy next? George would come up with something extravagant; he always did; if they were manufacturing it today, he was buying it tomorrow—and…paying cold, hard “Cash” for the exquisite privilege!

   He became annoyed when the street person to whom he had given the ten spot started toward him. Trying to escape another shakedown, George turned abruptly to the curb.

He was not about to let this hobo accost him, again. George was above all that and better than this loser who had singled him out for this ration of his “Daily bread”.

 “I’d rather be caught dead than deal with this off-key crooner again,” he thought, agitated.

Careful what you wish for, suave, Ole Georgie-boy! Good advice! For everyone. Still…          

Hailing a cab from the far side of the six-lane, one-way thoroughfare, dapper George, in his tailored fifteen hundred dollar silk three piece suit crafted in Paris, bright silk shirt and fancy tie, expensive shoes and flaunting his cavalier “devil-may-care” attitude of the deserved rich and famous, in hasty retreat from his antagonist, carelessly stepped into the street.

He should have paid better attention to his surroundings and considered less his self-declared celebrity and his itinerant nemesis. “Dapper” George should have done a lot of things differently in his life, but he had not made wise choices. And, why should he lament, he was young, rich and very much alive, with big plans and no end in sight. Perhaps? Tomorrow---or…someday?

A fleeting thought came to his mind: Careful what you wish for.

But, alas. Too late! Fate held life’s reins and called the tune without respect for the: Who!

A shrill scream escaped the lips of a matronly elderly woman passer-by and the bellicose “Hey! Mister! Watch out!” thunderous yell of a man’s warning greeted his stunned ears when an instantaneous yellow-white blur was manifested in his peripheral vision. The old lady pointed a crooked finger and screamed a cacophonous call of terror as the “green” bus flattened the jay walker. The poor victim disappeared beneath the black front rubber bumper of the huge conveyance which bounced a final insult to an otherwise delightful day as the right front wheel traveled over the body of hapless George, “the dapper dresser”.

The piranhas might well rule the river, but fate is the hunter---evil death… the final arbiter.

From under the bus slid a silver flask, sporting the likeness of a bounding lustrous golden deer, glinting in the sun, the expensive yellow contents leaking onto the dirty concrete street from a crack in the container’s neck, split open somewhere within the violent, deadly, impact.

Quick as a wink, a grimy hand sticking out from a too-short raggedy maroon colored sport coat while desperately clutching a crumpled ten dollar bill, grasped the shiny silver decanter from the pavement. The street person made good his escape by expertly traversing the zipping traffic on the boulevard so adroitly as to cause only one horn to blare at his intrusion. He smiled.

He needed to be not so content with his escape nor so proud of his athleticism; the one honking car swerved into the lane nearest the errant bus, cutting off a concrete truck carrying a full load, the driver already late for his appointed delivery. He braked and turned sharply to avoid the careening vehicle now occupying his lane of travel. Once more, too late.

The driver avoided the car, but his sharp turn caused the top heavy load in the rotating mixer to shift, the momentum throwing the mobile concrete factory onto its side. The weight of the drum landed on the left side rear corner of the yellow and white “green”-redemptor, crushing to death, instantaneously, a young mother and her four children. They were sitting in the last seat of the conveyance on the driver’s side since her recalcitrant boys had insisted; she could not control them and made no attempt to do so. Such failing cost her, and them, most dearly.

They had been on their way to meet “Uncle” Jimmy at his gleaming glass office building where she would deposit the kids at the corporate day care facility while she and “Uncle” went around the corner to the fifth floor room which Jim kept reserved at the Liberty Bell Hotel for his numerous afternoon escapades of relaxation and pleasure. The woman had made the rendezvous once a week for nearly a decade; her husband apparently unconcerned with his wife’s dalliances.

Her three boys were tow headed, like her husband; the youngest, a little girl, sported tight black curls and a cute turned up nose, in resemblance to “Uncle” Jimmy’s features.

The woman, and her children, would miss that appointment---and…the rest of their lives.

Also, Sammy-the-Singer would little enjoy the fruits of his labor this fine spring afternoon. Within the hour, he would lay facing the cerulean sky, vacant eyes staring into the eternal abyss, in a pool of his own blood, sporting a knife in his chest. Oh! Danny-boy! Oh! Danny-boy!

 

 

 

(Part 2 0f 3 tomorrow)