The Odd Angle

Recovery

2011-09-10T08:22:00.033-04:00

As reported earlier in this 'blog (yes, I still spell it correctly), I lost my employment of 27 years in May, 2009. It has been a wild ride, involving loads of creative ideas for delaying payment of bills, and cutting back on non-essentials. I am one of those people to whom the words "unalienable rights" in the Declaration of Independence does not involve HBO or dinner outside the home once per week. I still have my house, and the family is intact. Recently, we have moved from shaky to recovery-mode, due to yet another May event.

My young bride, to whom I have been wed for 24 years, is a skinny, 19-year-old college sophomore in my head. She has long, luxurious brunette hair, and an attitude of superiority that manifests itself in her voluminous vocabulary. I may have stated this before, but it bears repeating: when I become very angry, my words get smaller and smaller until they are nothing but monosyllabic spurts of testosterone-infused unpleasantness. My young bride, however, is my polar opposite. The angrier she gets, the longer the words get, and they are spewed with a sarcastic wit that rivals the strongest capsaicin compound available. A good deal of that wit has been directed at the Tate & Lyle corporation the last couple of years.

Anyway...

...she has been seeking employment since I lost mine. Now, with a degree in History, an expired teaching certificate, and a spotty employment record, she is -- on paper -- a gamble, but she searched. I, myself, was without full-time employment and company-provided health insurance for eighteen months, and that's with thirty-three years of constant attendance and performance behind me, so there's no blame to be tossed about.

One day, on the local version of craigslist, my young bride saw an employment ad to which she replied. When reporting the ad to her internet peers, they metaphorically rolled their eyes and said, collectively, "It's a scam." Then, she got a reply from her query. The opportunity was for a legal assistant to a Knoxville attorney who, mostly, practices family law. The ad had been placed by one of his former assistants, who had taught History at one of the local middle schools, but left that job due to the stress, and her desire to procreate. She (who had gone off to Germany with her soldier-husband and their offspring) was now helping her former employer find a new assistant, because he's a lawyer, and he spends all day and night doing lawyer-stuff.

She, also has a good vocabulary. The two of them corresponded a few times, no doubt exchanging witty commentary on world events, and an interview was arranged. The law practitioner has no idea how to interview, and spent the entire time telling my young bride about himself, his practice, and the things required of an assistant. She didn't know it before she walked in, but she already had the job, due to the fact that the former assistant liked her. He didn't even conduct further interviews.

While luck may play some role in these proceedings, sometimes it's just who and how you are that does the trick.

My young bride is now the legal assistant to Attorney X, and has an office in downtown Knoxville that overlooks Market Square. Her income nearly matches my own, and we now -- as a unit -- make more $$ per hour than I ever made on my own. Also, too, we car-pool barring some odd appointment that one of us may have, because we both work day shift and have (most) weekends off.

It's an adjustment, having that kind of income, after having nearly none for so long. My worst fear is over-spending, due to our recent financial difficulties. We have spent the summer taking care of things that we had put off because we had no money. We replaced the refrigerator (it was eighteen years old and was slowly dying), and now have a side-by-side with an ice dispenser. What luxury! We also got our lemon HVAC unit replaced. It hasn't worked properly since -- oh, let's say 2007, and I have learned more about HVAC maintenance than I ever needed to know. We now have cool air coming out of every vent in the house, and we have A/C in the bathroom!

I worried, at first, about my behavior, because I have a somewhat low opinion of my own character. I have been the sole source of income for the family for the bulk of my adult life, and that was okay, because I made good money. We have lived well, and taken some fabulous vacations to Walt Disney World, Edisto Beach and Miami. It was a concern for me that I not react in a negative way to my young bride's financial contribution to our very survival.

Luckily, it turns out that I'm not quite the ASS that I ASSumed. The fact is, her job may not have saved us, but it probably saved our real estate investment, and -- possibly -- the trouble of public-housing, and this is not insignificant in my section of the space/time continuum. Skinny, 19-year-old college sophomores have their place in the cosmos, and hers is on Gay Street in Knoxville.

Alternating Political Philosophies

2011-07-17T07:38:00.007-04:00

Let's see, it's July, now, and I'm finally writing about getting my taxes done in March. Yep, I'm still behind! I have been without a home computer for a few weeks, but now, that problem is solved. These days, it seems, all one must do is stand in the yard with a couple hundred dollars and wish really hard. We used the VISA, but it still worked okay.

My tax guy is a man I've known since 1983, Chris Wilson. He is originally from Etowah, Tennessee, but now lives in Alcoa with his hot young bride, Blanche. They have two adult children who have moved on to live their own lives, successfully, it seems. Chris and I met at a workout facility in Athens, Tennessee when we were both much younger. We were good weight-training partners, because he was stronger in chest, arm and shoulder exercises, while I did better in the leg and back department. This gave us both motivation to advance, as well as an opportunity to belittle one another at every machine, loudly. Ugly words and phrases were exchanged, all in good guy-fun.

Chris's favorite story about me has to do with the time he made an attempt to teach me to water-ski. I would relate the story, but it simply loses something without his voice going higher and higher -- to the point of dogs howling at him -- right before he collapses and passes out from lack of oxygen due to laughing so hard. I like for him to tell the story to people, simply for the opportunity to cover his face with whipped cream while he's unconscious.

