Wednesday, November 19, 2008

To All My Wonderful Readers

The time has come for me to call it a day.  I am now pretty much bed bound and have lost my capabilities of getting online.  My soon to be son-in-law Dave the Genius is typing this for me.

I want all of you to know what a great ride it's been.  Without the support and ongoing of input from all of you it would have been an exercise in frustration.  Here's wishing you and your families all the good things in life.  God bless you all.

Love,
Bob

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Last Rose of Autumn

Last rose of autumn,
Poised, self-assured, demanding my attention;
October’s glisten bolsters you,
Readies you for what must come.

Final crimson-tipped cream, satiny-smooth,
Regal semi-gloss realization of all we hold dear,
Standing tall where once, in earlier times,
Your sisters begged for fleeting glance or passing touch.

Scant blend of pastel, subtle-rounded glory passing once
Before our doubting eyes; forcing us to behold—one last time
Daring us to futilely search for peers of beauty.

Darker edges frame you— I’m complete with or without you,
Mocking me... why didn’t I notice you sooner?
You’ll leave me or I’ll leave you, sure as snow will cover us.

Daring me to pick your bloom, forcing me to settle
For one last breath of scented glory,
One last look at ruby-glittered perfection,
A final feathery-soft touch before you go.

I’ll not touch you now, nor impudently sully your grace,
No hand but mine has come so close, no eye yet witnessed—
So forever shall you persevere in my heart,
Unblemished, unstained, complete.


Bob Church © 10/4/03

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Shim Shimminy, Shim Shimminy, Shim, Shim Sheree...




My answer to Jo's Wordcatalyst challenge:


The hailstones leaped from the pavement, like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. The storm currently ravaging the exterior of The Oyster House promised to be pretty much like quite a number of other storms we’d had this fall, except for the fact that the precipitation, although being a shade of white that approximated snow, was actually quite a bit harder and more apt to raise a welt if it hit you on the head, which it shouldn’t if you’re smart enough to come inside. Most Boighers knew of the savagery Pittsburgh weather is capable of, so as I waited for something to happen, I put my feet up on the seat on the other side of the table and set my mind free like one of those flowers, the Wandering Jew. The irony didn’t escape me either, me being a catholic and all. I stared at the red brick wall that lined the entire back of the restaurant, the one the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.

She walked into my ‘office’ like a centipede with ninety-eight missing legs, and caught my eye quicker than one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two opposite sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master, and her eyes were limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any of that chemical pH-adjuster. I knew she was trouble. When she looked back at me, my thoughts tumbled in my head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. I struggled to keep my composure, but I knew it was no use. I was about to fall for her like a mob informant falls into the Monongahela River, except that, hopefully, I wouldn’t splash when my blanket-wrapped cadaver hit the water. ”Can I help you?” I asked. I know… it was inane. Whenever I’m tense, I mutter the first thing that comes to mind. Thankfully, it was after lunch, so I wasn’t subconsciously led to ‘Would you like that super-sized?

”Maybe…” She spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. Her raven hair glistened like nose hair after a sneeze. “Are you Shim Shimmick?”

After she spoke, a thunderclap broke the silence; an ominous sound, much like that of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in an off-Broadway play that can’t afford a special-effects machine. The whole room had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 5:00 p.m. instead of 5:30, and our conversation seemed forced as the dialogue during the interview portion. Is that Alex Trebek a weenie, or what?


“Look, sister, I’m a busy guy…” I tried to sell her cool… with all the effectiveness of a little boat gently drifting across a pond in the exact same way a bowling ball wouldn't.

“Oh?” Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center. She leaned against the desk, scooting her butt onto one corner as she crossed her legs, forcing my eyes to the pink flesh the same way a rancher forces a calf into a chute before he pokes it with a Hot-Shot. “I have a message for you. Remember your buddy, Hackstraw?”

I wasn’t about to fall for this old ruse… “I have lots of buddies,” I scoffed. “And don’t call me Hackstraw! But, to answer your question, I’m Shimmick, what of it? I know a guy named Hackstraw, though.” That ought to let her know she’s not dealing with a pinhead. I have a mind like a steel trap, and not one that has been left out in the weather so long it’s rusted shut, either.

Now, she looked as perplexed as a hacker who means to access P:thur.quim102.comaaa/ch@ung but gets P:thur.quimaaa/ch@ung bymistake. . In her long fingers, she held a tapered white cylinder that looked as long as one of those cigarettes you might see Bette Davis or Joan Crawford smoking, only without the holder. Her artistic sense was obviously exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

Her voice was so husky it could have pulled a dogsled, and she possessed a deep, throaty, genuine laugh-- like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. She reached into her bag and pulled out a dagger, holding it up in front of her. A blind man could see it was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee(D-TX) in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill.) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment of President William Jefferson Clinton.

“I pulled this out of him when I found him laying behind my building. Hackstraw fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with alphabet soup.“ Her vocabulary was as bad as, like… well, like whatever, know what I mean?

She stood up and walked closer to me, looking very much like someone I had never seen before. I hadn’t noticed her height, but she was as tall as a five-foot-ten-inch tree. This woman was some package, all right… one of those that UPS leaves at your door that you don’t have to sign for.

Even then, I knew we were destined to be one; long separated by cruel fate, I envisioned us as star-crossed lovers racing across a grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Youngstown at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from South Bend at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

In my muddled state, the pistol she now brandished had gone unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can, but it was big enough to give me a bad case of barrel envy. She had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. Was that lust in her eyes or was she simply crazy as the wacko who gets locked up for killing a whole bunch of people? Her grin took on the dimensions of Tanya Harding watching re-runs of Jeff Gillooly crushing Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.

We’d never met, but there we were… just like two hummingbirds who had also never met. Now, I was lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, mind you, but a real duck that was actually lame… maybe from accidentally stepping on an extremely sharp pebble or a land mine or something.

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. "Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on Dollar-A-Beer Night. At that moment, I almost wished my name was Jason. Dropping the pistol, she wrapped her arms around me, a ballerina gracefully standing en pointe and extending one slender leg behind her like a dog at a fire hydrant.

Silently, for a moment we swayed like an oscillating electric fan set on medium. She was growing on me like E. coli on room-temperature ground round. It was becoming more and more apparent that she was as easy as a TV Guide crossword. When she sat down on my lap, I thought I heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Sweet nothings wafted into my willing ears. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band adjusted.

But, she wouldn’t make a sucker out of me. She was just a little too slick, a little too accomplished. For her, this was as much a tradition as a father chasing his kids around the back yard with a chainsaw… No, no! I wouldn’t be her patsy!

Suddenly, I was filled with revulsion as I looked at her and saw my ex-wife’s face. The revelation that our marriage of twenty years had disintegrated because of her infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall… I hate it when that happens. But, it was still night-time and this was still Pittsboigh, so who knew what the future held?

What did this broad want?

Sunday, September 28, 2008

My Soiree







Top: The crooners (Harry Furness and my son, Blake) perform.
Jo, Karen and Shirley, during a quiet moment on my bridge.


The WordCatalyst Crew: Back Row from left, Harry Furness, JO Janoski, Dan Beams, Karen Heywood and Nan Jacobs. Front row, Shirley Allard, myself and Mrs. Bubba, the lovely and talented Weezie


Well, it's time I took my thumb out of my butt and put something up. It's been another week or so and I promised you pic's of my big soiree, so I guess it's put-up-or-shut-up time.

The occasion was the 61st anniversary of my birth and my desire to try to get together with some of those who make my life complete. I had no idea how complete my life is. I invited practically everyone I knew, not once thinking that folks might be inclined to actually accept (such has been my experience on more than one occasion), and I got the shock of my life-- nearly every single person I invited showed up. Now, let me be fair when I tell you that many of the people were relatives and relatives of relatives whom I'd not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but there were also those very special few composed of some of the writers on the staff of Word Catalyst Magazine, an intrepid bunch willing to brave airports, rental cars with crazy Pennsylvania drivers intent on photographing the St. Louis Arch from every angle known to man, motel rooms, the vaguaries of cuisine known only as 'down-home cooking', as well as countless other indignities heaped upon the traveling public in 21st Century America, for the pleasure of what exactly?

I can only imagine the look Shirley Allard got from her hubby when she said, "Jim, pack a bag we're going to Missouri" followed by Big Jim's stony New England stare and decision to comply despite his opinion that his beloved may have taken leave of her senses.

Now, the decision for Harry Furness may have taken on different tones as he sat on his couch in Delaware and suddenly realizing that if he could get on an airplane and ride for a couple of hours without his legs falling off, he'd be afforded the opportunity to get down with his unholy harps to the favor of an adoring group of on-lookers, so where's the decision? He packed a bag.

Jo Janoski, Karen Heywood, Nan Jacobs and Dan Beams also made the decision to leave their homes and join us, all with varying degrees of difficulty and tribulation.

The two-day party contained practically every form debauchery that could be expected of otherwise-sensible people of a certain age (ahem!), without violating any known societally-accepted norms of behavior and with an absence of any recognized nudity.

And I saw a spirit of love take over a group of people whose numbers, at times, exceeded fifty without a single crass word. I am so blessed to know such people, and for the remainder of my days I shall keep you all in my heart. Thank you for the most wonderful occasion a person could ever hope for. Bless you all and thank you from the bottom of my heart!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

A Reconsideration of Position

After much consternation and gnashing of teeth, at the request of a reader who means something to me, I’ve decided to come out of turtle mode and stick my head back out into the world for the scrutiny of all who might happen upon my little island here in cyberspace.

