ENOUGH ALREADY!

In the span of one-weeks time I’ve been accused by two different men of hating gay people and having a real issue with being gay, so you know what- here we go:

I have no issue with gay people or being gay.  What I take issue with is the fact that because I’m gay I should do, like and be certain ways and things, totally ignoring the fact that there’s 100% human being in here.  My being gay is about as relevant as my having brown eyes – it’s a trait I have, but it doesn’t define me.  I am not your damned stylist, or your fucking comic relief like some modern age man in black face tap dancing for all the nice folk.  These seemingly harmless stereotypes are just as poisonous as the ones of sex and race marginalization.  Why don’t you go and ask your black friend the best place to get fried chicken, see how that goes over.  Or how about you ask your Latino friend what it’s like to be a day laborer.  No, I don’t hate being gay, what I hate is the notion that it defines me.

The gay communities #1 enemy?  The gay community.  You must conform!  You must be this way, or you’re completely devalued, debased and dehumanized.  Weren’t we supposed to be fighting for everyone to have a voice?  For everyone to be created equal?  Nope, sorry, go play into the mold that NBC, Bravo! and every other damned media outlet has created for you, go ahead.  Show the world that you’re nothing but sheep.  The community whines, and moans that they’re not getting equal treatment…well how about you start at home.  Here’s a clue, AB MUSCLES ARE NOT NORMAL!  It’s not rights for the pretty ones and the rest can go to hell, it’s rights for EVERYONE!

OK, sure, so I do like some pretty typical things that gay people like, example one, Judy Garland.  But you know what, talent is talent.  Unlike Britney Spears and whatever the next wreck-de jour is, there is a difference between blindly following the tune of a marketing directors drum, and identifying true talent.

Can I tell you what designer labels are in?  Nope, can you tell me?  Can I tell you what color looks good on you?  Sure, but you told me that first and I’m only honest when I tell you you look fat…gays aren’t honest, friends are.  Can I dance?  Not on your life, can you?  I don’t know what puce is, beer and wings are my idea of heaven, I like to sit around in jeans and a hoodie, I don’t have to have to newest, prettiest, shiniest whatever it is that’s in vogue this minute and for this I’m marginalized by the supposed gay community.

Well you know what, I’m here to tell you something.  This community sucks.  Get your shit in order, figure out what you want from your country and your government, until then, I’ll just sit aside and watch you all destroy yourselves.  I’ll be over here drinking my beer, wearing my ratty old jeans, watching A Star Is Born.

_____________________

What brought this on?

A phone call last night from a fellow columnist at the Montrose GEM called to tell me that a lesbian is running for mayor.

“Um, ok, yay?”

“Why do you hate being gay?”

“Woah, what? Excuse me?”

“You seem to have a real issue with being gay.”

“No, John, I have a real issue with the fact that because I’m gay I’m supposed to be a certain way.  I don’t give a damn if the person running for mayor people’s her bed with sheep.  All I care about is her platform.”

“Oh….well I came at this wrong…..there’s this awesome person running for mayor, with an amazing platform, oh and she happens to be a lesbian.”

“Wow, that’s awesome, I gotta see what her platform is.”

Warning! Do NOT Lick The Blood!

So I got a new job.  Instead of working in the Advancement Department of a major University down here, I’ll be working in the Medical School as Support for the doctors on the HIV/AIDS research team.  I had to take time last week during the day to go and spend a few moments with the individual who was vacating the position so I could get an idea of what would be required of me.  I left my beautiful and well manicured office and arrived at what can only be called a bunker-like, monolith of a building that could only be more confusing if the halls were lined with mirrors.  I held out hope for the office I’d be in. 

 

Hope failed.  The office was a disaster; I had to turn sideways to go from one side of the office to the other, there were papers piled up all over this lady’s desk…soon to be my desk.  I kept trying to remind myself that I was helping to support some great individuals who were doing fantastic work trying to solve one of our generations great problems.  Well, better get on with this.

 

“Can I grab a chair as you explain this stuff?”  I ask the lame duck employee. 

 

“Well we don’t have an extra.”

 

“Can I just grab one from one of the doctors offices?”

 

“You’d have to lift it over their desk to get at it.”

 

“Ok, I’ll stand.”

 

She spends an hour explaining things, that if they were done properly, wouldn’t need explanation.  It wouldn’t be until later that I and the department would realize that for two-years this woman didn’t do anything:  no filing, no organizing, no reports, no databases, nothing!  But that’s a later post.  

 

Someone mentions that she should show me the lab since I will have to help in there too.  As we walk in there’s blood everywhere.  My fingernails dig into my palms, which are quickly coated in sweat…I think I’m going to be sick.  It wasn’t all over the walls or anything, it was in tubes being rocked back and forth on machines, spun around in centrifuges, locked away in refrigerators, or in doctors hands.  I noticed that the woman I was following was standing next to a massive metal tube that was as tall as me and as wide as a truckers ass.  

