Fact or Fiction #2 – “17, 22, 47, 8” Part 1

“I am such a fraud.”

This is what was going through my mind at the time. “I’m a big fat fraud and now I’m going to get shot”. I woke up this morning in Nicaragua. A beautiful country, great coffee, lovely ladies and if you don’t mind the gunfire and guerrillas (I don’t mean the ape-kind) possibly a good place to retire. It is not however a place I want to be buried, at least not today…

Little less then 18 months ago, I was delivering balloon bouquets on roller skates, dressed like a gorilla (the ape-kind). No lie – I was a roller skating gorilla making a plump $15 dollars a delivery – plus tips. On Valentines Day, I could bring in a cool $400… cash. Everyone loves a singing (did I mention singing?) roller skating gorilla. Bachelorette parties were the best (as far as tips and overall experience), but I did birthdays, anniversaries, office parties… you name it. The funny part of that experience… not once did I think I was a fraud.

When it came time to get serious about “life”, I had a few decisions to make. As lucrative as Bachelorette parties could be, I wasn’t going to make a career out of it. I had plans… big plans. Medical School was something I always wanted, but four years of medical school, plus internship, plus specializing (that’s where the money is) all seemed a bit – cumbersome. Perhaps I could serve in the Military for four years (something simple and safe) and get that “Free Education” they have been advertising.

As a side note: I know that Time-Travel will not be realized in my lifetime. For if it was – I would have gone back in time and kicked myself in the teeth at that very moment. But, alas… I did not.

How I got here (back in Nicaragua) all seems like a dream (in the hazy “what the hell was that all about” way and not in the “romance novel” way). It was entirely my own fault, as I attempted to be smarter then the system.

Raw recruits stand in line, heel to toe, waiting to have their eyes examined… Although I’m staring at the scare in the back of some bald kids head, I hear far in the front of the line, “17, 22, 47, 8”. Then again, repeating time after time, “17, 22, 47, 8”. I finally realized as I approached a small table, there was a book opened to four images of dots. These dots were in the form of a circle – a non-descript circle of dots. This was a test… a test for colorblindness… something that I have an abundance of.

So now I was prepared to explain to the Officer behind the desk that my Grandfather was colorblind. That colorblindness was something that was passed down, through my mother’s side. I was going to explain how it really never impacted me much, as I have learned to tell shades of grays apart, and besides matching my wardrobe (which wouldn’t be a problem for the next four years thanks to Fatigues) I was perfectly capable of handling anything the military could throw at me. But I never said any of those things… without thought or deliberation I looked down at the book and said, “17, 22, 47, 8”, and moved on.

Morning after the morning after...

I ponder as to why I would possibly come into work this morning. There was absolutely nobody on the roads. BART (our friendly transit system) was empty (except a few regular indigents that must rent seats by the week – as they have set up makeshift tents on the train and nobody seems to care).

The panhandling from the station to my office was surprisingly light this morning. I received a request for “spare change”, “loose change” and a “quarter”, plus the obligatory offer of oral cavity to genitalia that I receive twice a week from some crazy old black woman that wears plastic garbage bags as shoes. Other then that – it was unusually quiet.

I have received messages (both voice mail and email) from a handful of staff members that are sick and won’t be in today. This combined with those that requested leave between Christmas and New-Years is going to make my department a little light this week. Oh well – it’s the holidays (a perfect attitude, if I do say so myself).

I made something new this year – a Chocolate Ganache cake (Ganache is that really chocolaty creamy stuff inside chocolate truffles). I usually make truffles for the holidays, but dipping the Ganache into perfect (it’s never perfect damnit) balls, was too much trouble this year. So I made a cake and filled the sucker with Ganache (thanks go out to this Betty Crocker Cake Pan)… wow. It was fantastic. I enjoy cooking tremendously, and the holidays are my opportunity to really go wild. For example – I’ve been doing a Turducken for about eight-years (way before they became popular). If you are unfamiliar with a Turducken – there are plenty of websites that describe (and even sell) one. Ah – but be warned when getting recipes over the web…

I was drawn into a website that presented a recipe for “Reindeer Sandwiches” for kids… I checked it out and they do not contain reindeer (very upsetting). We all know that Reindeer (or American Caribou) is a finely grained meat and resembles veal or antelope in flavor and texture. And with only 127 Calories per raw100g (25.04% from fat – so cooking this medium to medium well does wonders) it’s the perfect holiday treat.

- Time for coffee.