Frankly, I am (and have been for quite some time) battling with myself over the concept of ‘worth’ as it refers to compensation for services rendered. I guess I’ve concerned myself with the concept my entire life. I’ve always felt that if someone spends time, money or effort in the pursuit of any quest, be it entertainment, goods or whatever, they deserve at least a modicum of fulfillment for their efforts. I take that very personally, because I’ve always worked hard and know the feelings I’ve felt after being ‘ripped off’.

The same concept prevails in my writing. It is my desire that whomsoever might spend their time reading my prose come away with some sort of compensation be it in the form of a smile, a wistful look, or even a spark of disagreement lustful enough to provoke a comment.

Perhaps I’ve been selfish in this platform. Maybe I should allot a period of time each day to sit and clack about trivialities that may or may not mean much to me, but which may spark an interest on behalf of the reader.

I’ve always thought of writing as art, with the words converted to vibrant and/or subtle hues of contrast giving life to a concept, disdainful of pragmatism and free to be kaleidoscopically whirled and twirled so as to catch the light, offering fire and brilliance as they’re read.

Trust me when I tell you chemotherapy inhibits my ability to bring the fire, but I shall try to honor your requests and offer up something.

And as always, thank you for your support. You folks are way too good to me.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Last Gig at Lookout Point




Last Gig at Lookout Point



Crystal Brodnax felt her heart beat in her ears with each foot placed in front of the other, the park’s running course kicking her ass this afternoon. But, if advancing years were to be kept at bay, she must keep running—if indeed her current pace could really be construed to be ‘running’. She recalled two little boys on skateboards who had passed her with no problem whatsoever, the little bastards barely slowing down to give her a sideways glance, as though she were but another park statue without the benefit of pigeon shit or cascading fountain to establish her presence. The breeze, still too warm to reward her rapid exhalations with the prominence of vapor, nevertheless foretold the rapidly approaching autumnal season with a bite that seared her lungs a little. Soon, she would need to replace her silk warm-up jacket with more suitable woolen attire if she were to continue her early evening regimens, but with dusk fast approaching, her immediate goal included only getting back to Woodshire Boulevard without getting raped and/or murdered.

Like any large urban park in the northeast, the expanses of trees, hills and undergrowth of Lookout Point Park held ample opportunities for mayhem, should the unwary runner fail to exercise due vigilance, especially when the sun wasn’t shining brightly. Crystal’s daily ritual included the full four-mile course that required her to negotiate several laborious uphill sections of twists and turns in the path that led to the park’s namesake, Lookout Point. Fortunately, several years back an anonymous benefactor had bequeathed the funding necessary to erect emergency telephone call boxes every half mile and pave the path, thus rendering the surface smooth and nearly free of unseen bumps or holes that could turn an ankle and leave a runner at the mercy of the elements… or whatever else might lurk under the veneer of the surrounding glade. It was a nice enough place, she figured, and her safety was not in question so long as she didn’t wander off the course. Three years had come and gone since she’d first set foot on the Lookout Point Park Running Path, and Crystal Broadnax’s experiences on the course had all been positive, sore muscles notwithstanding or hours spent recuperating from the debilitating effects of coming down from the so-called ‘runner’s high’. Yes, she did feel the euphoria of endorphins cascading into her bloodstream, but like the concept of orgasms, which she’d never experienced, any pleasure derived was likely of short duration and intensity. Plus, she didn’t enjoy the sweating or the rash produced by her abundant thighs, the female equivalent of jock itch, or so she supposed.

But, run she did, if for no other reason than habit demanded it. Crystal Broadnax, full-time EMT and part-time theater arts student, displayed all the anal retentive characteristics that as an undergraduate earned her the nickname, Sphincter. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right… every time. Her reputation as a ball buster earned her a good deal of time alone, which was fine with her. Most of the men she knew were gay, married or both, and the few guys for whom she felt any attraction whatsoever were either unsophisticated, cheap-feel skirt chasers or self-indulged narcissists. It wasn’t that she didn’t like men, it was just that she had neither time nor inclination to raise any of the juveniles she’d experienced in her social life. In Crystal’s opinion, if you get close enough to any man to lead him to believe you’re willing to spend more than one night at his apartment, and he’ll have you doing his laundry before the week is out. So she ran… and she ran… and she ran some more, even if she could be timed with a sundial.

Stoner’s Ridge marked the start of the ascent up to the Point. Not so much a promontory as a line of demarcation, it served to define the beginning of a constant uphill journey, the point of no return for slackers where many stopped and turned around or simply paused to watch the sun set over the hills in the background. Tempted as she might be to stop, Crystal pressed on past her inadequacies, intent on her objective, the summit. Certainly, the area had earned its name, the glens offering easy access to teenagers hoping for enough privacy to light up a joint or cop a feel… or both. The line of trees at the juncture of the two adjoining side hills formed a notch accentuated by a rock outcropping at the bottom, an area that looked out of place with its neighbors, as though someone had merely placed the boulders there to give the runners something to distract their view from the path—and the dopers in the woods. The picnic table atop the ridge sat alone today, its gray top and benches lusterless and uninviting, the perfect place for a quick pit stop to pull her socks up and catch her breath.

A thin sliver of sun peeked over the hilltop, its refractory powers painting the sky an orangeish-purple and causing Crystal Brodnax to sit down on the bench as she reflected upon the scene with what little romance she still harbored for nature’s majesty. She would not allow herself the luxury of recognizing the romance of the colors or lamenting her perpetual single status, as hard as her subconscious might try. Ethan had used her ‘til he used her up, she figured, and no amount of sentimentality could alter her reality, so why give in to maudlin bullshit and let someone see her cry? Still, that sky was gorgeous and she felt the urge to—what the hell? At the base of the boulders in the notch of the valley, Crystal saw him.

The man’s figure rested between two large round rocks, his head and lower legs visible but torso obscured by the boulders on either side, as though he’d crawled into the crevice and couldn’t get out. The man appeared to be youngish, with a full head of brown hair, but she couldn’t see his clothing. A quick scan of the area around him gave no clues as to his situation. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular, if indeed his eyes were open at all. Only one thing was sure, he appeared to be in trouble, and Crystal’s inner EMT compelled her to investigate. Reaching inside her left jacket pocket, she took her whistle out and looped the cord around her neck. Then, discovering the aerosol can of pepper spray in its usual spot in the right pocket, she walked down the hill. Near the bottom, she jumped up on the rocks above the man’s head and looked down at him. Surprisingly, he didn’t move or acknowledge her presence. Truly, he was stuck there, although she couldn’t understand how he could have possibly arranged himself in that position, unless— there she stopped, noticing the blood stain on the rocks on either side. Someone had stuffed him in there, just a little more garbage to dispose of in the woods.

“Are you okay?”

The words seemed to revive him a little, and he craned his neck in his unsuccessful attempt to look up at her. Then, resuming his stare straight ahead, he muttered, “Oh, yea… what could possibly be wrong?”

His voice sounded resolute to Crystal… perky, even, as though absolutely nothing was peculiar about his dilemma. High? Demented? Crystal’s internal computer accessed memory banks of retained knowledge gained from twenty years of dealing with emergency situations in every conceivable scenario and decided to investigate further before deciding on a course of action for his rescue.

Jumping down from the rocks, she assumed a position where she could make direct eye contact with him, although the girth of the boulders prevented her from getting within three feet of his head. His arms still weren’t visible, although she could see the soles of his brown boots sticking out from between the two hunks of granite. Quickly, she tried to move the boulders, even jackknifing her body between them and trying to force them off him, all to no avail. Whoever put him here must have thought he was already dead.

“Listen, I’m going to get you out, I’m a paramedic. What’s your name?”

The question seemed to perplex him a bit. “Will my name have an effect on your efforts? Would you approach the task differently if my name were Alfonzo than you would if it were Jeremiah?”

“What?” The question made Crystal angry, although she didn’t know why. Why do I always get the drunks?

“Do you need me to repeat the question? Oh, wait… maybe English isn’t your language of choice. Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parlez vous Francais? Habla Espan—“

“You don’t need to mock me, dude. I’m just trying to help you.” Crystal snapped.

This caused the head to close its eyes and try to laugh, ending in a coughing, hacking expression of dismay. “You want to help me… how nice. Where were you when I needed help in Toledo or Scranton? Where were you when things got ugly during my second set in Springfield and the broad in the third row kept calling me a Communist? Now you want to help me? Well, there’s no helping me, lady, get used to it.” Again, a few haggard coughs escaped, causing his eyes to bulge.

“Bull!” Crystal roared at him. “I’ll call and have ten paramedics swarming this place in fifteen minutes.”

“Honey, you can get a thousand paramedics out here and a hundred doctors, too… but there ain’t a damn thing that can be done for me, except humor me for a few minutes. How about turning on your best Clara Barton charm and show me that bedside manner you folks have become so famous for. I could use a friendly audience as much as anything right now,” and his voice trailed off, as though he were finishing an insignificant thought.