 

“This is the nitrogen tank that feeds this freezer here.”  She taps a relatively small machine next to her with a metal tube running into it.  She goes on.

“This freezer holds hundreds of viles of ten year old HIV positive blood….and it’s locked.”

 

I open my mouth to ask a question, but she goes on.

 

“The freezer will beep if it’s low on nitrogen, but that’s not good, so watch this thing here and when it gets to that yellow point, order another one, they’ll deliver it in two days.”

 

“Who does the connecting and disconnecting?”

 

“That’d be you.”

 

“Yeah, but isn’t nitrogen gas that stuff they put stuff into then pull it out and shatter it with a hammer?”

 

“Well you see, the reason this freezer her is locked isn’t because we’re afraid of someone stealing 10 year old HIV positive blood, it’s because if you opened it, the blast of air would give you 3rd degree burns.”

 

“Oh my God!  So, wait, what’s to prevent that from happening when I change out the tank?” 

 

She opens a drawer.

 

“These asbestos gloves.”

 

“Oh, ok…wait?  Excuse me?”

 

“Yeah, asbestos is good for this.”

 

“Yall have any lead cups I can drink out of too?”

 

“That’d be radiology down the hall.”  She says in all seriousness, “You’ll be fine, it’s not hard.”

 

We begin to leave, I’m grateful that I can get away from all the blood, it’s like The Shining in there I swear!

 

“Oh!”  She says, “One last thing.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Don’t lick anything.”

No Liquor, But Would You Like A Handgun?

It’s been a rough week; I’ve been working all weekend on things that were neglected while I was gone for ten-days. I’m not tired, but I’m stiff and stressed out, I need a damned drink. Not wine, that makes me sleepy. I crack open the wine fridge to see what else we have.

There’s two shelves of soda – soda? Why do we have that, neither of us drinks soda. Hrm…there’s a mystery bottle of wine I found two days ago, I’m still not sure where that came from or who’s it is, ok next. Blech, cheap cooking wine. Cheap brandy and some rum. Oy. We need vodka; I need vodka, time to go to the store.

Down here you don’t find the typical liquor store. Oh sure, we have them, but our supermarkets and big stores like Target also carry wine and beer. I make my way through our half revitalized, half decrepit Downtown to a local large chain whose tag line is “If you can’t find it here, it doesn’t exist.”

I’ve pretty much found that to be true.

I pull in, the parking lot is oddly lacking many cars, and usually this place is a madhouse. Whatever, I find easy parking. I walk inside, past the massive neon rabbit sign – yes a giant neon rabbit.

I make my way through the isles – “Bourbon Street,” “Whiskey Way,” “Rum Road…” yes I know it’s corny, but hey, it seriously helps you find exactly what you’re looking for. Ah HA! Vodka! Sweet, sweet Russian candy.

I grab some weird Irish vodka that Julius always buys, and I happen to enjoy and begin to make my way towards the front of the store, not noticing that half the lights in the store are out and there’s only one register open.

I make my way to register 9, manned by a rather rotund, pale, blond woman with the rattiest hair I’ve ever seen. I smile at her and hand her the bottle.

“No liquor.” She says with a heavy southern accent.

“Huh?” I ask, not sure what she means.

“Can’t buy hard liquor on Sundays, darling, only wine or beer.”

“But you’re a liquor store.”

“Cain’t do it.”

“But why?”

“Do you think the Good Lord Jesus, on the 7^th day, when he was restin’, went and had hisself a drink? No sir! No liquor on Sundays.”

I look to my left and see a box with tins of mints in them, they’re called TestaMints, they have scripture on every mint. I look around, half expecting to see a large black woman burst out into “Listen To The Rain,” as I get a scripture lesson.

I notice a TV on over the back of the check-out counter.

 

“Today on Houston’s death row, an inmate pulled out his own eye, and then proceeded to eat it, more on that when we come back.”

 

Did I just enter some kinda crazy-town?

 

I’m half distracted, hand the bottle of vodka to the sacker and walk out.

There’s some flashing lights for a store across the street.  “HANDGUNS!  QUICK APPROVAL!  OPEN! OPEN! OPEN!” it flashes.  Huh….so I can’t get some vodka, some guy eats his own eye, but I can get a handgun…welcome to Texas.

The White Moth; Part III

Her house was dark, deep and dramatically colored with black, purples, reds and blues, Jackson’s heart pounded in his chest.  His head spun and his mind was afloat. The last time he felt like this he had been tripping. The only difference was that this time he didn’t think that the lights were alive and trying to eat him.

Regina led him into a dark living room. The floors were a deep, dark wood and they moaned loudly as they stepped across them to a deep, plum purple couch.  As he fell slowly down onto the couch, he felt like he was sinking into warm water. Regina slithered next to him as the down in the pillows shifted and gave.