Be Kind for Christ's sakes… it’s Christmas

Christmas is here, and not just a calendar date
It’s more then just shopping (which is something I hate)
It’s about giving – both your love and affection
(Not to mention those lovely chocolate confections)

Sales Events, Clearances and Half-Offs by the dozen
I saved 60% on this microwave oven
Finding a crack in the window, flexed my shopping power
Now I can get soup and leukemia in under an hour

But for many – snow covered lawns, singing carolers, and mirth
And religious rejoicing about some child’s birth
Remind us to be kind, and feelings towards others not ignore
(we can do that the other - three hundred and sixty-four)

I say it’s inane to wait for a reason
To love one another, why wait for a Season?
With the world today and our leaders of State
Do you think that the planet can handle more hate?

Now I’m not a religious man, not in an organized way
Between Religious and Atheist and think there’s some grey
And I think people are crap, generally speaking
We are careless individuals – but enough critiquing

It’s the planet I’m fond of, hell it’s my abode
It’s provided me shelter and I think that’s it’s owed
Some respect and dignity from all those that reside
Trying living on the surface with everything fried

So happy holidays to all - on this magnificent globe
Our time here is short, take it from Job
Who understood life and its wondrous ways
Quote: "Man that is born of a woman - is of few days”

Be Kind for Christ's sakes… it’s Christmas

The Gift that Keeps on Taking

I couldn’t let this holiday go by without at least one good rant. There are so many things to rant about – crowded malls, nasty shoppers, crappy holiday films, lousy television specials… without my first cup of coffee this morning, it hurts my brain to decide.

Rant On

Okay – what about gifts? I like the personal touch. I find far more value in a gift made by hand then one bought at a store… unless it’s a car, then I’ll feel safer driving one bought from a store – no offense. But now television commercials are encouraging people to purchase gift cards instead of spending the time to find the perfect gift, and the really sad part – its working. Kids all over the nation are asking for gift cards. Teenagers ranked Gift Cards in this years top 10 most wanted items for Christmas (I suppose not knowing what your children are buying is acceptable. I understand Target has an excellent wine selection and the newest version of “Babes Gone Wild” is available at Best Buy).

Having the Department Stores decide that a gift card is better then an actual gift is lunacy. First off – they get the sale and there is a possibility that the receiver of the card won’t ever use it (pure profit), and if they do use it – they are probably less likely to return what they buy and that means less staff for the stores after the holidays. There is also small print (read it) that the card devalues over time. So it might be $100 today, but next year it might be $90. Don’t you see – the Department Stores want to de-personalize the holiday shopping experience to pad their bottom line. It’s like De Beers deciding that an engagement ring should be 2-months salary, who the hell are they to decide that? We might as well have Ben and Jerry’s decide that our optimal weight is 300 pounds.

Rant Off

- Did you know there is exactly enough tannic acid in the brain of an animal to tan its own hide? Another reason I believe if god didn’t want us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made them out of meat.

Fact or Fiction #1 - Mr. Diggs

While sleeping soundly in my bunk, I was awakened by a frantic voice. “Sergeant, Sergeant – wake up, we have a problem” Christ sakes, what now? There are many realities of military-life that are not shown in those ‘cleverly’ created television commercials. One such reality is that, unlike your standard 40-hour a week job, the military is your life… 24/7, and most of what you deal with – is mundane. You can be called upon anytime, day or night, weekends, while on leave (vacation) or while fast asleep (as was this occurrence). In this particular case, the voice was of one Private Diggs… a very rattled Private Diggs.

“Sergeant, Sergeant?”

Now it’s been my experience that hysterical people tend to be irrational. Irrational people, tend to get hysterical. At the moment, Private Diggs was my case in point. Speaking in a calming voice often does wonders to relieve the hysteria. “Yes Mr. Diggs?” (I also found that referring to people under my command as “Mister” instead of by rank – in some cases, helps to relax them). “For what do I owe the pleasure of your company at…” while looking at my watch I’m forced to close one eye to focus, “3:45 in the morning?”

Diggs bellows out, “Sergeant, you need to come with me right away.” Now this presented me with a dilemma for a few reasons. One reason, our situation over the past few months has caused several of my men to become slightly agitated (it was hot, humid, we were away from home and vastly under supplied) and let’s not forget – it was the middle of the freaking night.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, needing more substantial motivation for leaving my bunk.

“It’s Cookie, he’s dead.”

Now “Cookie”, (actually Private First-Class Joshua Cook) was in fact - the cook. He provided the daily helpings of mess hall slop, broiled hockey pucks and assorted wobbling desserts. I never knew much details of his life, except what was common knowledge. He was born in Tennessee and was a boxer before he joined up, no wife or children and now, apparently was dead.

