Mickey Hadick

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noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 03:30:00 +0000

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The Beginning of the End (for this blog on Blogger)

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 11:14:00 +0000

Blogger is phasing out FTP publishing, and that's what I rely upon for this silly blog, along with the reST to Web Python system for the static content. All that will change to WP very, very soon.

WordPress works very well, and I'm starting to figure it out. Things may be icky for awhile, but they'll tidy up quickly thereafter.

Spock's Brain and Miss July

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 10:17:00 +0000

One of the laptops in the house went cold a few weeks back, and it has made a significant impact on the dynamics of our family. At the time, it was the fastest computer in the house, and there was competition over using it. This loss made plain how lousy was the so-called family computer.

I made an executive decision to replace the family computer outright. That was its own set of frustrating tasks, and the family, dominated by young Americans that don't appreciate the shit their parents do for them, were not happy with the time it took to install it just so.

That should have been a clue as to how to proceed about the broken laptop. I should have offered condolences for the loss, recommended a purchase of a new one, and read a magazine until the problem was solved. In fact, I should have gone on a scavenger hunt to find the original Playboy from July, 1975, which first awakened my interest in naked women, and I should have read that magazine. I don't think I read any of the articles that first time around.

I decided to get that laptop repaired. I found a suitable replacement motherboard on eBay. It turns out crap shipped from China takes a long time to get to mid-Michigan. People here were crabby and complaining about the delay because the children were fighting over the new computer--no good deed goes unpunished, as we used to say in prison (the prison shower, to be exact).

After nearly a month of waiting, the motherboard arrived, and I realized how foolhardy it was to think I could replace the broken one. Laptops are the most ingeniously built things, and every single one of the components, stacked and layered in precise order, are sensitive and delicate. It's like playing Jenga with a pile of your own testicles--one false move and you're going to feel the pain.

I took the laptop apart. It wasn't easy, and I had to use more force than I wanted to use, but I don't think I did any permanent damage. Maybe I should have taken notes, or downloaded a repair manual, or done it earlier than midnight, but putting the new laptop in the case, and assembling the components back into something that resembles a laptop induced anxiety and near panic. All the itty-bitty screws blended together, and I couldn't recall from where they had come.

I was reminded of an episode of the original Star Trek series in which Bones tries to put Spock's brain back in his skull. Bones starts to panic because connecting the nerve fiber was overloading his system, and he was about to throw yet another hissy-fit when someone suggested connecting Spock's brain so that Spock could tell him what to do next.

I really wanted that laptop to tell me what to connect next as I tried to get the video, sound, and keyboard plugged into the motherboard. In the end, I had six of the itty-bitty screws left over, and the battery does not fit. The memory cover bulges like a pregnant Filipino prostitute; i.e., it just ain't right.

I am about to plug it in and test it. If nothing works, I'll cut my losses, forget about the money spent, and search eBay for that copy of Playboy. Maybe I'll try to find that episode of Star Trek. I guess I'm feeling nostalgic for simpler times.

Alice in Wonderland Doesn't Live Here Anymore

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 10:42:00 +0000

Alice in Wonderland did something I didn't expect and which pleased me much: it integrated The Jabberwocky into the story. The miniature adventure story told in that poem packed with silly words became the thread that pulled together many disparate parts, and gave the movie a skeleton upon which to pile meat and gravy. I think I'm mixing metaphors, and this is only the introductory paragraph, but bear with me.

I memorized The Jabberwocky in high school, and I entertain myself with it when it returns in my mind at odd times. In the stanza regarding the battle with the Jabberwocky...

One, two, one, two, and through and through...

I have always recited it with vim and vigor, packing great action, at least in my mind, with those few spare words. When Johnny Depp rocked the poem (I don't believe they bothered with that actual, throw-away line I quoted), rolling with a heavy Scottish brogue, it gave me great warm feeling.

The writer of the screenplay, Linda Woolverton, clearly knows how to construct a story. She wrote Milan, Beauty and the Beast, and The Lion King, among other films. She is a master at combining sequences of smaller stories into a greater whole. Regarding Alice, it was the introductory story of the Alice suffering nightmares, then the slightly larger story of Alice facing a marriage proposal, and then the much grander series of adventures in Underland: pursuit by the Knight and Bandersnatch, escape with Hatter, return to castle, find the vorpal sword, the call to be a champion, and, finally, the epic battle. It is all wrapped up neatly in one final story, turning down her suitor, and assuming the role of adventurer.

Where I think it excelled was at maintaining the trappings of the original story's silliness while building in a modern and entertaining story structure. I now realize that this gushing love I show for this movie was demonstrated by many of my geeky friends regarding the retelling of Star Trek, and I found myself annoyed by the same techniques with that movie. Perhaps Ms. Woolverton just did a better job of it.

Mystery of the Runaway Prius Solved

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 11:24:00 +0000

Last week, a man spent more than 20 harrowing minutes in a Toyota Prius with a stuck accelerator on a highway, going more than 90 miles per hour. Here in Michigan, that's referred to as "getting to work," but I'm not going to split hairs. The mystery as to why that Prius went that fast for so long has been solved.

It turns out that the Prius' Flux Capacitor was malfunctioning. Had it been operating properly, the Prius would have crossed the space-time continuum, and gone back to a simpler time in our history, when idiots driving too fast were shot by other motorists suffering from road rage.

DinoShark vs. Up In The Air

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 03:06:00 +0000

I watched two movies this weekend, which is a lot for me to see in their entirety. I see lots of fragments of movies, every day, but don't necessarily get all the way through. DinoShark was able to keep me in my seat. Let me be clear: it is not a classic, and it suffered from a number of flaws, but the CGI shark was interesting, and when he leapt twenty feet in the air to snag a surfer who himself was flying off the top of a wave, well, I thought we had something going.

The biggest flaw was to not continue this trend. Perhaps DinoShark could have leapt out of the water onto passing boats in order to consume the humans on board. Granted, that would have been a very different story, but a shark coming out of the water to go over the top of a boat is just, well, over the top.