“Be quiet for a second,” she cooed, all the fight gone from her voice. Reaching over the boulder, Crystal gently pressed the tips of her fingers to his neck, feeling for a carotid pulse, and was rewarded for her effort with a slow, thready beat. I need to get him flat on the ground as soon as possible. “Let’s start over, Sweetie, what would you like for me to call you?” Not waiting for his answer, she crawled down and started to examine his feet, pulling off one boot and revealing a nightmarish blood-soaked sock. Slipping it off carefully, she revealed a cold purple foot. Obviously, he had an injury to his leg that had cut off all circulation. Crystal slid her hand under the boot as far as she could, noticing that the earth gave way underneath, and the soil felt wet… he’d lost a lot of blood.

“Call me… Ishmael.” Then the man started to laugh; a natural, unforced chortle that caused his lips to quiver. His eyes opened and he looked for her. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I figured you’d enjoy the Melville reference. You are a woman of letters, are you not?”

Maybe if she could dig out from under his legs, she could force his release by pulling him out the bottom if his upper body wasn’t stuck. Since she couldn’t see his arms, there was no need in even trying to pull him out the top. Hurrying now, she began to scoop the dirt out from under his legs, sickened as she was by the red, sodden debris sticking to her hands.

In the waning light, a passerby might have confused her for a large dog digging for a bone as dirt flew behind her from between her legs. As her digging progressed further and further toward his butt, the dirt became firmer and harder to scoop, but the area directly under him stayed open, and she realized his upper body was lodged. Crystal reached around his leg from underneath and tried to pull down with all her might, hoping that she could feel some movement or some reaction from him. Nothing.

For the first time in her adult life, Crystal Broadnax felt totally out of control. Breathing deeply to keep panic from overtaking her, she stood up and looked at his face. Incredibly, a pale pinkness remained and his expression held no question. He seemed quite comfortable. “Who did this to you?” Crystal asked him.

Ignoring her question, he continued. “See? I told you there’s nothing you can do. If you’d listened, who knows what level of understanding we could already have reached, what plane of existence we could even now be sharing. It’s not as if we have a lot of time, you know. Would you answer a question for me?” His eyes were open again, and they implored her not to look away.

“Sure…” she allowed, “ask away.”

“Which Stooge do you think I most resemble?”

A meaningful pause ensued, then, with snot flying out her nose, Crystal gasped and put her hands over her face, laughter engulfing her. After a few seconds, she looked up and he was smiling, too. “Larry,” she offered, “definitely Larry.” Then, she turned her head away, feeling tears starting to well. He’s going to die, and I’m powerless to stop it… and he’s trying to make me feel better. I can’t let him see me cry.

With a few quick steps, Crystal scaled the boulder and placed her head close to his, staring directly into his eyes. “But, I think you’re much more handsome than Larry, and obviously better educated.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure, butter up the guy who can’t move. Roll these boulders off me and I’ll show you just how mistaken first impressions can be. When the time comes, would you please be sure to tell the coroner that I’m leaving my body to science fiction?” Both sides of his mouth moved slowly upward into a small, sickly grin.

Smiling back at him, she drew her legs up underneath her and sat Indian-style in an area where she knew he could see her. It’s my turn to talk now. “Who are you? Please tell me. If you do die here tonight, I need to be able to tell someone who you are. Don’t you want your family to know what’s become of you?”

The question seemed to confuse him momentarily. “Ah, yes… who am I… the eternal question, isn’t it? Who is any one of us, really? We come, we go, and if we’re lucky, we have a little fun in the interim. Let’s talk about you, anyone who’d bother to stop for a stranded comic enjoying his last non-paying gig has to be much more interesting, and probably funnier. Besides, I don’t have any family.”

“Okay, have it your way, but I warn you, I’m high-maintenance.” Noticing that his eyes were now only about half-open, she gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.
“My name is Crystal Broadnax. I’m originally from Parkersburg, West Virginia, I’m a 41-year-old paramedic and I’ve never had an orgasm.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph… you’re beginning to sound like every woman I’ve ever known, not that the list is lengthy. I think I liked you better when you were threatening me with paramedics. But, since you’ve taken the time and effort to stop by my clinic, I suppose you’d like to hear some psychobabble about human sexual response—but I’m required by law to warn you, any reproduction of the details, pictures and accounts of this game without the expressed written consent of the National Football League is strictly prohibited.”

Crystal grinned at him. “Is there a man on the face of the earth who doesn’t have that damned disclaimer memorized?”

“Yea, there are a few. In fact, one of them probably cuts your hair, but I doubt he’d be too interested in your little problem. Let’s press on, shall we?”

“Hey, pallie, I never said it was a problem— it was more a statement of fact. You know, a little tidbit of information about me that I thought might interest you, might make you more likely to relate to me on a closer basis.”

This caused the man to think for a few seconds before responding. “Oh, I see… you want to get close to me, I should have realized that. What lady jogger who comes across a gut-shot comic while she’s taking her afternoon run, doesn’t automatically start spilling her guts to the poor bastard? You start by telling me that you’ve never had an orgasm, then I tell you that I’d spend three weeks of non-stop foreplay with you trying to make it happen, then you tell me that you’d like to but you don’t know me that well, then I’d explain that the chemistry that we would have would just make not knowing each other all the more exciting. Then, you’d look into my eyes and say that, indeed, we could probably make all that happen… if only you knew my name, address, blood type, any chronic diseases and last, but not least, the location of my next-of-kin, then I’d tell you that my name doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to anyone, and we’d be right back at square one staring at each other, with you still trying to find a way to make it all better.”

Now the smiles disappeared.

“Is it such a terrible thing that I’d like to help you?”

The man shook his head a little. “No, it isn’t. I’m sorry… but there’s nothing you can do, Crystal. Do you mind if I call you Crystal? You’re the last person I’ll ever talk to, and I don’t want to argue. My vision is starting to fade, but I do want to let you know that I consider you very pretty. I’d also like you to know that if I had more time, I’d make a serious run at you. Honestly, I can’t understand how any man who’s ever seen you would ever let you run by yourself.”

Overwhelmed by the honesty and nearly overcome by her own emotion, Crystal summoned all the courage she could muster. Stroking his hair, she softly cooed, “If I’d found you, I wouldn’t be running at all.”

The man tilted his head toward her, obviously enjoying her tenderness. “My name is Chuck, but you can call me…” He blinked his eyes and turned his head to the side, making eye contact with her one last time. “…Larry.”

Crystal once again checked his carotid artery for a pulse. Finding none, she jumped down from the rocks and walked up the path to find a call box. By now, darkness had overtaken the landscape and her mood. Isn’t this just my luck? Finally I find someone I think I might be compatible with and the bastard dies on me. Irony, thy name is Larry.


Suddenly feeling tired and old, Crystal Broadnax sat down on a rock to wait for the coroner; and she longed for the days when she was but a simple Sphincter, who neither knew nor cared about orgasms… or sad, dying comics. Then, she wept.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Granite, Gravity and Grace



There, upon the rock, facing the stream, Ricky sat. Knees scrunched up against his chest, arms wrapped across his shins with interlaced fingers securing and giving him balance against the northerly breeze, head perched neatly on top of his knees with eyes focused on nothing but the eternal passage of the swift current, he waited and contemplated. Somewhere, birds called to their mates and taxis beeped warnings to impeding traffic, Serbian women chattered in a complicated Croatian dialect while hanging wet laundry on the line, yet not a single sound nor extraneous thought penetrated his realm as it existed today; not rushing water, not thunder, not Elijah trumpeting his clarion call throughout the world.

The rock, huge and round and placed precisely on a promontory he’d selected and designated his own, felt soft and cool to his touch. No outcroppings or imperfections of any sort offended his fingers as they lightly traced the water-and-wind-burnished surface. How many birds, lizards, squirrels, chipmunks, snakes or other humans had shared his window into eternity? Had they correspondingly shared his quiet awe of this majestic place? Why did the water rush by, seemingly ignoring the upper majority in support of the much smaller and less visually acute base? Do water secrets exist down there, protected from prying eyes by fathoms of froth and algae and legions of water plants? Maybe one day he’d dive into the icy race and try to hold on long enough to investigate, to ply his strength against the current, to search for any handhold, to feel his lungs threaten to burst against the pressures of the depth and to know the exhilaration of impending doom.

Maybe one day… but not today. Today, Ricky claimed his satisfaction just sitting and wondering if his rock loved him as much. After all, it’s hard to really know the emotions of a ten-ton hunk of granite eroded by eons of wind and water. Had he sufficient intellect to claim comprehension of such complexities, perhaps he wouldn’t be here at all.

Salutations, etc. etc.

Well... it seems I've found my way, once again, to the land of communicative discourse.

I know, I know...

Myriad events have happened since we last met, none of which I consider interesting to anyone outside the medical professions, and therein lies the problem. I'm uncomfortable wasting your time with explanations regarding my health problems and, honestly, they're the mainstream of my concentration these days. With scant inspiration and diminished capability of penning anything worthy of your consideration, I've taken the noble road and shut the operation down until such time as some spark might return, much as it pains me to have to do so.

All of your comments, kind thoughts and prayers have been greedily sucked up and processed, each with a smile and 'thank you'. You're wonderful people, each and every one of you, and I'm better for having met you. Rest assured that when, and if, something I consider to be of any value whatsoever may return, so shall I.

If anyone would like to see some re-runs of my stories, I'm willing to put some up, but I don't want to be boorish, so let me know if you're interested.