The boxes around the room were a sign that she hadn’t been living in the house very long, but Jackson couldn’t remember his parents telling him that it was for sale.  Ruby walked into the room, announcing her presence with the “click, clack” of her nails on the floor, and sat at attention next to Regina, almost in a protective stance.  The only light in the room came from a lone, dark amber lamp and a few lit candles.

He could feel the heat from her breath on his neck; his head floated high above his body as if he were drugged.

“Wha….”  He couldn’t finish.

“Sh,” Regina said as she put her finger against his lips.

Soon her lips took the place of her finger on top of his. They were smooth like silk and warm like liquid heat.  Jackson’s heart pounded with the strength of a machine.

“Just breathe.”  She whispered into his ear, the humidity of her breath lingering on his face.

Slowly she kissed his neck and pulled back, as if to see if Jackson were still in his stupor.  He couldn’t move. His body was frozen and limp, but his mind and heart raced.  Regina’s eyes seemed to grow more intense and almost like a fiery green that blazed within her head.  Then quickly she descended upon his neck and sank her teeth into the soft, supple flesh, deep onto the pulsating vein that lie beneath.

The dark, crimson blood flowed into her mouth and between her lips, a few drops escaping onto his neck.  Jackson tried to get up and push her off of him, but Regina’s strength was much greater than he had anticipated, and she held him back with her thin arms and dug her sharply filed nails into his body.  His head spun and his stomach turned in the pit of his body. The room spun and his vision became blurry. Then slowly, Jackson’s eyes slipped shut.

*                             *                               *                             *                              *

Her tongue lapped against his face like a warm, wet sponge.  Jackson’s eyes slowly opened, but they were still blurry. It was hard to see.  He rubbed his eyes and looked around when her tongue lapped against him again.

“Ophelia!  What are you doing?”  He asked.

He felt as stiff as if he had just gone through an intense workout and his stomach ached as if he had a hangover.  Jackson patted Ophelia on the head and scratched her ears, and then her saw it.  A white moth fluttered by his head and over towards the kitchen lamp. He clomped over the hardwood floors, making them creak and moan, as well as causing shelves to shudder, making his way to the kitchen-table lamp.  Slowly and with precision he raised his hands around the lamp, keeping a distance just far enough from the moth so as not to scare it off.

“Thank God.  You’ve been annoying me forever.”  Then, dimwittedly, Jackson moved in a way that landed the back of his right hand directly against two light bulbs.

“Ow damn it!”  He screamed, stomping his foot, causing the glasses concealed in the cabinets to shudder and shake together, sounding a song of high-pitched tones.  As rapidly as it arose, his brief outburst disappeared, and he made his way over to the sliding doors opposite the kitchen table.  Lithely, Jackson slipped through the door to the back porch and threw the moth up into the air, unable to see its line of flight, but sure that it had gotten as far away from him as possible.

Jackson scratched his neck. His body always got itchy after he had been sweating.  As he pulled his hand away, he noticed that there was blood on it.  Back inside the house, Jackson went into the bathroom and looked at his neck in the mirror. There were two “pin points” on his neck.

“What the hell?  Where did that come from?”

He grabbed some tissues and held them to his neck until the bleeding stopped and made his way to the kitchen again.  On the kitchen table there was something silver that Jackson didn’t recognize.  He picked it up and opened it. It was a cigarette case that contained cigarettes so long and thin that they looked like white matchsticks.  Jackson didn’t know why, but he had a sense of foreboding.

“Hamlet!  C’mon boy, time for a walk.”

The End

The White Moth, Part II

After the interruption, we’re back to our story; if you need a refresher, read Part I.  We continue…

As he stomped up the porch steps, Jackson threw open the sliding glass door, holding back Ophelia, who nearly bolted into his waist, with his leg as quickly she ran towards him, she started to growl and bark.  So much so, that she frightened Jackson out of the way, and she perched herself at the top of the stairs of the porch.

“Get in there!”

Jackson yelled at Hamlet as he shoved him in the house and quickly slammed the door.

“Ophelia!”

He called to the other dog.  She hadn’t left her post at the crown of the steps, and was quietly growling into the air.  He felt bad that he had left her inside alone for so long, so he grabbed a leash off the porch, clasped it around her neck, and tried to walk to the car.

Ophelia was resistant and felt as if she were cemented to her post.  Jackson reached up and grabbed at her collar when, suddenly, with a clap of lightning, Ophelia snapped at him and almost caught Jackson’s fingers within her jowls.

“Hey!  Knock it off!”

He yelled with a yank at her collar.  Instead of walking her around the yard as he had planned, he chained her up to one of the posts on the porch and walked down to the yard alone.  From his pocket he pulled a red and white box of cigarettes, clasped his lips around one of the long cylindrical tube’s brown ends, and sparked a lighter at its tip.