Given it's $2M budget, it was rather amazing. The effects were pretty good (considering) and the cinematography was appealing. The dialogue could have used a bit of snap and punch, but the story was cohesive. What it lacked more than anything was an overarching tension to draw the main character into the battle with the shark. The conflicts were almost ancillary, and he had options to avoid messing with the shark. I wasn't convinced he HAD to go fight that battle.

There was a noticeable use of stock footage--scenes of the water, scenes of the harbor, and scenes of the city--which brings me to a minor flaw. Those stock scenes were just there, used as filler, and filler is how they appeared. Up In The Air did the exact same thing, using stock footage of airports, hotels, and airplanes both coming and going (not to mention clouds) but in that movie, that stock footage did not seem to be filler because there was accompanying narrative--by George Clooney of all people--and it was a moment of transition used to set up the next conflict. I was grateful for that stock footage, as it gave me a moments respite to consider what had just happened, and to wonder what might happen next.

Up In The Air had an (estimated) budget of $30M. Quite a lot of difference. Where that difference was most pronounced was in the structure of the story. Every scene in that movie was there to build tension. Resolving one conflict only seemed to lead to yet another, more intense conflict. I really, really wanted to know what happened. (I also wanted to know why the "towel rod in the bathroom was a good idea," and it makes for a fascinating fantasy that I probably ought not share.) The ending was completely and wholly satisfying. Not at all what I expected--it surprised me in an unexpected way--I might add. It was just flat out well done. I will watch it again, and probably again.

It's not fair to compare these two movies when the only thing I could use to link them was the use of stock footage. They are completely different animals. I could try to be funny and say that they both used dinosaurs--one a shark, the other George Clooney--but that would be cheap.

I won't recommend you watch either one through to the end. It is up to each movie to do that for its own audience in the first ten to fifteen minutes. Dinoshark had me when in snagged the surfer out of midair off of a wave; Up In The Air had me with the smooth and delicious words Mr. Clooney spoke. You'll have to decide for yourself, as you do everyday with everything.

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia--One Fantard's Opinion

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 11:17:00 +0000

I am a huge fan of the subversive and often disturbing "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia". They are funny, and they always put the situation in situation-comedy, placing themselves on par with South Park for their ability to combine bizarre irreverence with social commentary while stitching together a cohesive and engaging plot that is rife with humor.

"It's Always Sunny..." is worthy of study if you are a student of the form. There are a few scripts out there, and they can be read as PDF. Here is what makes the show so special:

The most obvious feature is that they allow the characters to be depraved without constraint. They are pure libido unleashed on an uncaring world. They are childlike for their innocent wonder at temptation, sin, and corruption. This combination of raw desire and unbridled enthusiasm makes them endearing and charming (assuming you are not horrified and offended).

The show itself reflects the simple nature of its characters. There is little, if any, artifice in the show's production. It is a two-camera shoot. Often the sound is poor, and echoes are heard because they are apparently using the built-in microphone of a hand held camera. They favor medium two-shots for dialogue, forgoing close-ups that would require extra takes and editing.

And speaking of dialogue (hey, I made a pun!) the scripts read more like Mamet than Sheldon. The jokes are tossed out two or three at a time in a given exchange with hardly a pause for a chuckle. There is no sound-track, and often no punchline—just a stream of banter that makes one squirm at what is being said and then, shocked and surprised, laughter spews forth to relieve the tension.

The rhythm swings easily from stationary discussions to physical mayhem. They take the time to show the pain ad discomfort of being with each other in their face. Only Frank, the patriarch, seems to take true pleasure from the company of the gang; the rest of them are trapped in their own selfish worlds, and drawn out only by jealous anger to attack one or two of the others.

The tension in their stories is played out by the gang separating into pairs to compete for some prize, be it real or imagined. The fifth wheel, typically Sweet Dee or Frank, is left to fend for themselves, but also to ensure that no one attains their heart's desire. Once chaos reigns supreme, the tension is released, and the gang unites once more and retreats to Paddy's Pub to get drunk again.

In spite of their shallow and narcissistic personalities, they represent family at its most basic level by enabling the self-destructive disorders they each possess. They are co-dependents, and each knows that the dysfunction they create is the best thing going, and so they seek each other out. There is no warmth or caring exchanged, but it is love nonetheless. And besides, with friends like this, who needs an enema.

Attention to Detail

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 00:36:00 +0000

I was driving past the entrance to a Target the other day, and I was annoyed. It was my intention to go past the Target to a different store, and was not interested in parking. However, I had to wait for the foot traffic to clear, and for the cars in front of me to choose the lane in which they would seek a parking space. It lasted approximately three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I could have soft boiled an egg, typed 180 words, or been half way to orgasm, in that amount of time. With planning, I could have done all three.

When, at long last, I approached the crosswalk, a woman emerged from the store to delay me yet again. She pushed a stroller with a child in the stroller. It was the sort of stroller with the pram-like top that swivels to adjust to the elements, and the child's legs stuck out from the stroller. I noticed that his shoes were clean, black, patent leather oxfords. His socks matched his little trousers, and his trousers matched his mother's jacket. It was all just darling.

What is more, the shade of brown matched that of the suit worn by the Mr. Fox in "Fantastic Mr. Fox." The level of detail was actually what popped that movie into my thoughts, as the whole film depended on the use of detail aimed at subtle suggestion of story. I happen to enjoy that immensely, and so I thoroughly enjoyed "Fantastic Mr. Fox." It wasn't perfect, mind you, as Wes Anderson's quirky story telling provides wonderfully funny situations, but rarely offers a punch line to the jokes. You hardly know when to laugh. I tend to laugh at all kinds of stuff in those movies, much to the annoyance of those around me.

Which brings us back to my annoyance. The woman and her son, dressed impeccably in matching outfits, pushing a stylish pram, paraded before me along the crosswalk. There was dirty slush along the road, and it was a perfectly funny situation. All that it needed was a punch line to the joke, such as the woman being splashed by snow, or one of the other shoppers slipping on the ice.