My thanks and blessings to all,
Bubba

Sunday, August 17, 2008

"Hello, my name is Simon... and I love to do drawer-ings"



I wish there were something quite philosophical I could say about this, unfortunately the occasion seems to be one of 'what you see is what you get'. While doing a number problem in a crossword puzzle book this morning, I got bored and began to doodle.

Mistake.

Graphic artists and designers (not to mention mathematicians and English teachers capable of spelling the word correctly without the benefit of Spell-Check) worldwide are, as we speak, laughing their proverbial asses off, knowing of my existence and the omnipresent threat I pose to their livelihoods.

My mother would be so disappointed.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Is that you, Aunt Gussie?




The Thought For The Day:

The whole idea of civil war escapes me, frankly... doesn't being civil rather defeat the purpose?

Ah, yes, the calendar reminds me that it is once again August, the official start of the family reunion season. I've been informed by my significant other that we'll be hosting the Annual Church Family Reunion this year. Given the attendant circumstances with my health, I am scarcely capable of containing my glee. Oh, joy, thy eternal countenance fills me with blather only circumspectly containable.

The prospect of providing a venue for such an event is... well, it's terrifying, actually. If past experiences are a reliable indicator of future actions, it will be necessary for me to devise a battle plan capable of anticipating most anything, and carrying out a formatted scenario of plausible deniability.

Since I have to do it anyway, I thought I might as well share my list of necessities for such a gathering. That way, if any of you are faced with the same task, you can't write and say, 'Bubba, why didn't you warn me?'. Consider this my contribution to the betterment of family relations throughout the country.

Tips For Organizing Your Family Reunion



  • Start early. There is no substitute for good planning. It's been my experience that about 30 years is sufficient.

  • Go shopping downtown and pick up a few books, CD-ROM's, planning guides or practically anything that will put off actually starting on your task. The whole process sucks, actually. Changing the date of the reunion at the last minute is acceptable only if the channel cat's are really, really biting well down at Jones' Pond or if you haven't seen that particular edition of Seinfeld. If you totally can't figure out how to work the VCR (and how many of us can actually say we can?), have the wife call everyone... folks tend to get a little surly when they've scheduled their vacation around the reunion and spent a couple of grand on non-refundable airfare.



  • There's really no point in giving out a fake address, especially if you live in a town of under 10,000 population... all it'll do is give them the opportunity to build up a good snit and a healthy buzz before they show up inclined to want to fight.

  • If you know more than one family is coming in from out of town, be sure to book some rooms at hotels nowhere close to each other.

  • Prepare a list of "Family Scandals We Just Don't Talk About" and send a copy to everyone who'll be attending. Also, laminate a hundred copies of the list and post them in conspicuous places throughout the reunion area.

  • If possible, try to schedule the event at a local lake. This way, accidental drownings will take on an air of legitimacy.

  • If family members wish to bring fiances or 'special friends' of other ethnicities or sexual preference, be considerate of their wishes. Then, lose their invitations on the way to the mail box. Trust me when I tell you that you're doing them a favor.

  • Ask every family attending to contribute $50 to help defray the costs of the extras such as fireworks, ammunition, bail bondsmen, etc. Once everyone's money has been collected, take it down to the track and bet it on a horse you think has a chance of winning or use it for a couple of lap dances at Horny Hooters. You're entitled to one last celebration before you lose everything.

  • It would probably be best to have some food available as well as beer.

Getting yourself arrested should only be considered as a last-ditch effort to avoid attending. Remember, the wife knows when you're asleep and has access to the key to your gun cabinet.
Well, that's all I can think of at the moment. Good luck with it... remember, one reunion properly planned will keep you from ever having to do it again.

Monday, August 04, 2008

Poison, Politics and An Offer Too Good To Pass Up

Well, another ten blissful hours spent at the Harry S. Truman VA Hospital today, having various miracles of medical science introduced intravenously, and, I must admit, administered painlessly and professionally. While there, and within earshot of three other compatriots enduring similar regimens, I co-mingled the ethos of at least two different racial components, three different regional backgrounds, and, apparently, three different political party affiliations.

I learned (not necessarily from the same proponent) that John McCain is the absolute right man for the best interests of our country because he's the only candidate who'll back our military, that John McCain is obviously the wrong man for our country because a vote for him is a vote for eight more years of Bush diplomacy, that Barack Obama has a lot of great ideas but shouldn't be elected because he's black and can't be trusted, that Barack Obama is obviously the only person in America who'll look after the working man and he's only half-black and besides, he was raised by his white mother, and that neither John McCain or Barack Obama should be trusted, and that we should write in Ross Perot (if, indeed, he's still alive, which became a discussion that caused the nurses to ask us to quiet down).

Note to Bob: A Veteran's Administration Hospital is probably not the right place to discuss politics, especially if all the proponents are strapped to IV's.

I found a card in a 1998 copy of Stars & Stripes that I filled out and sent in. It was good for $25,000 of term life insurance for only $2.95 per month, with an option for up to four times that value for only $11.80 per month; so at some point in the future, my wife will be $100,000 richer. In my mind, it's a bargain, so I joined the AARP. I can honestly say that I'd be proud to join an organization like the American Association of Retarded People. I'm sure there'll be no problems with my application... I know I'll qualify with flying colors!

I'll tell you what, folks, I'm feeling so good that I'm going to try to go back to work tomorrow. I've been laying around feeling sorry for myself for long enough. The shock has come and gone and I need to feel useful again. Consider me open for business-- thank you and God bless!

Bubba

PS-- On a different note entirely, I'd like to pass along this information that I experienced a little earlier today:

TICK WARNING!

I hate it when people forward bogus warnings, and I have even done it myself a couple times unintentionally. .. but this one is real, and it's important. So please send this warning to everyone on your e- mail list.

If someone comes to your front door saying he or she is from the Health Department and checking for ticks due to the warm weather and asks you to take your clothes off and dance around with your arms up, DO NOT DO IT!! THIS IS A SCAM!!

They only want to see you naked. I wish I'd gotten this yesterday.

I feel so stupid...

Friday, August 01, 2008

Detritus In My Junk Drawer

Well, kids, I thought that since I'm not writing anything new, I'd give you something to chew on a little...

Detritus In My Junk Drawer

“Did you know that a human head weighs eight pounds?”

The woman in the pale yellow dress lowered her copy of McCall’s and stared at me as I sat across the waiting room from her. “What?” she asked, as much in astonishment as truly questioning.

“I asked if you knew that a human head weighs eight pounds”, I replied, holding up the copy of AMA Journal.

“That’s what I thought you said,” yellow dress replied and raised the magazine to its original position. Moving slightly sideways in her chair, she demurely re-crossed her legs, staring daggers at me, making sure that I didn’t mistake her adjustment to be a come-on.

“That’s about three-and-a-half kilograms in Canada or Great Britain,” I continued, a grin now starting to emerge.

Again, the magazine lowered. “Well, isn’t that fascinating? A man who can do arithmetic conversions in his head and then spout them indiscriminately as though anyone in the whole wide world might give a damn. I think I’m going to swoon…”

Before I could respond, the attendant opened the sliding glass door and spoke. “Mr. Church, the doctor will see you now.”

“Well, duty calls…” I quipped, tossing the magazine back onto the pile. “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but you know how it is when you’re crazy… just know that I’ll always cherish our little unconsummated seduction…” Getting up, I leaned forward, took her hand in mine and tried to kiss it, causing her to yank it away in disgust. Feigning astonishment, I then walked to the door and turned the handle. Glancing back and seeing that the woman still insisted upon frying me in the oil of her eyes, I blew her a kiss and half-whispered, half-spoke, “I’ll still respect you in the morning…” and disappeared into the inner sanctum.

Eat shit and die, creep, Teresa Terwilliger thought to herself as she raised the third finger on her right hand towards the door, just eat a whole bag of fucking shit and die of a fucking shit-hemorrhage. Teresa’s unconscious tic even now caused her to sneer and shake… her anger management session promised to be challenging, if she made it that long without tearing up the waiting room and running out the door, screaming like a banshee.

The therapist’s room more closely resembled a law library. Not a single sink blemished the dĂ©cor, and had there not been a posh leather sofa next to the desk with the prominently displayed plaque announcing Doctor James Wyrick, MD, one might not have been able to distinguish the psychiatrist’s office from the member’s lounge at any first-rate country club.

James Wyrick, a large gaunt man wearing a brown herringbone tweed jacket and silk bow tie, bounded to the door, right hand extended, to meet me. “Hello, Bob”, he said, pumping my hand like the handle on a poorly responding pump handle on a cold winter’s day. “It’s good to see you again. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Sitting down in the large captain’s chair behind his desk, Dr. Wyrick put his bifocals on and turned a page on his yellow legal pad. Glancing at his watch and writing the time in the upper left-hand corner, he asked, “How can I help you today?”

“Jesus, Doc, you sound like the clerk at Home Depot. ‘Uh, let’s see… I’ll take a sack of eight-penny nails and one of those nifty five-pound sledges’.” I stopped and held my hand up. “Wait, you don’t need to write that down, do you?”

Doctor Wyrick fished a tamper out of his pants pocket and began cleaning the bowl of his pipe. “Bob, your attempts at wit aren’t impressing me at the moment. How much time do you figure we’ve spent dancing around the issues? Let me re-phrase my question, hopefully in a form that will impress you enough to allow you to get on with it. Is there a particular condition or occurrence that you don’t understand and would like to discuss?”