As Jackson inhaled deeply, he could see that a fog was rolling in, not an odd occurrence since his family’s house was in the valley.  He thought that he could see something moving in the mist, but he couldn’t be sure if it was the fog rolling in or the light from the porch playing tricks on his eyes.  No, there was definitely something walking slowly towards him.

Ophelia started to whine and cower on the porch, barking at the house, a sign that she wanted to be inside, away from whatever was coming.  Jackson could see what he thought was a bear emerging from the mist, but it was an odd bear—he thought, no matter how hard it was to believe, that it was a polar bear.  He didn’t know what to think or do.  Should he run?  Should he go back inside?  Then he saw the it wasn’t a bear at all, but a dog, a very large dog—almost as big as his “pups.”  The dog was as white as the driven snow and it seemed frightened.  Jackson squatted down and called to it.

“C’mere baby, c’mon.”

The dog was friendlier than he thought, and it rubbed up against him and then immediately licked his face.  It was almost like the dog knew that Jackson had hurt himself not too long ago.  As Jackson ran his hands through the dog’s coat, he noticed that it had ice blue eyes that were very piercing.

“Who do you belong to buddy?”

Jackson asked as he felt around the dog’s neck for a collar.  The tags read, “My Name’s Ruby, I’ve had all my shots, and my owner is Regina Launderson, 4031 Saints Way, Concord MA.”

“Concord MA, isn’t that Massachusetts?  Well, you’re a very long way from home buddy.  How’d you get to Pennsylvania?”

“Ruby!”

A voice called out from the dark.  Ruby turned around to face the direction of the voice, and Jackson stood up and snuffed out his cigarette.  Ophelia started to bark again, so Jackson put her back in the house and went back to Ruby.  The voice called out again.

“Ruby, where are you?  C’mere sweetie!”

It was a woman’s voice.  Like the dog did, the woman seemed to form out of the fog and walk towards Jackson.  Ruby started barking at her owner and ran towards her in excitement.  By now the woman was close enough for Jackson to meet her halfway and introduce himself.

“Ruby, baby, here you are!”  She knelt down, ruffled the dog’s fur, and hugged her.

“You should know better than to run off like that little girl,” She said in a mock scold.
“You’ve got a very beautiful dog there,” Jackson said to the woman.

As she stood up Jackson noticed that she was a tall woman, not much shorter than his six-feet, and exuded beauty.  Her hair was long and black as the night, and her skin was milk white.  The first thing that Jackson thought of was Snow White.  Her dress only accented her body more.  It was a deep purple that flowed as if it was draped over her body, and Jackson thought that she was rather dressed up.

“Thank you,” The woman said.  “I’ve just gotten back from a business dinner and when I got back my Ruby was gone—nearly scared me to death.  We just moved here, so I thought she went running off back to Mass.”

“Well, she seemed to just be scoping out the neighborhood. You don’t have to worry, people around here look out for one another. Someone would have spotted her. It’s hard to miss a dog so, well, white.  By the way, I’m Jackson,” He said, extending his hand to her.

“It’s a pleasure, I’m Regina. I don’t believe that I’ve seen you in the neighborhood yet,” she said as she pulled a silver cigarette case out of her purse and opened it with a click.  Contained inside of it were cigarettes so thin and long that they looked like matchsticks.  As Jackson struggled to get out his lighter for her, she threw her hair over her opposite shoulder and thanked him for the light.

Her eyes were a hypnotic emerald green, and Jackson couldn’t take his eyes off of them.  For no reason clear to him, the next thought in Jackson’s head was of the sirens in the Homer’s Odyssey. Her eyes sang to him while Ophelia and Hamlet howled of impending danger.

We’ve Interrupted This Broadcast…

….To bring you an important announcemt.  So “The White Moth” is on hold just for one post, I’ll get the next part of the story up soon, but I had to blog about this;

Last night Julius and I went to an annual Christmas party of two friends of his- one of who happens to be my dentist.  They have a fantastic home, done in a very grand and very elegant style…heck they even have TWO full sized grand pianos.  Needless to say, that’s enough to make me drool, but the food is fantastic and the liquor is great too.  We pulled up to the vallet around 9:30, went in, said our hello’s to the hosts and mingled.

I went up to the bar and ordered my usual red wine, completely forgetting that I probably should stay sober for the sake of my morning flight.  I’m probably one of the youngest people here, but that doesn’t bother me, the atmosphere is much more my taste than the usual parties we get invited to.

The bartender hands me my glass of red wine.

“Good Lord!”  I exclaim, Julius’ back turned, he looks at me.

“What?”

“Do you see this?  It’s …it’s….I’m surprised there’s not a fish in here!”