I realize that it sounds cruel, but I'm telling my version of the story. If I had slipped on the ice, that would have been a tragedy; but if someone else had slipped on the ice, especially someone making me wait, then that would have been comedy. For the record, I was perfectly happy that the woman and her son advanced to her car unharmed, unsoiled, and sans punchline.

It's my own fault. If I was really in need of a punchline, I should have driven past Walmart.

Xmas Letter, Postage Due

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 12:14:00 +0000

I have a new Christmas letter up on the web site. If you're into Christmas letters, mine is not as offensive as most, or so I think. What is interesting is that, after twelve years, I can crank one out in a single sitting, whereas I used to struggle with them for days at a stretch, and argue with my wife about the content. Now I need to be reminded of a couple of things that happened during the year, but otherwise I just write it down.

Does that mean I'm good? No, I think it means I'm in a rut. I may try to write this next year's Christmas letter before the end of January. Meanwhile, read it here.

Annual Basement Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 17:43:00 +0000

As is often the case at the beginning of the year, I am confronted by my messy basement. I made an off-hand remark on Facebook about it, and it generated the most comments I have ever had about a simple status update. This confirms, anecdotally, what I have often encountered (also anecdotally) throughout my life, that the vast majority of people have a room in their house that is the dumping ground for all the miscellaneous things in their life that they can't otherwise organize, file, or place. It's part of the human condition. Maybe it's particular to modern America, especially among the middle and lower classes, but still, it's familiar to many of us.

I spent two hours in my basement to clear some space. Things were totally out of hand, so I stacked things. I concentrated many of the boxes in one corner, building my version of The Great Wall of Crap. It's totally oppressive and I don't like to think of how we'll ever deal with it. I just want it to go away.

These things have been lingering long enough that none of it matters to me anymore, and I'd rather give it away. Maybe someone else can benefit from the time, money, and effort we squandered in collecting those things. But we are a family, and it's not just my decision. It's times like this that I wish I was a little bit more like Dick Cheney, which is to say that I was a fascist dictator and that I would issue orders to clean the basement, and any resistance would be met with ruthless punishment. "No reality TV for you!" I'd scream. "That includes the new season of American Idol. Now go to your room, and do not interfere with my plans for decluttering the basement."

What saddens me is how cat hair and dust combine in the corners and crannies around the boxes so that, as they are moved and stacked, the dust bunnies literally explode around my feet. I spent an hour stacking and arranging, and then an hour sweeping and vacuuming.

Once done, I felt a brief moment of pride and relief. It was somewhat presentable. We had friends over to bring in the new year, and we played Table Tennis in the basement. The people had fun. They had fun in a space I had made for them to be welcoming. It makes me really want to clear out the junk, throw up some cheap paneling and decent shelves, and lay down carpeting. I'll get a foosball table, install a bathroom, and get a television.

The junk doesn't clutter only the basement, but also my mind. The junk messes with me so much that I actually admitted to wanting to be like Dick Cheney. If this continues, I'll begin to fantasize about Sarah Palin. Don't get me wrong: it wouldn't be a sexual fantasy; I would probably want to just go moose hunting with her, or take over the free world with a twisted view of religious fundamentalism. I don't want that to happen, so I'm really going to work on the basement this year.

A Minor Christmas Miracle

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 10:47:00 +0000

Our garage door has been a problem child for the past few years, moreso even than our problem children. In its defense, the garage door was abused as a child. It has been hit with the car several times. Also, it was born with a handicap: the builder of the house went cheapo on it, installing the weakest door possible, essentially depriving it of oxygen in the womb.

On the eve of Christmas Eve, it broke once more. A hockey stick fell and obstructed its path. A normal garage door would have simply stopped during its descent and reversed its course--a normal safety feature. Our garage door, however, couldn't take the stress and fell out of its track. It was like a teenager having a tantrum: loud, unexpected, and difficult to put back into its normal routine. What's different is that you can not walk away from the mess, lock the kitchen door, and decide to fix the problem the next day, which is what I did with the garage door. Had the garage door been an actual teenager, I would have screamed at it for an hour until one of us was reduced to tears; then, having forgotten how the problem started, I would have said, "Oh screw this; whatever," to claim the moral low-ground, and gone to my room to sulk.

In the morning I called the garage door guy listed in the Yellow Pages (come to think of it, I'm not sure it was the "Yellow Pages" but some other phone listing book that is dropped on our front steps twice a year, and I am so glad they quit competing for our attention with stupid commercials now that Google has claimed all the revenue anyway). He was an older gentleman with an Appalachian accent that, in his case, was quite charming. He said, "Yeh, I'll fix 'er," on the phone, and not much else, grunting in response to my explanation of where we lived.

It took him less than an hour to correct and repair what would have taken me a full day to accomplish, and I would have made the problem worse. His repair is still working smoothly a week later. He quoted me a price, but took a little less because I offered cash. That, to me, was just icing on the cake.

I will be replacing the garage door, per my new trusted, Appalachian accented advisor's opinion, as soon as possible. With teenagers, however, there is no replacement, and, really, no repair. They are not broken, only misunderstood; they are not stupid, just ignorant; they are not wrong, they are inexperienced. But oh what a bargain it would be if only eighty dollars cash could make them stay on track.

A Dog's Life

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 10:58:00 +0000

I gave a speech yesterday for Toastmasters. This was one of the few times that I prepared well in advance but, ironically, I did not pay close enough attention to the actual assignment. I have posted the text of the original speech in my articles. However, only those in attendance can know the actual speech delivered because I rewrote it in my head an hour before the meeting. Granted it's not like Kennedy's inaugural address; it's probably closer to Bush's "Hey, did you hear about the funny-looking potato?" speech.

The speech went well. It was heavy with photographs, more like a slide show with an accompanying monologue. I spent more time finding the correct photos than I did writing the speech. I can't include 99 percent of those photos because I borrowed them from the internet.