He didn’t light the pipe, but puffed on it as if he had, his attention once again focusing on one particular spot on my forehead, invisible rings of nether-smoke mingling with the thoughts, the perfect antiphony to conversation yet to come… hopefully.

“Make it go away.” I responded.

“Pardon me? Make what go away?”

“The undertoad. Make the fucking undertoad leave me alone and go bother someone else.”

“I see… the undertoad…” James Wyrick coughed, stalling for recognition yet to come.

Silence rushed into the room, collecting everything into its mouth and holding it inside, huge eyes of wonder staring at the world.

“You don’t know what I mean, do you?” I said.

“Haven’t the foggiest notion”, Dr. James Wyrick admitted.

A snort emerged from my mouth as he nodded his head, “Yea, that’s what I thought. I must admit, though, it’s nice to hear a medical professional admit that he doesn’t know everything.”

“You’re an intelligent, intuitive man, Bob, I’ve long known and acknowledged that much. Why don’t you try to explain it to me.”

“Well, James, have you ever read The World According to Garp?”

The doctor took off his spectacles and reached for the handkerchief in the lapel pocket of his jacket. “No, I’m afraid that I haven’t… and please, don’t refer to me as ‘James’; you’re my patient, and I prefer to keep our relationship professional.”

“Okay, then you call me ‘Mr. Church’, then. I prefer to think of you as a pompous dickbreath who doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything except the $400-per-50-minute-hour fee that he steals from people who mistakenly and laughingly expect to get something for their money. Only my friends call me ‘Bob’.”

“Go with that, please… why are you so antagonistic toward authority?”

Grinning, I shook my index finger at the doctor. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten—you’re good. I’m going to have to watch out for you. Anyway, the undertoad, according to John Irving, is a concept of perceived anxiety, I think, towards some unseen force that threatens to take over someone’s life. In the book, a five-year-old boy living near the ocean was warned by his parents to be careful of the water’s undertow, which would pull him under the water and out to sea, and he would never again see his family. Being five, he conceived of a giant, green, amphibian beast living underwater with huge frog’s eyes and mouth capable of swallowing a small boy in a single gulp. Thus, the undertoad was born.”

“Very interesting… please tell me more.”

“I need you to kill the motherfucker—or at least make him get off my back and go play with someone else.” My arms were now on my knees as I sat forward on the sofa, wringing my hands as I spoke.

“Why do you feel the need to curse?”

“Why? Does it offend your virgin ears? Why don’t you curse? How can you listen to problems all day long and not curse? Honestly, doc, I think you ought to be seeing somebody about that.” After pausing, I looked directly at the man sitting across the desk from me and replied, “Shee-it.”

“Mr. Church, whatever my psychological problems may be, they have little to do with helping you. Could we stay focused on you, please? As you so eloquently pointed out, you’re paying for my assistance.”

“TouchĂ©… my bad.”

Leaning back on the sofa, I extended my right leg and reached into my pants pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. Tapping the bottom of the unopened pack several times with my finger, I adroitly spun it around and removed the cellophane wrapper and tore off a small section of the foil. Again turning the pack upside down, I tapped it, allowing one cigarette to protrude from the end. Taking it into my mouth, I suddenly noticed no ashtrays visible. Worse, the doctor merely stared at me disapprovingly, reinforcing my hatred for society’s prohibition of smoking. Putting the cigarette back into the pack, I sat back on the sofa and folded my hands in my lap.

“Thank you, Bo—er, Mr. Church, I very much appreciate your help in my never-ending crusade to avoid any reoccurrences, on my part, of a habit that I now find repugnant.”

“Sure thing, doc, anything to help a guy out.”

“Let’s talk about the smoking a bit, shall we? How much and how often do you smoke?”

“Well, given the fact that damned near everyplace forbids it, not nearly as much as I’d like, that’s for sure.”

“Do you hold out any hope of quitting?”

“Well, about the same hope as I have of playing pick-up-sticks with my butt cheeks or watching a one-legged ballerina at the Bolshoi dancing to Swan Lake.”

“Do you see any possibility that smoking may be your undertoad?” The doctor didn’t look up from his pad as he wrote.

“Actually, I think the undertoad makes me smoke, so he can kill me faster.”

“I see… tell me more of this undertoad. You seem as fascinated by his presence as you seem afraid. Could it be that you’re substituting nicotine as a curative for some undefined pessimism or angst?”

“Is it really pessimism if it comes to live with you and refuses to move out, if it takes over every reality in your life and leaves your refrigerator empty, never once paying for any groceries? If, in a jealous rage it strangles any joy that might happen to knock on your door, dragging it into the basement and throwing it into a dungeon where it butt-fucks that joy every day while it cries out in pain and agony, is it still undefined?” No emotion accompanied my words, causing Doctor James Wyrick to stop writing and stare at his patient.

“Why do you think I have the power to kill him? Don’t you think that’s your job?”

I sighed. “I guess it’s a little like hiring a hit man. I’d love to kill it myself, if I could, but it’s too tough for me. That’s why I’ve hired you.”

“Talk to me about joy, Mr. Church. Give me your definition of the concept.”

“Joy… for me, joy is the feeling you get upon hearing that somebody you hate just died… preferably prematurely and after a prolonged period of unendurable pain and suffering.”

“Okay, now define ‘contentment’, please.”

“Oh, that’s easy, doc… that’s when you find out through the grapevine that the good-looking girl who won’t go out with you has never had an orgasm and can’t afford a good shrink, so she decides to become a nun.”

“Would you say you’re a relatively happy guy?”

“Who, me? Of course I am! I’m only here because I have way more money than I’ll ever need and while walking by this morning, I noticed that your Mercedes needs new tires.” I no longer looked at the doctor. Picking up James Wyrick’s letter opener, I leaned back and cleaned my fingernails, outwardly contemptuous of all I surveyed.

“Mr. Church, I can’t help you until you at least acknowledge you have a problem. It is not enough for you to walk in here, time and time again, and berate or belittle me and everyone else you contact. You express the desire to lose your anxieties but you don’t seem to understand the causal relationship between your attitude and your appearance to the world. Or, if you do, you choose to ignore it. Frankly, I consider you far too intelligent to continue your self-destructive habits without full knowledge of what you’re doing.”

The pad and pen, apparently useless and returned to their place on the desktop, functioned as a pretend ashtray as James Wyrick, MD, dumped a shadowy pile of ashes from his pipe. “You’re at war with the world, Mr. Church, and since you insist upon being a one-man army who doesn’t listen to the generals you’ve commissioned, it is my opinion that you’re headed for defeat. Your enemy is both vast and powerful, and is using weapons you’ve provided. No one could ever dislike you nearly as much as you dislike yourself. Once I treated a woman who felt she was undesirable and unattractive, so she took very small doses of rat poison on a daily basis, in hopes that she’d eventually just fail to wake up. Meanwhile, she receded further and further into her own little world and eventually ended up in a long-term care facility, suffering from irreversible coma.

You seem intent upon committing suicide one day at a time, but instead of taking the poison yourself, you’re trying to feed it to a rat-resistant public. Once they get a taste of it, they reject the provider. Could they point it out to you? Yes, they could and probably do, but after awhile, they just assume that you don’t intend to stop, so they just shut the door and ignore your presence. You see, Mr. Church, most people will meet you half way on many issues, but you can’t punish them for it.”

“So you’re suggesting that I invented the undertoad and I’m feeding him and providing him a place to sleep?”

“No, I’m not saying that you invented him, but does it matter? He’s real and he’s got you convinced that joy and contentment can only be accomplished as the result of other people’s misery. You’re feeding his insatiable need for power, and until you either kill him or find a cell to confine him, he’ll continue to ruin your life and the lives of those closest to you. I can’t help you, Bob, but I can show you how to help yourself.”

“Oh, yea? You can kick him out?”

“No, you have to do that… but I can show you how to drain the swamp.”

“Okay… it sounds feasible, I guess, but if it doesn’t work, do I get my money back?”

Shaking his head in despair, he sighed and threw both arms on his desk. Without looking up, he pointed at the door. “That’s all for today… and please try to avoid speaking to Mrs. Terwilliger as you depart. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

Some people are so touchy…

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Week 1 Update

Hiya, kiddies...

Well, I guess it's about time I checked in for an update. My little vacation here at the Chateau de la Chemo is over-rated, at best. It's my own fault, though, I suppose I should have read the brochures a little closer before trading my time-share in Boca for it. heh heh heh

Anyway, everyone is knocking themselves out trying to make me comfortable, and I'm grateful for their efforts. I'd also like to thank all of you who've continued to correspond with me even though I've offered little in return. After this first round is over, hopefully everything will stabilize and I'll bounce back with something approaching my life as it existed before this all started.

Hope all of you are conducting yourselves in a manner that speaks well of your parents. (I have no idea why I just said that... blame it on the cocktail.)

Cheers!