I would have been more concerned, except we had a “scare” just a few weeks earlier. During one of the infrequent barrack inspections (technically the paperwork showed routine inspections – but as I said, it was hot and humid, and we really didn’t care), we noticed a foul smelling odor seeping through the floor boards underneath the barracks. There was a sickly sweet smell encased in a stench of decay – telltale signs of something dead, something big and dead. The barracks had no outside access to the crawl space beneath it. The only way anything could get under the barracks was either through tunneling (a large dead gopher seemed unlikely, if for no other reason - due to where we were geographically) or it was placed there from inside the barracks through the hatch access in the floor. My money was on the latter. At last head count, everyone was accounted for – so if somebody did hide a body, it wasn’t one of mine. Fortunately it turned out to be a mixture of rotting fruit and baker’s yeast. Some idiot thought he could do a little chemistry and ferment the swill into something drinkable (drinkable by their standards may not be the same as yours – or it might, I don’t know you that well). But this incident was fresh in my mind this morning.

“What makes you think he’s dead?” I inquired, as there are many levels of “dead” for those unfamiliar with the condition. I carried high hopes that he was passed out or unconscious. As “dead drunk” was a far more common occurrence, especially for those that had access to the camp supplies.

“Well”, Diggs replied with a smile on his face as he shakes his head, “He’s lying on the floor of the chow hall with an ice pick stuck in him… and he ain't screaming.”

Well shit… let me get my boots.

Fact or Fiction

Time to get creative - These will be short (very short) tales that may or may not be true. They might be actual events, events that I embellished or completely works of fiction. I’m not telling and if you have to ask – good.

On Music

I’m a major advocate of freedom of speech and freedom of expression. I applaud all forms of self expression. That being said… I hate when I can hear other people's music through their headsets.

Just FYI -

I tend to be a bit anachronistic in my music selection – I dislike songs that advocate the shooting of police, slapping of your bitch (this also includes the encouragement of "the calling" of your significant other ‘a bitch’), or contains the ranting of some indigent (or former indigent) that describes how money will (or has) enabled them to ‘get the honeys’.

Pound for pound, bugs have more protein then beef.

Saturday circa 1969

I wake up just before 5:00AM everyday to begin my commute. I’ve always been a “morning” person (not that I’m chipper in the morning, but I don’t have any problems getting up. Chipper people in the morning have a chemical imbalance and need to seek immediate medical attention), so getting to the office early has never been an issue. I remember always getting-up early (except for when I was a teenager, then I couldn’t possibly get enough sleep), and I think it started when I was around five-years-old… it was a Saturday… 5:00AM.

I would wake-up at some unholy hour and immediately make my way into the living room (with blanket and pillows in tow) and begin my Saturday morning ritual. It started by turning on the television – this was key. There was always a very possible chance that static and an un-viewable image would compromise the entire mission (I never knew if this was due to a utilities issues or a bill paying issue – but no matter) and I would have to go back to bed. If all was well, I would begin the construction of the comfort fort. It was the precise piling of pillows and blankets to create a structure that (unbeknownst to me at the time) would end up remarkably resembling a womb. I would then scurry into the kitchen, where I would collect a carton of milk, a box of pre-FDA certified children’s cereal (the good stuff without any vitamins or iron) and a large salad bowl. These items would be combined to craft the feast that would sustain me for the next 4 hours as I would gaze into the glowing void of flickering lights. The assembly of my fortification usually took place during a cartoon called (as I recall) “Tom of T.H.U.M.B.”. It wasn’t one of my favorites, so my undivided attention was not required. My complete concentration was used during the viewing of “The Perils of Penelope Pitstop”, “Pink Panther” and of course “Bugs Bunny”. During this 4 hour ritual – I was unable to communicate or sense anyone in my surroundings. I didn’t realize it then, but I was culturing an ability that would serve me well as an adult. I was learning how to “tune out” my surroundings. This early developed ability would serve me well as an adult, through inhospitable military conditions, pointless business meetings and countless relationships.

The flipside to tuning out background noise is the ability to give 100% attention to whatever it is you are paying attention to. This also has served me well, and allows me to remember that if I find myself wandering the desert I’ll remember that 100% of all cactus fruit are edible, but not confuse that with the cactus plant (fleshy part) that might be poisonous. Some cactus fruit (although edible) might cause hallucinations – which would make tomorrows blog all that more interesting.