I actually do fairly well with extemporaneous speaking. The reason I joined Toastmasters was to get better at prepared speaking. What I've learned is to educate myself about a topic, come up with an opening and an ending, and then stand up and speak. That's what works for me with public speaking. In order to relax, I imagine that everyone in the audience is wearing funny-nose glasses; I used to picture them naked, but I've spent too much time in the men's locker room of the YMCA, and those images are too painful; they can keep their clothes on.

The speech was far more interesting when delivered live with the slide show than it is being read, but it ain't bad. I've definitely written worse, and you may have read it. Well, probably not.

The Adventures of Face Painting Man

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 15:04:00 +0000

I volunteered to paint faces at the children's Christmas party hosted by my company. I enjoyed it, but it was strangely intense because the line of children never ended until the party was over, and, while painting, the parents scrutinize your every move. I also felt a mild competition with the other face painters who I was certain were more talented than I am. That combined with having to bend forward for two straight hours while painting a squirming child's face left me exhausted. I am not very good at it, but the children were, by and large, thrilled with the result.

Two children were not happy. One was just a toddler, and she became frightened when I drew close enough to touch her, and she screamed at the first flick of the paint brush. She acted as if I was the uncle who got drunk at family parties and said inappropriate things, but there is no way she could know that about me, so I don't think that was the problem; it was just a coincidence. The resulting candy cane was pathetic and resembled my finger painting work done in my preschool period.

The other was a boy, about ten years old, who requested a Batman cowl. When I showed him my progress, he realized I had no idea what I was doing, and also that he was screwed, because you just don't rub black paint off of your face and walk away like nothing ever happened. I offered to paint his entire face black like he was in a minstrel, but then retracted the idea with a casual laugh because I couldn't tell if his mother was cool enough to understand the uber-irony of the political incorrectness of painting an innocent child's face like he was in a minstrel.

In spite of those setbacks, it occurred to me that face painting would be an interesting power for a super hero. When someone needed to be cheered up, call on Face Painting Man. When there was a party that was doomed to boredom, call on Face Painting Man. When there was something you needed, but didn't know what, and thought that a small design on your cheek might help, and definitely wouldn't make things any worse than they already were, call on Face Painting Man.

Face Painting Man himself would always have a different design on his face, and so that would be part of his power. People in need would know that, if Face Painting Man showed up, it would be with a new and exotic picture, tightly integrated with his own features. The general public would look favorably on Face Painting Man because he was always making clever designs and executing them with care and skill, and almost never left a child in black face.

That's kind of how I was at the children's Christmas Party: Face Painting Man. Champion of the meek, defender of the pale, decorator of the undecorated, and dedicated to brightening the lives of children twelve and under using non-toxic paint and inoffensive designs. "No need to thank me, hot mom; making your boring child happy is thanks enough."

There would be two other face painting super heroes: Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Boy. Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Man would admire each other, and respect each other's work, but their relationship would remain strictly professional because to give in to their attraction for each other would put the public at risk. Face Painting Woman would also be really hot, and would sometimes paint her costume on her body, and she would be so good at it that you'd have to get really close to her to realize she wasn't wearing any clothes. But of course no one ever would get that close to Face Painting Woman. Even the children she painted would be totally oblivious. The dads would fantasize, but they're going to do that whether she's wearing clothes or not.

Face Painting Boy would be this quirky kid that always admired Face Painting Man, and couldn't wait until he was old enough to leave home and help defend the pale, etc., because he thought Face Painting Man was the greatest thing since sliced pickles. (The kid is quirky, right?) He might go astray sometimes, and try his hand at graffiti, but Face Painting Man would be all patient and understanding, and would help bring him back around to serving the public good, rather than hiring himself out to gangs to mark territory on the side of buildings.

I realize Face Painting Man is serving only a very small of society that has a very specific need, and would therefore not compete well against the traditional superheroes with all their strength, speed, and ability to fly. (Well, he'd still be better than The Green Hornet, but I don't want to get bogged down in that argument.) The prime directive of super heroes is: "First, do no harm." Assuming that Face Painting Man never poked a child in the eye with his paint brush, I think he would have a legitimate claim to serving the public good.

Garbage Scow

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 11:41:00 +0000

Two of the happiest people on earth at the moment have got to be Richard Heene, from "Balloon Boy" fame, and Jon Gosselin, formerly of "Jon and Kate, etc.", whose unseemly behavior had cast them, figuratively and literally, in unfavorable and unforgiving light. Their publicity aside, Richard seemed to be perpetually in need of a shave and a hair cut, and Jon seemed to only have his picture taken with special cameras that emphasize double chins and puffy eyes.

They can rest easy for the next few weeks thanks to Tiger Woods. It will be his strong face, winning smile, and sparkling eyes that are plastered on all the magazines at the grocery store checkout line, and Entertainment Tonight will open every episode with "...but first, the latest from the expanding saga of Tiger Woods sex secrets."

The cheap tabloids will likely pay extra bounty for pictures of Tiger taken mid-chew as he eats his lunch so that his face looks more like the normal silly-putty skinned monsters that the rest of us are, but don't want to be. That poor man would be well-advised to never scratch his nose in public again because some photographer will be there waiting at the precise angle that makes it look like he is picking rather than just scratching.

It's an old adage in modern America that when a high-profile celebrity does something embarrassing and stupid, they need only wait about a month before the next garbage scow of celebrity stupidity arrives in port to draw all the attention, and your own garbage scow can go quietly out to sea. None of what any of these poor bastards has done is all that bizarre; they are, in fact, very human. But they are doomed to ridicule for having been famous.

It's Tiger, of course, who will have the last laugh. His fame was based on real talent, and he has a clear path to redemption: zip up his pants and play golf. He'll get another wife if he wants, and he'll eventually be a billionaire if he isn't already. The other poor fools will be lucky to end up, like me, obscure and forgotten.