Bubba

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Phylox, The Wonder-Spatula (Part 2)




Removing my only form of self-protection from my belt loops, I laid it upon the stump and began to assess my situation. The afternoon, in its current weakened position, couldn’t last much longer, certainly, and soon it would give way to the fullness of the jungle night, complete with soporific influences of natural and, yes, even supernatural origin. Already, I felt a weariness borne of the stresses of travel and uncertainty, the same sort of fatigue a soldier might experience after a long march deep behind enemy lines— without the bloodshed, of course. Of course, having never actually been a soldier, this, too, is mere speculation based on some very vivid dreams I’ve experienced while attempting to shrug off the effects of LSD, magic mushrooms, peyote and/or copious amounts of Budweiser. Maybe I should just say I’m freakin' tired and leave it at that. Consider it done… I was tired, okay? Jesus, everybody’s a critic, these days.

At any rate, I decided that if I were to make it through the night, with only a generously sized protective cup (certainly much larger than the average guy might require, I assure you… maybe not exactly John Holmes-sized, but worthy of the run-of-the-mill porn star) and a fair-sized wooden spatula with a good-sized spoon going for it, I would need to employ all my wits in defending myself and maybe even finding something to eat. In the back of my mind, I briefly entertained the thought of a fire, but dismissed it summarily, realizing I had neither tinder nor matches, much less flint. I suppose I could have tried smashing one of the shells and striking it against a rock until enough sparks were generated to light some tinder (if I could find any dry enough). No, any dinner the forest provided would no doubt be comprised of invertebrates incapable of withstanding or hiding from the vicious swipe of a rounded surface kitchen appurtenance, and if it rained, well, all bets were off. Suddenly, I questioned the wisdom of my decision to go for a long walk in the rain forest. In my defense, however, I must tell you, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Such is the history of my decisions, especially those that start out seeming inconsequential.

In waning light, even the most well pronounced of features can seem distorted, so at first glance, the presence sitting before me offered a wispy contradiction in terms. It emanated from the glyph-stump yet its shimmering essence left me with the impression that it attempted separation from its sarcophagus. Now, armed with only the vaguest of knowledge regarding the inner-workings of the supernatural, i.e., I once saw a being on a bus who was either an alien or an incredibly skinny man with the largest head and eyes in the known world, and a spatula, I decided to make contact. I’m not brave, but I have been known to push the envelope on occasion, especially when common sense might have dictated a different tack. Call me impetuous…

As I sat stock-still, my hand wrapped around my spatula with a grip I can only describe as vice-like, I watched the apparition (if, indeed, that’s what it was) disengage itself completely from the stump and stand before me, its vaguely- reptilian eyes questioning but not threatening—at least they didn’t seem threatening, it’s often difficult to discern such complexities at first glance.

“Phylox”, it said, extending a forelimb in my direction.

I must tell you, at this point, that it was much more impressive as a glyph than as a jungle presence. It stood roughly five and a half feet tall (and I’m being generous) and its squat, over-weight body tended to make it look more like Mr. Potato Head than any conception I might have of a god.

Without any notice whatsoever, and with a dexterity I could never have anticipated even if given a ten-year head start and a mind so open that virtually nothing would remain inconceivable, it grabbed that spatula from my hand and turned its back.

Gyration. Back still turned to me, but I swear the thing was gyrating. Then, my spatula placed to its mouth, it spun around and instantaneously I heard music… and not just any music, either, it was honky-tonk piano, bass, drums and saxophone doing a magnificently-conceived rendition of a 12-bar blues riff, only with the tempo speeded up to a frenetic pace.

“Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

A-when you're rockin' and a rollin',
Can't hear your mama call.”

The little guy didn’t miss a move. Dude was a dancin' fool! I doubt Little Richard himself could have done greater justice to the performance. I felt my head begin to nod in rhythm with the music and I had to stop myself from grabbing my cup and pretending it was a microphone. I was getting into it…

“Goin' to the corner gonna buy a diamond ring,

When she hugs me and kiss me make me ting-a-ling-a-ling

Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

A-When you're rockin' and a rollin', can't hear your mama call.”


Phylox, indeed.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Phylox, the Wonder-Spatula


It’s spooky in the woods, especially when you’re not wearing underwear, at least not underwear in the strictest sense of the word. I suppose that a cup is not really underwear, and honestly, it’s not all that easy to keep in place as I walk. I have to hold onto it with my hand, and this keeps me from brachiating properly, even though I switch hands fairly often, dependant on terrain. If I’m crossing a fallen tree trunk, for example… I have to look over it to see if landfall on the other side is lower on the right or left side, and then I hold onto my cup with the opposite hand. I suppose I could have worn shorts under my jeans if I’d had any clean ones available, and if they were the ‘jockey’ style, but planning is not my long suit. Boxers are technically more comfortable, but they have no containing structure for a cup. I tried scooping up a very large amount of leaves and putting them down the front of my pants, situating them such that their bulk, in theory, might form a support structure that would prohibit my cup from moving. However, gravity tends to have the same effect on leaves that it has on cups, unfortunately, so within a half-mile or so, not even the massive bulk of my boys could keep it in place without assistance from my fingers.

That’s why I envision myself looking a bit like a chimpanzee as I make my way through the underbrush and branches. Chimps don’t brachiate like humans when they walk. Their arms tend to hang rather than swing opposite the leg that’s being advanced, and since I can’t swing both arms, my stride might appear as much simian as human. It’s a little demeaning, but I don’t worry as much about it now as I might have when I first left the trail. Decorum becomes much less important when outside the range of other human eyes.

Damn… it’s beginning to look like my choice of a sidearm might not have been the best, either. Although in retrospect I recall my mother using the very same weapon as an effective deterrent against a little boy’s hands that assaulted the rack of cookies cooling on the window sill, an ordinary wooden kitchen spatula might not provide the sort of firepower capable of convincing a marauding leopard that he’d committed a serious logistical mistake by choosing me as his prey. How much pleading on my part would be necessary to dissuade a two-hundred-pound growling, biting, flesh-rending killing machine with razor-sharp claws and jaws capable of crushing the skull of a deer fawn, even if I am slamming his head with the business end of a wooden spoon? I suppose that if all else fails I might try to smother him with my cup. I know that would work if I were that jaguar… but Bubba doesn’t play that game, that’s just nasty. Ain’t no part of a cup getting anywhere close to my face. Just the stank alone would be enough to make me run off into the woods.

Okay, so let's assume, just for the sake of argument, that I'm not dead now. Maybe the jaguar had a change of heart and decided that the cup had already skunked his prey and I wasn't fit to eat. I mean, even jungle cats won't eat just anything, will they? His cousin who lives with me is pretty picky about what she eats, so there's a possibility that I'm still sucking oxygen... I'm just sayin'...

Honestly, I’m really starting to think that the author of my Outdoor Survival Guide might be full of crap. I should have known better, though… it’s really all my fault. With a name like Betty Crocker, how good a survivalist could she be? Possum flambĂ©, indeed…

I am not a pearl hunter of any repute whatsoever, a fact whose sudden realization troubles me greatly. Vines, lianas of all types, certainly… recognition of their presence would not have seemed out of place at all. I can locate them at any time by merely extending my arms and they project a thousand years in any direction; the soulless appurtenances are omnipresent. So if I had envisioned a crudely fashioned ladder climbing intrepid to the forest canopy, I’d have merely shrugged and started climbing. Nevertheless, the vision of all manner of shells appeared before me; pukas, cowries, conch, abalone, spirals, starfish, you name it… piled alongside a strange flattop wooden stump decorated with the carvings of strange and elegant glyphs, some form of quasi-Byzantine or perhaps Maori tribute, no doubt. It is at times like this that I wish I had not dropped Cultural Anthropology 217 in college… Dumbfounded is a state of being that visits me more often than I’m comfortable admitting, so I shall refrain from emphasis upon the condition’s presence except to modestly and circumspectly (did I include casually?) mention it. I could see no path leading in any direction, no wood shavings to identify a carver’s influence or any other indication of a human presence. Yet there they were—graphic representations of intelligent origin, apparently created by carbon based beings of corporal substance.

I sat down upon the glyph-stump, hoping I wasn’t committing some undefined sacrilege against the spirits of the forest, and paused to take stock. Yes, I was lost; yes, I couldn’t be sure of east from west, inside from out… but now I knew I was not alone.

(Editor’s note** The author has concluded the ‘story’ at this point, citing his desire to do a bit more research on ‘glyph-stumps’, but he promises to re-visit the tale at the appropriate time, sending along his sincere apologies to anyone foolish enough to read this far in search of something making sense.)

Friday, July 25, 2008

Baptism by Fiber

Your Thought For Today:

Surprisingly enough, the end of your life will include 20 minutes of credits, copyright information and a rather sad, zither-based closing theme.


Before long, you’ll be able to call me Dr. Bubba. After many years of diligence, hard work and attention to detail, I have finally perfected my new wonder-product, SoulSoles® shoe inserts, my miracle in foot-soothing technology that incorporates a minimum of four areas of pseudoscience with a revolutionary new concept in transcendental awareness.

For years, I’ve researched the regimens and protocols of the world’s greatest philosophers, from Gandhi to the Maharishi Marakesh Yogi to the Dali Lama of Tibet. I’ve delved into the psyches of Freud and Jung, studied the habits of Aristotle, Socrates, Karl Marx, Jimmy Swaggert, Dr. Phil and St. Thomas Aquinas, and discovered a common thread that runs through each individual:

They all had feet.