In case you didn’t get that, the glass was HUGE….three more of those later, we’re home and I’m pretty drunk.  I have to be up in 4 hours in order to get to the airport.  I close my eyes for a moment, and the next thing I know, my alarm’s going off.  Ugh, I’m in a not so nice place inbetween drunk and hungover.  I debate how much I really need to go home for Christmas, wondering if my mother really would come down here and bring me up by the hair of my chin…I decide it’s best not to test her and get ready.  By the time I’m finished getting ready I think I feel better, then I snap at Julius for no reason and realize that, no, I don’t.

The drive to the airport was inconsequential, so I assumed that checking my bag would be as well.  The last time I came home for Christmas the airport was nearly empty, no such luck this time.  Lines to my left, lines to my right, lines right in my line of sight…oy, this is gonna be LONG.

Go to this line, no that line, no not that line, no come with me, no you can’t come with me, you go there, no don’t go there, go THERE.  That pretty much sums up my first 15 minutes at the airport.  Now I’m not exactly a novice at flying, I’ve racked up about 30k miles in flights this year, but when all of your lines are going out of the door of the airport, all the rules go out the window.

Ok, so I’m finally in line, everyone is in a sour mood and I very nearly decide to join them.  Then I realize, HEY, I’m headed home for Christmas, I get to see Yolanda’s House of Chintz and…well to be frank, my hangover lifted.  So I start humming Christmas carols.  People look at me, look away – feels like I’m in NYC already.  It’s 6:30am, my flight boards in 15 minutes.  At this rate I’ll just make it.

I give up humming and start actually singing Happy Holidays…it’s one of my favorites.  I look around, smiling like a fool, singing, hoping for a Hollywood turn of events where everyone around me starts singing along with me and we all have a jolly good time….yeah, so that didn’t happen.  Oh well, I was still cheerful and trying to make sure all of the service staff I came in contact with got some cheer from me.

Finally I check my bag, 20lbs under requirement and Continental no longer charges for the first bag if you have one of their debit or credit cards, YAY!  The security check is rather quick moving, which is shocking, you’d think (and hope) that people took more time to make sure that the flights would be secure than they do checking your ratty old luggage.

I’m finally close to pushing my things into the big radioactive box and stepping through the plastic metal dectector, when the line stops.  A woman with an autistic child is having an issue getting him to go through the detector, and you cannot go through WITH someone.  The kid is flipping out, all my cheer drains out of me as I mentally flip to the chapters I’ve read on autism, but before I can think any further we’re moving again.  I get through the dectector, but they stop all my bags to inspect them.  It never fails.  I look Arabic and clearly all individuals of Arabic decent are trouble…ugh, I tell ya.

Oh well, I’m through and back to singing Christmas Carols and…wait…what’s that?  There’s someone else singing!  And they’re singing LOUDLY!  There’s a stage!  Christmas Karaoke!  Chrismas Elves!  Oh My God!  There are people singing and being cheerful in the airport- they’re employees, but anyone can sing.  It turns out that this was a spontanious idea of some of the people who work at the airport in order to bring better spirits into the terminal.  It’s so exciting!

Ok enough cheer, I gotta motor or I’m gonna miss my flight!  I’m at gate C29, and there’s a sign pointing towards gate C29 through 39, great!  That should mean the 29 is the first one…nope, wrong.  C29 is the LAST one….gotta go gotta go gotta go right now!

Finally I get to the gate, and I have to sit down, my back is killing me from my shoes and backpack.  I roll my ticket around in my fingers, excited that I have an exit row seat with no seat in front of me.  I recall reading in a book about Continental that Gordon Bethune, former CEO, always made sure he was last on the plane because, heck, why bother being first, it just means you’re going to be sitting in that seat that much long.  I realize the sense of this and decide to get on last.

The plane is running late, but bording is going quickly.  I’m standing just inside the door, two passengers in front of me when I see the gate agent come down the jetway.  I offer to step back so she can speak to the Flight Attendants, but she declines.  She steps in behind me as we move forward in line, and I hear the following.

“Hey, what’s up?”  Asks the Attendant

“We got a guy who didn’t check in, so we’re oversold by one.”

My ears perk.

“I need to make an offer announcement.”

I turn around and smile, trying to beam some cheer.

“What kind of offer?”
“A first class ticket on the 12:30 flight…”

I almost say sold, but she goes on.

“And $300 to use for travel, anytime on Continental or Northwest.”

“SOLD!” I shout, right glad that I didn’t jump the gun on it and that I was last on the plane.

When I get back to the check in desk outside of the gate, I’m even happier that I took the offer; the person who forgot to check is looks to be a college student and he seems pretty distressed, afraid he wont’ get home.

“Hey, enjoy the flight, it’s an exit row seat.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy the holidays.”  I say.