The Shawshank Redemption Rear-Projection Television

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 04:23:00 +0000

Ten years ago, I made the mistake of buying a used, rear-projection television. It was forty-six inches from corner to corner, had a fuzzy picture, and was soiled and dirty from misuse. At some point in its life, judging from the crusty stains on the pressed wood cabinet, this television must have been owned by an unkempt consumer of pornography. Nevertheless, I welcomed it into my home.

The first challenge was bringing it home, and I borrowed a friend's pickup truck. I took great care in strapping it down. I have seen the remains of televisions, kitchen tables, and children's play structures along the median of highways, and I didn't want to have one of those stories to tell. But oh how lucky would I have been if all that I had to say about this big screen TV is that it fell and shattered somewhere along 127 South, and I raced away to avoid cleaning the mess.

The next challenge was carrying it over the threshold. I begged help from three of my neighbors, and it was like marrying the daughter of a Somoan king: carrying that bitch into the house nearly herniated all of us. And what is worse, I wanted that 500 pound monster in the basement.

I was certain that one of us would be killed during the descent. The drywall in the stairwell has the scars to prove that it happened, but I really don't know how we made it. Those stairs have two turns, and what I recall is that we were all struggling, breathing heavily, and sweating like pigs. One of my neighbors grabbed one of my breasts while adjusting his grip, and I swear his hand lingered just a moment longer than it should have, but I was too worried about dying to complain of being groped.

But once installed and powered up, the television actually worked. For three months, that is, it worked. Then sparks flew out of the control panel, it hissed and sizzled, and a small puff of smoke wafted forth. It was reminiscent of my career.

I paid a technician to attempt to repair it, but he could only suggest a $300 component without any guarantee of success, so I paid him the diagnosis fee and chased him away. The stupid television cost $50. In a sense, the fondling from my neighbor was worth that, so I just left the broken TV lie quiet and unused.

Ten years have passed, and hardly a day has passed that I didn't wonder what I was going to do with that thing. I suppose there are numerous alpaca farmers who hoped to cash in on the alleged craze for wool that have a similar problem as my own, but at least I haven't been feeding my television and cleaning up after it as it pooped in the basement; then again, they can always sleep with their alpaca to stay warm on cold nights.

Hearing me lament my fate, my brother suggested tearing it apart bit by bit, and I have finally started this new project. It reminds me of The Shawshank Redemption when the prisoner spends fifteen years tunneling out of his cell. It doesn't remind me of that because I'm going to be dragging the pieces out of the basement through my sewer line, but rather because I am disassembling it, and removing a single screw can takes several minutes. The pressed wood is glued together as well. And the projection component has shielding around it like the solid steel door you might have in solitary confinement. This Mitsubishi TV is built like an impregnable prison.

As God is my witness, I will tear it all down and escape my fate. And once I'm free, I'll move to Mexico and perhaps find a neighbor to fondle me once again.

The Trap

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 02:42:00 +0000

The Trap is a story about men on a fishing trip to the northern woods, who wind up on a hunting trip instead. This was the first in a short series I wrote based on stories heard from other people. Aspects of this story are true then. It's not like it's a particularly shocking story, and maybe that's its flaw.

This story was written at the end of my golden age of short stories. Shortly after this was completed, I made some life changing decisions, and my writing, reflecting the effects those decisions had on my brain, became different; I am dealing with the other consequences of those decisions in many ways.

My father was one to take an annual fishing trip to a remote location, but I have never done so. This story is the closest I've ever come to such a trip.

'Tis Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 02:25:00 +0000

Fall is an iffy season for me. I enjoy the apples, and the smell of leaves, and the skies can be far more beautiful than at any other season. But it means that winter is around the bend, and it's going to get darker, and so there's a chance that days will pass without my seeing daylight. But I think it's important to be explicit about what I enjoy and why, lest it passes me by.

I really enjoy the fall colors, especially on a bright, breezy day. That's a bit much to ask here in Michigan, but I can dream. I especially like the very breezy days when the leaves start to fall. It reminds me of Hemingway's story, "Three Day Blow," which is not a particularly cheery story (it's about the sadness and confusion after a breakup) but I enjoy reading Hemingway, and that story is set in Michigan (well, the U.P.) and so the whole big mess is jumbled up in my head and it's all part of why I enjoy the fall colors.

I enjoy the rituals of football. The high school games on Friday nights, college games on Saturday, and so on. I actually don't watch that much football, but I enjoy it when I do, and I would enjoy it more under the right circumstances. I find it comforting to know it's there and happening.

I also enjoy the smell of leaves. On a dry day, when they're being raked into piles, the smell is concentrated, and it's conjures memories of jumping into leaf piles as a kid, having leaf fights with my brothers, and being ordered by our father to pick up the damn leaves. My father was a task master when it came to fallen leaves, and he instructed us in particular and preferred methods for stuffing the maximum possible leaves into a plastic bag. I have to believe that our city landfill is stuffed to the gills with bags of leaves, now dry and preserved by their plastic wrappings, and waiting to be discovered by scientists in the far future who will wonder with amazement what primitive people spent so much effort shoving leaves into plastic bags and burying them en masse. Well I was one of those primitive people.

My secret pleasure is in burning leaves. It's messy and unnecessary, but I've done it a few times, and I would do it again, at least once, if I thought I could get away with it. I learned the hard way that I wasn't supposed to burn leaves in this town.

The first year we moved here, we had a severe leaf problem. I attached a lawn sweeper to the tractor, and began gathering the leaves together in piles. I thought burning would be a great solution, and a coworker, Doug, joined me for the afternoon. As I carted load after load to the pile, he raked them into the fire, and we had a really smooth operation going. Then the fire department showed up to put out the fire, and explained to me in no uncertain terms that one simply could not burn leaves. Spoil sports.