Several world religious movements promote the concept of total-body wellness. Could it be that we’re paying too much attention to our heads at the cost of ignoring the real center of the soul, the sole? I came upon the hypothesis some years back, when after a particularly-intense bout with the Budweiser Brown-Bottle Flu, my neurological system seemed to ignore most all stimuli save those applied to the soles of my feet by that little bastard, Clarence Simmons—my wife’s nine-year-old nephew. Besieged by morning-after misery brought on by a New Year’s Eve party, I tried every form of miracle cure known to mankind, with no success. Then, after an hour or so of chasing Clarence away from my bed (and my feet) with his chosen implement of torture, GI Joe®, I asked the little woman to rub my ankles and feet a little. Immediately, I realized that my head throbbed less with each tender touch she administered... and an idea was born.

However, SoulSoles® are not just a mere shoe insert. They are a total body-rejuvenation system. The difference is the way they harness the power of magnetism to properly align the bio-magnetic field around your foot. Its (soon-to-be) patented FaithGrid® design, which features more than 200 isometrically-aligned contour points, actually soothes while it heals, restoring the foot's natural bio-flow.

I have written scientific-sounding literature trumpeting my new insoles, paying particular attention to the Contour Points™ that take advantage of the semi-plausible medical technique known as reflexology. Practiced in the Orient for many years, reflexology establishes a correspondence between every point on the human foot and another part of the body, enabling your soles to heal your entire body as you walk.

Now, you may say, ‘But, Bubba, any insole can do that!’... and you would be wrong. While other insoles have used magnets and reflexology as keys to their appearance of usefulness, SoulSoles® go several steps further by utilizing the healing power of crystals to re-stimulate dead foot cells with vibrational biofeedback... a process similar to that by which medicine makes people better. You’ll just have to trust me on this one, the explanation is so technical it’d probably be over your head. Only great scientists like me can really get a handle on it.

In addition, SoulSoles® employ a brand-new, cutting-edge form of pseudoscience known as Bubbometry, developed specially by one of our country's most-esteemed pseudoscientists, moi.
The principles of Bubbometry state that the earth resonates on a very precise frequency, which it imparts to the surfaces it touches. If the frequency of your feet are out of alignment with the Earth, the entire body suffers. Highly-sensitive (not to mention hideously expensive) resonator nodules implanted at key spots in SoulSoles® convert the wearer's own energy to match the Earth's natural vibrational rate (47.09054 nanobubbas). The resultant harmonic energy field rearranges the foot's naturally occurring atoms, converting the pain-nuclei into pleasing comfortrons.

I’d like to add this testimonial from Mr. Ezra Franken of Spiveyville, Alabama (who is no relation to me, although it is rumored that his daddy may somehow be kin to Louise’s side of the family) who agreed to be a guinea pig for SoulSoles®:

“I recently jumped off the roof of Jimmy Ray Eckert’s barn. The reasons aren’t important, but I broke both femurs in multiple places. I thought I should go to the doctor, but Dr. Bubba convinced me that he’d take care of everything, so I agreed to give him a chance. For the last 27 weeks I’ve undergone intense therapy with SoulSoles®, and with any luck at all, within a few months I should be able to walk to the bathroom by myself, even if I do need a walker.”

Excuse me... I need to get a hanky. That story always makes me cry. By the way, just so you’ll know, I didn’t charge Jimmy Ray a dime for his SoulSoles®. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

I’d better stop before I give too much away and you steal my idea. I may be philanthropic, but I ain’t stupid. Write to me and we’ll negotiate a price for my little miracles. You need ‘em, trust me.

Monday, July 21, 2008

One Man's Trash

A Short Word From The Boss

I cannot begin to convey the effect your many, many kind expressions of concern and support have had. It is simply overwhelming… so, I’ll merely say that from the bottom of my heart, in that special place that not even I am allowed to visit routinely, I cherish every word. I couldn’t ask for better friends. On behalf of my family, I wish you all the good things life has to offer.

Bob


(A little smattering of my history)


If you find yourself wandering around in Casper, Wyoming, especially if it’s 1977, you’d be well advised to take plenty of money or lots of plastic with a lofty credit limit. A steak at The Glory Hole will cost you $30 a la carte. You see, my friend, you’re in a boomtown, the richest little city in North America. There are more millionaires here, per capita, than any town in the country. If you’re a young mud engineer fresh out of college, assigned to live and work there by IMCO Services of Halliburton, the largest well-service organization in the world, you’ll be looking for a pull-behind camper trailer to rent, from one of the entrepreneurs who’ve sprung up on the outskirts of town. The KOA Campgrounds facilities, once the Hilton of vacationing families seeking the splendor of the Rocky Mountains, are now filled with the oil field equivalent of affordable housing for roustabouts, tool-pushers, and auxiliary rig hands of all sorts. A dinky room in one of these little beauties will run you from $700-1000 per month, depending on availability. That’s why, in the summer at least, you’ll find many men living in their pick-ups. Of course, this isn’t a real problem, because, by the time they get tired enough to want to sleep, most will be so drunk that it won’t matter whether it’s a bed, a seat or a gurney. So long as they’re able to get back out to the rig by the time his next tour starts, few rules apply in Casper.

Thirty-one revolutions around the sun have past, countless global incidences of natural and human disaster and triumph have come and gone, and I can still feel it. When I first drove northwest out of Casper—looking for the small signposts indicating that even though I had no idea where I was heading, I knew I was on the right trail— I finally pulled onto the lease and stepped out of my truck. Through my brandy-ass new steel-toed boots, I felt the ground unite with that rig to form a living, breathing creature whose life force emanated as an audible buzz of droning low frequency, its pulse the steady micro-bursts of energy produced by some unseen heart. Stepping onto the drilling platform of Cardinal #UH-874, it enveloped me, sniffing at me and checking me out—looking for my soul and determining my worthiness for acceptance.

The rig was a jackknife, small by Overthrust Belt standards, designed to dig shallower total depth wells. Hauled to the site by a flatbed semi, it could easily be tethered, the derrick pulled into place by hydraulic means and stabilized to practically any semi-flat terrain. The degassers, silt shakers, mud pits, prime mover and doghouse were all brought in modules and connected to the drilling platform. Fluid and air lines were matched to accompanying receptacles and electricity from the massive auxiliary generators soon coursed through equipment designed for precisely one purpose—make a hole in the earth ten thousand feet deep and see what happens next.

There was a saying in the ‘oil patch’. Once you’re oilfield trash, you remain oilfield trash forever. To a man, the sentiment was worn as a badge of honor. Of course, my perspective, given my recent foray onto the scene, still contained a certain ‘wait and see’ reservation. I didn’t totally buy into the prospect of never again being accepted or wanting to be accepted by society. Sure, even at twenty-eight years of age, I’d already proven to be a maverick. After four-year stints in the Marine Corps and college, I headed down the road to perdition willingly, but I couldn’t claim to be a professional malcontent or recluse. I did care what the world thought of me, at least as far as a casual observer might be concerned. Yes, I’d been through a war and had some invisible wounds and scars that I wanted to hide, but I’d not yet chosen to fold up the tent and jump off the mountain.

Still, the bad reputation that my compatriots held within the community at large appealed to me on some level just below the surface. There’d been lots of experiences in the Marines (mainly in the Far East) that had titillated my ‘dark side’ and allowed me to experience the rawness of emotions unencumbered by conscience. So I understood the looks I got from Californians when I first returned to the U.S. in 1969. In my khaki dress uniform, I represented all the atrocities they’d watched on the evening news and read about in the Los Angeles Times. I’d also heard that if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck, so early on I abandoned any altruistic campaigns designed to change peoples’ attitudes and impressions. However, although I retained the right to be a duck, I chose not to jump into every pond I saw. This gave me the ability to travel in both circles, a chameleon that could show you whatever spots you wanted to see. That particular talent allowed me to travel under the radar and entitled me to acceptance with the bad boys as well as the good. Plus, at that time, I think there was a choir boy or Boy Scout still bunking somewhere inside my psyche, an apolitical, perpetual adolescent who knew right from wrong, even if he chose to look past it on occasion. After all, if my Catechism could be believed, my deceased mother saw every move I made, and I didn’t want to disappoint her... too often. In the oil patches of northwestern Wyoming in 1976, it became the best of all possible worlds.

Rig hierarchy varied, depending on the company. Cardinal was a turnkey operation, a type of financing arrangement for the drilling of a well that places considerable risk and potential reward on the drilling contractor (Cardinal). Under such an arrangement, the drilling contractor assumes full responsibility for the well to some predetermined milestone such as the successful running of logs at the end of the well, the successful cementing of casing in the well or even the completion of the well. Of course, this meant that the boss, the company man, was responsible for providing labor under a contract to an outside firm. Casper was full of “temp-agencies” who provided just such labor. When a man hired on as a roustabout (unskilled or semi-skilled labor) he worked for the temp-agency, but answered to a boss called the tool-pusher. Every rig hand aspired to someday be a tool-pusher, because he was like a First Sergeant; he was responsible for making sure that no matter what formation was being drilled, no matter what weather conditions prevailed, no matter how many rig hands were killed on a tour (shift), he would make sure that a pre-designated number of feet of bit penetration occurred. And when a tour ended, it was generally the tool-pusher who decided what bar the crew would attack.