So here I sit at Bush Intercontinental, waiting for my afternoon flight

The White Moth, Part I

The moth fluttered and flapped its white, powdered wings with the severity of a wounded man.  Jackson could never comprehend why after so many years of evolution, if man could stand up erect—well, if he wanted to that is—that a moth, a simple creature of God, could not yet learn the difference between a light-bulb or a window from that of the true outdoors.
He had been watching the moth partaking in his death dance for about an hour, not having anything better to do at home.  Television was obtuse, books were monotonous and the profound humidity of his family’s country hometown was so choking that Jackson had the air conditioner up to “artic-tundra” in an attempt to bequest upon him some form of release.  It took all of Jackson’s energy to stay awake, but one of his pups, Ophelia had already lost that battle.
“That’s it,” Jackson blurted out as he got up, rather clumsily, from his prostrate position on the couch. He had grown rather tired of the moth.
He knew that eventually he’d get up and carry out this mission.  It was just a matter of time—promptness was not a virtue.  He clomped over the hardwood floors, making them creak and moan, as well as causing shelves to shudder, making his way to the kitchen-table lamp.  Slowly and with precision he raised his hands around the lamp, keeping a distance just far enough from the moth so as not to scare it off.  Jackson could feel the heat of the four minor light bulbs—individually they weren’t very hot, but thrown together they could create enough heat to burn yourself.  Then, with a snap of his hands, Jackson quickly clamped his cupped palms around the mislaid creature.
The diminutive white creature beat its wings harder against Jackson’s “trap,” not realizing that this comparative giant was trying to help it.

“Thank God.  You’ve been annoying me forever.”  Then, dimwittedly, Jackson moved in a way that landed the back of his right hand directly against two light bulbs.
“Ow damn it!”  He screamed, stomping his foot, causing the glasses concealed in the cabinets to shudder and shake together, sounding a song of high-pitched tones.  As rapidly as it arose, his brief outburst disappeared, and he made his way over to the sliding doors opposite the kitchen table.  Lithely, Jackson slipped through the door to the back porch and threw the moth up into the air, unable to see its line of flight, but sure that it had gotten as far away from him as possible.

The night was black as pitch. The brightest light came from the stars—Jackson detested it.  The one thing he loathed most was having to come out here, leaving his own haven in the city to visit his parents—he had had an adequate amount of corn fields, cows, and mosquitoes by the time he had moved out five years ago.  Just as he was making his way back inside, Jackson heard a dog barking madly—he had forgotten about his other dog.

“Hamlet!”  Jackson yelled out, waiting for the dog to make his wild appearance with a flourish befitting a Great Dane, leaping up the porch and nearly knocking down Jackson in the process.
Instead, the barking persisted for a few more moments, and then silence fell across the Lakeland again.
“Hamlet!”  Jackson yelled out again, this time getting irritated, cursing himself for getting a puppy.  He had no choice but to go off and find the dog.  His father would have told him to let the damn thing come home on its own, but Jackson was just like an overprotective father is to his daughter on prom night.
As he stepped of the back porch and into the verdant grass, a spray of water flew up and around his calves, water from the earlier rain.  He walked along the side of the house, passing by the small garden that he had started when he was 17, and his grandmother promptly took over when she got sick.  His mother couldn’t let go of it once she had died.  The floodlight on the garage snapped on, filling the driveway to his right with white, blinding light and revealing his old, dilapidated blue Jeep.  Then, without any warning whatsoever, the light snapped off, leaving Jackson in the dark once again, when Hamlet started barking again.

“Ugh, damn this stupid dog.  Hamlet!” He yelled out in one last attempt to get the dog to appear.  Then, out of nowhere, a large thunderbolt struck somewhere far off in the distance, when Hamlet charged Jackson, knocking him to the ground, his head landing on the end of the driveway, the rest of him on the lawn.
With a loud crack and a thud, Jackson’s vision went red and his head throbbed in inexorable pain. His clothing quickly became soaked through and through with rain-water from the lawn.  Hamlet whined and barked at Jackson, trying to wake him up. Finally when he started to moan with pain, Hamlet started to lick his face and slowly Jackson was welcomed back into the real world.

“Damn it, my head, you stupid dog.”

Hamlet started to bark again, and Jackson winced at the loud noise as it echoed throughout his head.  Before Jackson could gather himself Hamlet, started to wander towards the back of the yard and the woods that bordered the house.  Lightning kept striking around him, warning of a storm about to be released upon their small village.
“Hamlet, get back here!”  Jackson struggled to his feet and tried to catch up to the resistant canine.  From inside the house he could hear Ophelia start barking out of the living room window.  Finally, Jackson grabbed a hold of Hamlet’s collar and pulled with enough force to cause the dog to begin to growl, but Hamlet quickly quieted himself.  Jackson struggled to get the dog back to the house, but he kept barking towards the woods and whimpering.

Why So Silent Good Monsieur?