Cold and Flu Season

Apparently, tis’ the season… I feel like that fat kid in 4th grade PE. You know, the one that always seems to be the last guy standing in the middle of the gym floor on a raining school-day. He’s encircled by all the “first pick” kids, as they fondle their big red rubber balls. The fat kid has successfully maneuvered many a primal dodge, with a combination of half hearted leg lifts, frantic twirling and effectively keeping his elbows tucked into his armpits. With beads of sweat falling from his brow, round boy knows it’s only a matter of time before that sound (the unnatural smack of wet air filled rubber bouncing off wet fat filled flesh) rings throughout the gymnasium - announcing his elimination from the game. You see… that’s me. Although I’m not a fat kid and the “first pick” kids are the daily masses that I’m forced to commute with (to and from work) and the dodge-balls are a combination of snot, phlegm, airborne bacteria and influenza that I’m subjected to on mass transit. I know it’s only a matter of time. I feel their sickness oozing its way into my passages.

Just this morning – not 45 minutes ago, I’m sitting on the train (I work in San Francisco and ride a very convenient mass transit system called BART - Bay Area Rapid Transit), and across from me is an elderly man with… god I don’t know, let’s call it Tuberculosis to be safe. His body is attempting to extract a lung through his oral canal by committing a series of violent and damp coughs. His hands, which one would hope was blocking the excrement that comes churning from his mouth, are placed in his coat pockets. I watch as those fellow passengers within his blast radius squirm and contort to avoid being pelted by microscopic dodge balls. We’re all the fat kid this morning.

I figure this is an opportunity to let my antibodies swell. I let my mind drift and pretend to be somewhere else for the next 20 minutes. It’s cold this morning – perhaps I’ll close my eyes and be in the artic. Just remember that you shouldn’t eat the livers of most artic animals as they contain toxic levels of vitamin A.

Ahhh – that’s better.

[As a note: Informally, the word "excrement" has become synonymous with feces; a usage based upon the incorrect belief that feces are a product of excretion. While in fact with mammals, for example, the two major excretory processes are the formation of urine in the kidneys and the formation of carbon dioxide (a human's most abundant metabolic waste) in the lungs. The waste products are eliminated by urination and respiration respectively.]

Who the hell am I? (Without all the esoteric bullshit)

I have never paid much attention to what people say about themselves – people lie. Mostly they lie about themselves and even when they are lying about somebody else, it’s in the context of somebody they know (or that friend of a friends brother) – which makes the teller of these tales that much more interesting. So how can I possibly hope to convey who I am when the immediate assumption should be – “he’s a lying sack of cow paddies and unless he speaks poorly of himself - I’m not buying it”

So let’s start this way – I’m not as tall as I would like to be. I’m 6’ 1”, which many people might consider tall, but all my close friends are a good 3 to 4 inches taller then me. This gives me the appearance of being short and thus a strangely developed “short man’s complex”… although I’m above average height – technically. This might explain my love of Southeast Asia – there I’m gigantic. I can walk around and feel like I’m 6’ 1” and think to myself, “hey, I’m actually tall.”

My tailor calls me “Barrel Chested”. I recently asked him to clarify this classification. He said, “It means you have the chest of a fat person, without being fat.” Now realize, this person sells me tailored clothing. I’m a valued customer. I must assume he meant this as a compliment, although for the record – any mention of “fat” in the definition of a descriptor label… is not a good thing. I’ve also been labeled a Mesomorph by my doctor, which apparently means something to weightlifters - as whenever somebody asks me if I workout - I simply reply, “I’m a mesomorph” and they nod their heads and wander off.

I like to consider myself an intellect. But to be honest, I meet people all the time that are far more brilliant then I could ever hope to be. I live a paradox of loving information, but hate the reading. The older I get, the more I appreciate the limitations of my brain and its capacity. I ridicule the systems that “measure” human intelligence and emotional archetypes – yet was a former member of Mensa and according to Myers Briggs I’m an ENTP. For anyone that cares, I’m also a Cancer born on the cusp of Leo and if in Asia (where I appear taller) I’m a Wood Dragon. Some people will take this information and come to their own conclusions of “who I am” – let me know when you find out.

Emotionally – good grief. How can I complete a paragraph that starts with the word “Emotionally”? It’s as if I’m prepared to layout a ton of poignant goo for the world to analysis. Well I’m not. (As a mental note: The next time I create a Blog, I’ll give myself more then 5 minutes to spew up my thoughts.) Emotionally I do just fine. No bed wetting, no violent acts to small animals and no institutional time. I neither cry after sex nor during. God does not talk to me directly nor do I believe I am God (at least not “The God”, perhaps “a” god… Bill Murray quote… funny stuff).

So with all that said – if you are still so inclined. You may keep coming back to hear more ranting – Oh, by the way… 100% of all Aggregated Berries are edible.