I was a mud engineer. My job dealt with the annulus (hole) that the drill bit made. Drilling mud, simply put, fulfills much the same function as the internal organs of a human being. Its composition varies with depth of the hole, geologic strata, and many more conditions that need not be described, but it is essential to remove the cuttings from the well bore and cool the bit. The mud circulates continuously and forms a cake on the side of the hole during drilling to ensure that the hole doesn’t cave in and cause stuck pipe. A tool-pusher doesn’t like stuck pipe because it keeps him from attaining his quota for depth. In the oil patch, time is money. Since I’m hired by the company man and don’t work for the tool-pusher, he’s not required to consider my safety. If, in his opinion, my mud causes him to lose circulation in the well, he’s probably going to come looking for me with fire in his eyes. Ask any roustabout… that’s not a desirable position to find one’s self in. With this in mind, I tried to always make sure I found out where the crew was headed after the tour concluded. A few rounds of drinks, dinner and a hooker or two went a long way towards consideration, if not forgiveness, if a well went sour. I certainly didn’t want to find myself tied upside down by the feet, dangling at the outer end of the monkey boards (upper derrick catwalk). Halliburton offered me a very liberal expense account, because if we brought the well in successfully, I’d be a big hit with the company man, and it was likely he’d hire us for more wells to be drilled. Dropping a couple of hundred dollars a night on booze and hookers was both accepted by my employer and expected by the crew. My biggest problem became getting reimbursed for my expenses. I had a $5,000 limit on the two cards I’d been provided. Many months, I had to call my district manager and get it extended so that I could live until I had time to do the paperwork, a task that would become considerably more onerous if I had a broken leg or two.

Even my company had to draw the line on expenses somewhere, so I was not allowed to use my credit cards to make bail for either my cohorts or myself, a condition that was called into question on several occasions. The good citizenry of Casper loved the standard of living supplied by the oilfield workers if not the workers themselves. ‘Come, spend your money, have a good time, then get the hell out’ seemed to be the prevailing attitude for most of the townies. Certainly, they didn’t want their daughters becoming involved with these yahoos. However, young people being young people, the chasm separating roughnecks from debutantes was breached with impunity and swiftness approaching the speed of sound. The mix of hormones and liquor provided whatever impetus was necessary for nature to insure the prolongation of the species, no matter what a young lady’s parents might forbid. Many a truck backseat was filled with bodies engaged in ‘doin’ the wild thing’ without the benefit of protection. Ninety days later, sheriff’s deputies combed the trailers and doghouses of rigs scattered throughout a three-county area, looking for a roustabout with ‘a tattoo of Satan on his belly’ or ‘long, blonde hair cut in a mullet’. Within twelve hours of the first visit, tattoo parlor artists would tattoo Satan on at least five people and every barber in town would find blonde hair all over his floor. Never in the history of mankind have hairstyles and body art varied so radically and rapidly.

Unfortunately, booze and drugs were also very often blended in the witches’ brew of oilfield society, or more correctly, dearth of society. As is commonly the case in any group known to man, that is when things got out of hand. Pool, cards, dice and dominoes also found their way into any bar from Jeffrey City to Douglas, Rock Springs to Gillette. Wages in the oil patch were very good because the hours were long and the work was dangerous. A certain type of man is usually attracted to the oil patch. He’s probably under-educated and over-medicated, oversexed and under-loved, quick on his feet and good with his hands, and has a heightened sense that the world is out to screw him if he gives it a chance. Combine that with an over-active sense of immediacy resulting from putting his life on the line most every day and you have a walking billboard for Alcoholics Anonymous who will do most anything to keep from looking like a coward when his buddies challenge him to do something stupid. By any means available, keep firearms well out of his reach.

I never tired of watching the interaction of the crew. My job allowed me that luxury from time to time as I waited for a water test to run the seconds off a timer or a rheometer to compute the viscosity of the mud. Every move on the drilling platform was choreographed as surely as a dancer waiting for his cue to move onstage. The drilling itself was accomplished by turning the bit in the earth, and chains wrapped around the ‘kelly’, the connection between the strand of pipe and the rig. Depending on the layer being drilled, the rate of penetration varied. The tool-pusher had the responsibility to see to it that the prime movers (power plant that turned the chain) were set to the proper RPM’s to optimize the penetration rate of the drill bit. If it went too fast, he risked collapsing the hole or burning up the bit. If it went too slow, he didn’t make his quota of penetration for the tour. So, it became very important that when a piece of drill pipe had reached a point where it needed to be coupled with the next, the crew lose no time in making the connection and restoring the drilling process. This required that the chain be removed and replaced on the next strand. This was known as ‘throwing chain’, an extremely dangerous procedure that could cost a roughneck his finger or hand in the blink of an eye, if he was careless or unobservant. One worker would place the threads of the new strand over the coupling of the old, slosh on some pipe dope to keep the threads from leaking and facilitate the joint seal, while the other whipped the chain around the new joint and attached it to the prime mover, causing it to turn rapidly and begin the process anew. The drilling platform itself was always wet, icy or totally frozen dependent upon weather, and footing was often treacherous. The men working together had total confidence in each other and most of the time, were closer than brothers. In fact, on many occasions, they were brothers. The oilfield was passed down, father to son, for generations.

On every rig, the least experienced man had to ‘walk the monkey boards’, a job that almost everyone hated. The upper derrick catwalk, a platform at the extreme top of the derrick, is used to store pipe during a ‘trip’. A trip is the temporary cessation of the drilling process in which all pipe is removed from the annulus. This can occur when the crew has to change a bit, set casing, or if they get stuck pipe. Obviously, the pipe must be stored somewhere, and the top of the derrick is the perfect place. During a trip, the pipe is hoisted to the monkey boards, where it is stacked in neat rows, suspended above the ground. Then, when the repairs are completed, the pipe is brought back, hooked piece by piece to the kelly, and the drilling process starts over again. The man positioned atop the monkey boards must guide the pipe into the storage holders and unhook it from the hoist chain. Depending on the season, he is almost constantly bombarded with rain, snow or sleet. In Wyoming, there are few days when the wind doesn’t blow and gust, so footing is always treacherous. Throw in the fact that the monkey board workers are seventy feet above ground for twelve hours at a time, and it doesn’t require a lot of imagination to understand why everyone hates the job.

With all the kidding and horseplay that crews inflict upon one another off the rig, there is seldom any levity present during working hours, at least not on the drilling platform and certainly not during the final stages of the drilling operation, when the drillers approach total depth. Before a well is ever spudded in, geologists have determined, through various sonic tests, that an oil-producing formation exists at a pre-determined depth. Not all of these formations contain the select conditions necessary to produce crude oil, but if a geologist signs off on a study, it can be pretty well assumed that the probability is high. Of course, the predicted depth can only be estimated within a given range. When this range of depth is entered by the drill pipe, at any time the bit could pierce the salt dome directly atop the formation and send a high-pressure surge of natural gas up through the annulus. Directly under every drilling platform, there are large hydraulic rams that must shut and close around the drill pipe, securing it against the pressure, thereby diverting the gas flow under the rig. This is called ‘taking a kick’. If the tool-pusher (or whoever has been designated) doesn’t immediately get the rams shut, the pipe will come back up the annulus along with the gas and knock the derrick over, likely killing everyone on the rig. Reaction time and attention to detail are extremely important during this critical time, so it isn’t hard to understand that nerves tend to get frayed during the final stages of the drilling process. It is the one time that crews tend to take it easy on the booze. Some carry their abstinence so far as to actually go home during their time off between tours. It’s a drastic step, assuredly, but a price that must be paid. Besides, if the well is completed, there’ll be a fat bonus check accompanying the shutdown process and plenty of time to go to the bar and really do it up right.

On an oilrig, preachers and teetotalers are endangered species. Oilfield trash is, if nothing else, honest and forthcoming. A roughneck lives as though each day could be his last; the threat of impending death is never far from his thoughts. He’ll give, or forgive his crewmates nearly anything as long as they don’t violate the code. It’s very simple: Your brothers on your crew are your family. Their problems are your problems, their joys your joys and their lives, your life. Like in any family, troubles may arise, but they are handled in whatever manner is dictated at the time; his brothers unequivocally support decisions made by a member until such time as the code is violated. Pick a fight with one member of that family, and you have picked a fight with the entire crew. I wish you luck, because you’re going to need it. It has happened that entire crews had to be bailed out of jail for a breech of accepted town ordinances. Brash, bawdy, ornery, loud, unabashed, vulgar, lewd, rude… all valid descriptions of oilfield trash; but if you leave out ‘loyal’, you’ve omitted the very essence of the lifestyle.

I moved on from Casper when I was re-assigned to Beaumont, Texas, then Haynesville, Louisiana. The weather was as different as the people. Instead of the cold, harsh winds and people of northwestern Wyoming, I was treated to the steamy warmth of the deep South, with all the amenities naturally offered by the nice people I met down there. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the Latin derivation of ‘Louisiana’ is ‘place of hospitable people’. Then, in 1982, the end came. OPEC broke the American oil market and destroyed one of the greatest American industries. I was forced to scramble, and found a place treating industrial water systems. Suddenly, I was transmogrified from engineer to businessman, and I remain so to this day. And I’m poorer for it. They’re gone, but not forgotten. Come to think of it, if you substitute ‘Marine’ for ‘oilfield trash’ the above-stated qualities (I stop short of calling them virtues) are just as valid. Maybe that’s why I love them so much…