A final side note is that Doug, who was a very good friend to us, passed away that winter at the untimely age of 48. I do enjoy the pleasures of fall, but it also reminds me that winter is not far away. I don't dread either one because of Doug's passing. If you live long enough, you bury enough friends and family that every season, every month, and every holiday becomes associated with the loss of a loved one. I don't condemn the season with the loss; only the moment. The moment passes by to make room for the next moment.

If your heart is strong enough, there is love and pleasure available to you in those coming moments. You just have to be ready to accept it, and keeping aware of what I love, I hope, makes me ready.

Oh So Good

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 12:08:00 +0000

Soda pop, or just "pop", as we called it in Ohio, was not always like it is today. Drinking a pop was a special occasion, and closely regulated by our parents. The only soft drinks we kept around on a regular basis were ginger ale and tonic water, and those were left over from the rare evening party my parents held for other adults. My mother would often serve us ginger ale when we were nauseated or suffering from influenza. I'm not sure how ginger ale became a tonic, especially when there was tonic water already in the refrigerator, but I think it was a case of a mother feeling the need to do something for her sick child, and ginger ale tasted better than tonic water, so ginger ale it was. She served crackers too, so it was a one-two punch of soda pop and soda crackers.

When my parents hosted a day-time party, it was a cause dé celebration for us kids. This was typically in the summer, and was a thinly veiled excuse to have family members over to eat grilled hamburgers and drink cheap beer. As kids, we didn't care what the reason, and we endured the forced labor of cleaning the garage because the payoff, the reward, was unfettered access to pop during the party.

The pop was bought from a beverage store (at least that's how they were known in our part of Ohio). The store would be stacked and crowded with cases of bottled beer and and soda pop. There was a walk-in cooler in back for beer ready to serve. Placards and banners promoted various brands or specials, but in the era of supermarket coupons, it was cheaper to buy in quantity from these small, dark, family owned beverage stores, so advertising and merchandising was not really the point.

Going to the beverage store was an exciting precursor to the party. If brought along for the ride, we had an opportunity to influence some of the decisions. I was not that enamored of Coke or Pepsi back then, but absolutely loved root beer. My mother had a thing for cream soda, which I thought was weird, and would question the sanity of such a purchase. But the reality was that we were there to save money. A few name brand mixers were bought for drinks (the aforementioned ginger ale and tonic water) but for the kids and really old people, the cheapest soda pop available was selected.

That's where O-So came in. They were packaged in ten ounce bottles, and arranged in wooden boxes, in a mixed array of flavors: purple, red, orange, brown, and white. They were supposed to be grape, cherry, orange, root beer, and cream soda, but they tasted nothing like that, and it was just easier to refer to their colors, orange notwithstanding. Because the case of small bottles was relatively light, I could, as a kid, help load them in the trunk, which I did with great care. Fear of my father's retribution for wasting money and making a mess focused my attention.

The pop was loaded in a steel cooler and packed with ice. We were forbidden from drinking anything before the guests arrived, but there was usually so much barking about sweeping, arranging, and setting chairs that there was little time for worrying about it. Besides, as long as both of my brothers were suffering as equally as I suffered, it was okay to wait.

I believe purple was O-So's flagship flavor, but those went so quickly in the mad grab by kids that it was hardly even a factor in the decision. I remember ending up with "red" a lot. It may have been intended to taste like cherry, but it was always strong and spicy, and was nothing like the cherries from our tree out back. "Red," in fact, became my favorite because I was much more fearful of ending up with O-So's version of cream soda.

The cooler had a bottle opener on the side. That was the other neat thing: we opened the bottles just like the adults opened their beer. If we wandered away from the cooler too quickly after our grab, we might have to venture into the garage where a church key could be found among the tools. For me, as a kid, I was much more into holding onto a long neck bottle of something to drink, even though "red" didn't taste that good. It's kind of like getting married because everyone else is getting married, and then realizing the orange soda may have been more to your liking.

During one of the parties, we had lost a tree some time during the previous year, and so a stump remained. One of my brothers, or cousins, or an uncle, had the idea of pounding the bottle caps into the stump, and so the fun for that day was gathering the bottle caps, either beer or pop, and pounding them into the wood. Considering the amount of sugar we were consuming, we really needed to get busy.

As the party wound down, the bottles had to be returned to the wooden case, beer and pop alike. These were stacked in the garage to be returned the next weekend. In that sense, life itself is like a party: you build up and prepare to have fun; before you realize, the party is over, and you have to start cleaning up the mess. In the end, you're left with dirty dishes, trash, and maybe, just maybe, a few good memories.

The Penny Box

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 10:52:00 +0000

Another of the short stories I wrote two decades ago, a time I am nostalgically referring to as my golden age of writing (golden because, at the time, I believed I would figure out how to do it), was "The Penny Box". It was inspired by the neighborhood in which I lived at the time, and the older generation I saw around me in those small homes. The house itself was inspirational: it was cute and cozy, but it could also feel dated and cramped; so much depends upon attitude.

Like my other stories, I spent months on this fine tuning the words and rhythm. I fretted over the plot and the situation. I dutifully sent it out to magazines and journals. I then added to my collection of rejection letters.

I have written dozens of stories that I never quite figured out, and which, upon reflection, I simply don't like. This is one of the stories I've always enjoyed. Now I wish I'd written more like this, if only for myself. If you don't like "The Penny Box", I understand completely. It may seem simple and deep, but it may also seem insipid and pointless; so much depends on attitude.

Coffee Horror Story

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 20:47:00 +0000

My first job out of college was interesting, but like so many things in life, there were good things and bad.

I was on a small team colloquially known as "fly and fix". If there was a problem with one of our computer systems that could not be handled by the local technicians and experts, my boss was expected to show up and fix it. I was being trained, along with another young man, to do the same sort of thing. When he flew in, he didn't leave until it as fixed, and worked around the clock to solve the problem. He had a long history with the company's mainframe computers, and was an expert troubleshooter. When I joined him, he was transitioning to being expert in the company's new line of powerful desktop computers.