Hello all!  So sorry for the viel of silence, just a quick update for you all.  I’ve been crazy busy with work and trying to get all of my applications for school in – I swear trying to get all of this information complete, the transcripts, the letters, the applications, is more difficult for a PhD program than any other program I’ve applied for!  I am also returning to New Jersey for ten day (TEN DAYS!) on the 21st of December.  Stay tuned for some new posts, one regaling you all with the story of Turkey Day and others which are some writing I’ve been doing…yes I’ve been doing other writing, which is taking up my time as well.

Thanks for checking in!

Letter To God

Dear God,

Hey what’s up!  Thanks for reading this.  There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you – what the hell gives with life, seriously?  I don’t want any meaning to life, I just don’t get why it has to be so damned hard sometimes.  I mean is this some kinda joke to you?  Or something else?  I’m just kinda frustrated, God.  I try very hard to do what I think will bring me success.  I utilize what tallents I have to help my friends and family.  I mean sure, I could probably do a lot more for others.  If it’s true that the real measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do absolutely nothing for him, then I guess I come up short.  Is that it?  Am I not walking my talk?

Why did you put people here that’re unwilling to care about their fellow man?  Isn’t that what you taught?  Why would you put people on this planet that are completely unwilling to do anything but look out for themselves?  Is it different up there?  Do people actually care about one another in heaven?  Please don’t tell me it’s like it is down here, otherwise I don’t ever want to come.  It’s really hard down here, God.  Do you realize that?  There are a LOT of starving people, and lots of sick people too, it’s very scary, we’re slowly killing ourselves by poisioning our bodies, our earth, our water – it just doesn’t seem like there’s anything right happening down here.  People are uncaring and it almost seems as if they’re TRYING to kill the planet.  Really, God, what’s the deal?

Are you even in control?  Or did you just put us here and leave us to our own damn devices?  If this is the best we can do as a people, I’d like to resign right here and now.  Can I have my own planet, or at least a continent…I’d settle for a state.

But what would happen if we all got our own place, away from all the uncaring people?  I guess we’d never help anyone, or be helped. Huh…maybe that’s the point, we just need to realize it’s not about “me.”

Thanks for reading this God.

Bankruptcy Is The Only Option

Just in case you haven’t heard, there is a proposed $25 billion bailout planned for Ford and General Motors.  Chrysler is not eligible for the bailout because they are a privately held company – technically.  This bailout is literally to aid the automakers in retooling their plants to build more fuel-efficient vehicles and speeding up development of said vehicles.  Not one red cent can, once again technically, be spent on anything else – i.e. liquidity.  General Motors has announced they will reach their critical point by December 31st, 2008.  On that date it is anticipated that they will only have $10 billing cash available for ongoing operations.  At that point in time, the company will be bankrupt.  Ford, which reported a small (in comparison) loss in the 3rd quarter, is staying their course of becoming more of a global machine.  What this means is that the small, fuel-efficient cars they build for other markets like Europe, will be the same ones they build here.  This is the opposite of what Japanese companies do, but it makes sense.  So what are GM and Ford to do?  Well I believe that Ford is actually heading in the right direction, they have more cash than GM and they’re burning through it at a slower rate.  The money would be nice for Ford to have, but not needed.  But GM…

General Motors needs to go bankrupt.  Not Chapter 7, which is liquidity, but Chapter 11, reorganization.  A lot has been said about customers not willing to purchase a car from a bankrupt company, but you know what’s worse?  A company that everyone is afraid is going to go bankrupt.  Point in case:  Studebaker-Packard, 1956.  The rumors that the company would go bankrupt soon and strand its owners and dealers strangled sales.  Bankers cut off funding to the company, thus stopping development, which made customers panic more.  By June of 1956 Packard was dead, and Studebaker lived for another 10 years.  GM has nearly 10,000 dealers, brands that are dead or dying, and a “captive” lending unit called GMAC, which has refused to fund any more car loans or any leases. Top heavy, under funded, strangled sales – history does repeat.

A lot of people are going to say, “well General Motors deserved it,” for any multitude of reasons.  Be it the horrible quality of the late 70’s, 1980s and 1990’s, the gas guzzling SUV orgy that ALL of the automakers took part in, or my favorite one “GM is evil, they killed the electric car just so they could make more SUVs.”  Well here’s my response to all of that:

1.) Yes, GM quality was crap for 3 decades.  No argument there.  But have you been in a brand new GM vehicle today?  Not only are they rated very highly by many journals, but to misquote a GM marketing message; it’s not my mother’s Oldsmobile.