Because of this odd and demanding constraints, he worked out of his home at a time where that was very rare. His basement was stocked with several of the new computers, every manual created on the system, and every possible peripheral. These computers generated so much heat that he had an air conditioning unit installed just for the basement. So for the first eighteen months of the job, I reported to this guy's house for work, and sat in his basement studying manuals.

I was able to dress casually, kind of rare for the day, and I brought a suit in case we had to visit a client. Three times I had to rush home to pack for a week. So the good part was dressing casually, not being in an office, and the excitement of rushing out to solve a problem. I also enjoyed learning the computer systems. That was the good.

The bad was being in a basement with two geeky men talking computers. Another bad part was traveling at odd times, long car trips, flights to weird places, and eating in lousy fast food restaurants on a daily basis. I would spend 18 to 20 hours with the same guys, talking about very little except the problem at hand. For my boss, this was the pinnacle of his career, and he loved every minute, especially the fast food; not so much for me.

But the absolute worst was the coffee situation. When we were in his basement, the coffee was in the kitchen, courtesy of Mr. Coffee. He had an odd policy about coffee, and would brew only weak coffee. He would then immediately turn off the burner. If you wanted hot coffee before that pot was empty, you had to warm it in the microwave. I hated that coffee.

Eventually, I hated that job. I hated that basement, and I kind of hated those computers. They led me down a technological dead end. All the things I learned from that of value were entirely tangential from the systems.

So what did I learn? That coffee is meant to be fresh. Oxidation begins soon after brewing, and no microwave can reverse that tragedy. For some people, their job is their life, and these people can be difficult coworkers. And that no matter how bad the coffee at a greasy spoon in Jackson, Missouri, reheated coffee, at least for me, will always be worse.

Why I Watch Movies

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 00:33:00 +0000

I went for a jog with my daughter today and it was chilly. I thought we should wear long sleeve shirts, but she wore a plain, short-sleeved shirt so I felt to do the same. I couldn't be shown up by my daughter.

It was cold. The wind was blowing stiffly, and there was the threat of rain. By the time we were at the football field, we were both freezing, and our fingers were hurting. We both had to swing our arms to get the blood flowing.

Near the midway point, she began rubbing her arms and I said, "Rub your trunk; your arms will take care of themselves."

It was a quote from "Batman Begins". Henri Ducard is coaching the vulnerable and misguided Bruce Wayne after having fallen through the ice during battle. And what would I do, who would I be, without modern culture?

I'd be vulnerable and misguided, that's what. And susceptible to crazy ideas.

On Trees, Chain Saws, and Axes

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 16:33:00 +0000

My house is on a wooded lot. It was a mess of cherry, ash, maple, and thick underbrush. The only way to get through it was to crawl through the poison ivy. The neighbors from the adjoining subdivision had taken to dumping trash and dog poop in the low area at the back. It was so thick I would not have been surprised to find the remains of a Union soldier from the Civil War.

The landscaper during the building process recommended that we pay someone to clear the entire lot and choose trees that we wanted, and add the necessary twenty grand to our mortgage. "Trust me," he said. "You'll be happier." I laughed at the prospect, and thought that I could do the job myself in my spare time. Two young children pretty much take care of themselves, so I would have ample time. For the next ten years, I peeled away at the mess, and twice I paid an arborist to chop down dead and dangerous trees. The remaining trees were mostly cherry and ash. Cherry, it turns out, are more trouble than they are worth as they leave a mess of inedible fruit, and, once they grow tall, they are weak in the trunk and a threat to fall. After all my efforts, it is still an unsightly mess.

The emerald ash borer wreaked havoc on the ash. I called back the arborist to cut down 40 ash trees a couple of years ago. We piled the wood in three main "stacks" in the backyard. Now those unsightly piles are far worse: the wood is rotting, there is poison ivy flourishing at the edges, and it now seems like more wood than I can ever cut, split, and burn in my life. Somehow, I had convinced myself that we would have a fun campfire each and every weekend, and the family would sit and talk and share stories. We have had two, maybe three such campfires.

Our yard still has a couple of dozen trees. One in particular annoyed me. It was an apple tree that had grown up with its trunk wrapped around the other. Part of that apple tree also grew down to the ground. It wasn't a bad tree--not in my yard, where everything is a mess--but it simply annoyed me. So I cut it down.

A twenty-inch chain saw can be a frightening thing. I haven't cut down any significant trees, so the wedge and cut method meant nothing to me. Besides, this apple tree was wrapped around an ash, so it wasn't going to fall no matter how many times I yelled "timber."

I basically scared myself pretty thoroughly trying to fell it. It stood on a slight rise on soft ground, and I had to raise the chain saw up to eye level where I needed to cut it. It's a great shoulder workout that way, in the same sense that being chased by a mugger can be aerobic.

I needed an ax to finish the job, and as I swung, I kept thinking that it was even money that the trunk was going to crash down on me. I once played Babe the blue ox in Mrs. Perkins' fifth grade production of "Paul Bunyan". Working with Nick, our performance was well regarded. That's about as much woodsman training as I've had in my life. Handling the chainsaw and swinging an ax has been self taught since that time.

One final, mighty swing cut through the apple tree, and the weight of the tree drove the severed trunk several inches into the ground. It happened in the blink of an eye, before I could move a muscle. Now I know why lumberjacks have trouble securing workers compensation insurance. If gravity and the friction of the ash tree had so deigned, that apple tree could have broken my foot, shattered my leg, or crushed my chest. And it's the last of those options, crushing my chest, that would have hurt the least, because my heart would likely have stopped in just a few seconds.

I chopped up what remained of the apple tree, and added the wood to my unsightly wood piles. I split a few logs with the hope that I might, someday, have a campfire in the back yard.

Parenting Story

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 10:55:00 +0000

This past weekend, I spent the better part of Sunday at a soccer field. Not just a soccer field, but a soccer complex with eight large fields. As part of a tournament, my son was sideline judge for six games. I drove him there before eight A.M.; instead of going home to just wait to come and get him again, I decided to stay.