2.) SUVs.  You will not find a more ardent opposer to SUVs than I.  If you want to hear my views on them, let me know and I’ll blog about it.  But the truth is this; yes, GM, Ford and Chrysler were making huge SUVs and huge profits in the 1990’s and early 2000’s.  They ignored cars, unlike their competitors.  But you cannot name ONE mainstream-automaker who doesn’t make an SUV today…. even the much vaunted Toyota and Honda jumped on that bandwagon. (Toyota just shuttered their Texas plant built specifically for their new large SUV and pickup truck)  I hate SUVs. I find them wasteful, inexcusable vehicles, but the truth is that these were profit centers for the entire automotive industry.  GM’s fault lays in the fact that they took WAY too long to redevelop and move forward their car designs and engineering.

3.) GM Killed The Electric Car.  Ok, ya know what, I’m all about recycling, conservation, and protecting/utilizing our natural resource wisely and I am a “greenie,” but SHUT UP YOU STUPID UNINFORMED HIPPIES!  It just fries my cheese that these people assume that GM is a big bad Goliath.  The electric car in question, the EV1, was killed because it was launched at a time when a.) Battery development was very poor, b.) SUV’s were hot, gas was cheap, who needed an electric car and c.)  Had they not crushed those cars, the first time someone got injured by one, in one or near one, there’d be a HUGE lawsuit…this is the same reason that concept cars are crushed and why non-authorized accessories void your warranty.  It’s funny how people fail to hear that the EV1 development gave GM a huge push forward with their Volt development.  A vehicle that will go 40 miles on electricity alone and then use a gasoline engine to power the electric motors and charge the batteries.  (This is the story from GM, though conflicting reports keep coming out. the latest news is that the engine will power the car when the electricity runs out, and not recharge the batteries)

I’m not a GM cheerleader.  I’m an automobile cheerleader.  I love cars and frankly I think GM finally got its love of cars back recently, too.  But they are so weighed down with all of their brands, a terrible customer perception and a Board of Directors, which should have been ushered out over 10 years ago.  So, Chapter 11…

Chapter 11 would allow GM to cancel dealer franchise agreements and kill brands.  The ideal situation would be the deletion of all brands except for Chevrolet and Cadillac, thus giving GM a mass market brand and a luxury brand, modeling themselves after Honda, Toyota, Nissan, etc.  They would be able to close plants, break UAW contracts and right size the company to be able to build the amount of cars that its current market share will support and not have to spread all of its research, development and marketing dollars across 100 different vehicles.  Yes, GM sells over 100 different vehicles.  It is also hoped that by going into Chapter 11 the courts will force the Board of Directors out and clear out the old executives and hopefully bring in individuals that are more interested in creating a successful business than in corporate raiding.

But what about the customers?

The publications I read feel that the perception of bankrupt companies has changed enough to keep people buying cars from a bankrupt automaker.  I’m not so sure of that, but there’s only one way to find out.  One example is Oldsmobile.  Even in their last year of production, with plenty of notice that the brand was dying, Oldsmobile sold over 100,000 vehicles – more vehicles than Saab (another GM brand) has sold in any year since GM has owned them.  This just shows that people will buy a car from a company or brand, which is going to be discontinued, so long as there is support for them.  And support there was; any Oldsmobile can be serviced through a Chevrolet dealer with no problems.  Therefore were Buick, Pontiac, GMC, Saturn, Saab, and Hummer to die, GM would still be able to offer support for their owners via Cadillac and Chevrolet.  All of their cars share the same major components.  Yes, the residual values for these cars would plummet, some would probably even be worthless, but what’s better?  No GM or a better GM?

Just let GM die?

Let me just say, I really hate people who say this.  We need a strong manufacturing base in this nation.  We will be in deep trouble if we let one of the last vestiges of a manufacturing industry leave.  Sure, sure, most of the foreign automakers have a factory or two here in the states.  But all of the money earned from sales doesn’t go to our GDP and should the government need to take control over the manufacturing industry for one reason or another, such as they did during WWII, they will have a hard time taking factories from Toyota and Honda.  We cannot have a country that doesn’t make anything but consumes everything.  We also cannot allow our automotive industry become an “American Leyland.”  Go to that Wikipedia and search British Leyland if you have no idea what I’m talking about.

No bailout!

I am 100% against any bailout for the automakers.  Shocked?  If we throw good money after bad, like we did with the banks, we’re just enforcing the idea that a company can be too big to fail; history owes an existence to no one.  A bailout package will prevent GM from being forced to declare bankruptcy, which won’t be good for anyone.  Bankruptcy is the only option to get out of bad contracts, a UAW who feels they’re entitled to waayy too much and a brand-addled corporation.  I’ll finish this blog with a story:

A GM manager was at a factory, which was building a redesigned Cadillac Eldorado.  He was explaining what the changes were, what their goals were, and asked for any questions.  A UAW member raised his hand and asked “Are you going to make it much more expensive?  Because I really like the one I have now and I want to get a second one.”  The manager answered a politically correct response, but thought to himself “damn you, you shouldn’t be able to afford one!”  This is a true story; it may ruffle a few feathers, but the man piecing together your luxury automobile isn’t its targeted customer and never should be.