The weather was beautiful. That was one of the attractions. I could either spend an extra hour in the car going back and forth, or sit in the sun and read magazines and books while drinking coffee in a comfortable chair as the cool breeze wafted over me. It had every opportunity to be a wonderful day except for one small thing I overlooked: Soccer Parents.

The tournament was for younger kids. I had forgotten the insanity that takes over the minds of parents as they cheer on their children. Their voices rise and fall with the bounce of the ball. When a goal is scored, half of the parents scream in delirium; the other half groan in agony.

Heaven forbid a boy is not paying attention. The parents exhort and cajole, encourage and chastise. In one game in particular, the parents of the team from Fowlerville were berserk. By my estimation, every single one of them was crazy. They screamed for the coach to bench their own children. They coached from the sidelines, moving players back and forth. They threatened their own children while on the field, during the play of the game, for not paying attention to the game.

I struck up a conversation with another dad who was waiting for the next game. We shared a glance as the shouting became frenzied amongst the parents when a goal was surrendered for no reason other than a child's lack of drive and initiative. He blurted out, "I'm an older Dad, so I cherish all these moments. But I try not to get too wrapped up in it."

I admitted that I had cheered mightily in the past, but I didn't remember ever cheering like this, yelling at the kids for not performing, or berating the referee. In fact, just a couple of days before, I stumbled on a team photo from one of my sons early teams. It was at least eight years old, and I had been the coach. At that time, urging six and seven year olds to play took quite a bit of effort from the parents. I was fairly certain that out of those twelve children on that team, only my son still played the game.

There's nothing wrong with kids trying out various activities until they find something they really, really like. To find passion in life is what gives life meaning. For so many parents, their children, and whatever the child happens to be doing, is the passion for the parents, and it's very easy to lose sight of an appropriate perspective to the situation. The child is competing against other children; if they are better than the others, there's hope that this might be a thing in which the child is gifted. Or the talent pool may be so shallow that, in fact, everybody stinks at it. You don't know that as a parent; you only see your child struggling, and your blood begins to boil.

I played hockey in my youth. I really, really loved it, and even dreamed of playing professionally. I got fairly good at it, but at the age of nineteen I quit and never played again. It has crossed my mind occasionally, and mostly out of curiosity, to play again; but what once seemed like everything in the world to me I lost.

Before that happened, however, my mother sat through numerous games, and I saw a side of her I had never, ever seen before. Hockey brings out the very worst in parents. They scream at the players, they scream at the referees, and they scream at each other. I would not be surprised to hear one day that the fans watching a hockey match became so enraged at each other that a hockey match broke out in the stands. My mother understood little of the game, but she understood that her son loved playing, and that other boys were trying to smash his skull out on the ice. I received stitches to the face (scary) and stitches to my inner thigh (very scary). I had the wind knocked out of me several times, and even had a stick broken over my helmet in anger. It seemed I might be severely hurt at any moment, but the most surprising thing was that my mother survived without having a nervous breakdown.

I'm not happy or proud that I lost hockey. It's a great game, and I would have done well to have made the effort to keep at it. Maybe it's not the game itself, but the exercise and the comradery I miss. I hope that my son, if he takes nothing else away from soccer, takes the feeling of team play with him, and continues that yearning desire throughout his life. We are mostly a social animal, and my life has not been social enough.

Back at the soccer field, the older dad took up a position on the sideline to watch his son play. I was still enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze. I was also enjoying the sound of children at play, and their parents cheering the game. At one point, the older dad's son misplayed a ball, and the dad did not yell, but he did complain to the person sitting beside him.

The boy misplayed another, and the dad could not contain himself. He shouted to him without anger. A few minutes later, though, the older dad seemed on the verge of losing that control, and he walked away to watch the game from farther away, lying on a grassy hill, away from the chatter of the other parents. His son's team was out matched, and would suffer a 10-1 loss.

I am not holier than thou or thee. When my son was that age, I shouted, cajoled, and cheered. I struggled to contain my anger when his teams played poorly, and was giddy with delight when they won. I offered the older dad a knowing smile in the hopes that he and his son would both find the correct perspective for that game. It was, after all, only a game; and it was a beautiful day, regardless of the score.

The Cardboard Box

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 10:56:00 +0000

I splurged on myself once, and spent a week in Iowa City at the Iowa Writers Program Summer Workshop. Very different from the famous one, but it was very good, and the class was led by Robley Wilson, then editor of the North American Review.

The workshop was about a dozen people, and it was fairly diverse. Working people, a doctor, therapists, and a guy from Ireland. The common factor was that we all had a screw loose, and were trying to doing something about that with our writing.

One of my co-workshoppers made it kind of big. Abraham Verghese went all in the following year. He didn't just return to the workshop, he got a job nearby and applied for The Writers' Workshop program at the University of Iowa; he was accepted, and, frankly, he's been notably successful ever since. You know that saying: it's not enough to succeed, but your friends must also fail? Well, he should have kept me close, because I'd be making him really happy about now.

The first time I stumbled upon his name while reading The New Yorker, I was like, "Wow, cool; I know him!" The most recent time, when his new novel was briefly noted and mostly raved, I was more like, "Come on already; this sucks being me."

While at the summer workshop, I really liked him. I really liked everything about the workshop, especially the chance to write within a community of like-minded people that cared about literary art forms. That week, I wrote this story. I was never able to do anything with it, but there's a certain something about this story that I love above all the others.

I hope you enjoy The Cardboard Box, which is inspired by aspects of my own childhood.

The Black Dog Shall Have His Day

noreply@blogger.com (Mick) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 01:53:00 +0000

I have just added an article that was a speech I delivered for Toastmasters. The speech is called: "The Black Dog Shall Have His Day," and is memoir-ish and the kind of thing I like to blog about. It's about an aspect of my emotional intelligence that was, heretofore, only privy to my classmates from Mrs. Dale's afternoon kindergarten class. That was a long time ago, and maybe I just remember too many things; nevertheless, give it a read.