Chris has a mechanical mind, and had been in the engineering department of a manufacturing company for a number of years, before he moved into marketing, which is Satan's work. We both wound up being bitten by the economic downturn bug. But Chris, the workaholic, also has a small business out of his home wherein he provides income tax services, as well as mutual fund and insurance sales. They're surviving. If you need help, C. L. Wilson Income Tax Service will bail you out.

So, in early March, I went to Chris with all of my tax information, meager as it was. In 2010, I made less money than in any year since 1982, what with my on/off employment situation. I was actually employed full-time for about the last forty days of the year, thank goodness. But, I don't make the money per hour to which I am accustomed, so we've made cuts, and done without things like trips to the nicer places for dinner. We're surviving, also.

Chris and I chatted about life, liberty, and the pursuit of wealth while he worked his incomprehensible voodoo magic over my pitiful W-2 forms. It's very similar to the Sorcerer Mickey scene from "Fantasia." Every now and again he would ask a pertinent question, which I would answer, then he would type into Merlin's computer and glitter-dust would shoot out the top of the monitor. At the end of the session, Chris announced the amount of my income tax return.

I heard the figure, and it was significantly more than in the last dozen years, or so. I informed Chris that he had -- clearly -- uttered some incorrect incantation. He then turned the voodoo-infused monitor toward me, and began to explain that, it wasn't he who had created the strange figure, but our most recent elected president and his odd policies, wherein, the less one earns, the more income tax return one receives.

Now, as a good Libertarian, I am --philosophically speaking -- against this sort of policy. It goes against common sense. However, as a person who has been income-challenged the last couple of years, I thanked Chris for his time, shook his hand, and floated back to Philadelphia, knowing that I would soon be nearly out of debt, other than my mortgage. This was a happy event that went directly against my core belief system.

It has been four months, and I am still confused, but more solvent than I was, which has more to do with my next post than this one, but that's for later.

Catching Up

2011-06-18T07:45:00.024-04:00

I have been a literary slacker for the past couple of months, and I think of that as a bad thing. There is no true reason for it. I have been busy, yes, but not so occupationally taxed that I couldn't have "penned" a few sentences here and there. And I have subject matter to impart; I simply haven't been participatively impartive (I made that up).

Thus, to get my 2 1/2 readers caught up, here are the matters I will broach in the next couple of weeks. I tell you so that you'll know, as well as to have a constant reminder to myself:

1. I was forced to purchase new tires for my truck.

2. The current presidential administration's socialist tendencies started to work for me.

3. Our refrigerator began an ugly, untimely demise.

4. My young bride found gainful employment.

I will begin with the story of my tires.

I started toward home one afternoon, after making a stop at Emerachem, the company which provided off and on temp employment for me in 2009/10. My buddy, Chuckles The Chemistry Clown, had a proposal for some possible weekend work he needed done, and -- being the sole breadwinner -- I was entertaining the possibility. After Chuckles, Tony and I hashed out some details, I mounted my truck and headed down I-40 in a westerly direction.

I had just passed under the Lovell Road bridge, when I heard a funny sound coming from the vehicle. After a couple of seconds, it was clear that one of my tires was flat, so I engaged my right turn signal and limped to the side of the westbound entrance ramp at Lovell, cursing the fact that I had a flat tire and no cell phone.

The lack of modern technology has been a point of pride with me for the last decade or so, and I crowed often that "I get into my truck to get away from the phone," but, just then, it wasn't really working for me. I am, however, fairly self-contained, and I know how to change a tire. What I didn't know was how to disengage the spare from beneath the truck. So, I read the instructions in my 18-year-old owner's manual that came with the vehicle, got my jack out, and let the spare down from the rear. About the time the tire reached the correct level, it occurred to me that this particular piece of equipment had never before seen daylight. The tire was the same age as the truck, and a victim of dry-rot.

However, cock-eyed optimist that I am, I filled the only sort'a solid tire with Fix-A Flat, and began removing the lugs from the flat at the left front. This is when I made another discovery. I could not remove the tire, no matter what I did. Push, pull, beg, reason; none of these things worked. And I still had no phone.

After about 45 minutes of struggle, I gave up, grabbed my glucose monitor, locked the truck and started up the entrance ramp to Lovell Road. I stopped at the first business that presented itself, Bojangle's. This is where my luck finally began to turn, somewhat. I went to the ordering line, which was empty, and explained to the guy behind the counter the edited version of my plight. He directed me to the left end of the counter, and handed the land-line receiver, which had dialing buttons on it. I called home, no answer. I called my young bride's cell, no answer.

I told the counter-guy that I was going to the men's room to clean up a bit (I had been crawling around under and beside the truck, of course), and if I could use the phone again when I returned, I would then order some dinner. He -- whom I judge to be in the same age-bracket as myself -- said, "No problem."

So, I got cleaned up as well as could be accomplished in a fast-food restroom, then sojourned back out, where counter-guy happily handed me the phone again. I got 'hold of my young bride this time. I explained the edited version again, and told her where she could find me. She was, at the time, in Sweetwater, and would drop off groceries at home, then rescue me from the situation. It might take a while.

There was food, my truck was locked, there was a roof, and I had my glucose monitor and my i-Pod. I got a cajun chicken sandwich, fries and a drink, plugged into Kathleen Madigan, and ate dinner. A while later, here came my Prius, and I finally started back toward home. When I got there, I discovered -- once again -- that I am stupid. I had left my monitor sitting on a chair in the restaurant.

The internet provided me the telephone number, and --lo and behold -- counter-guy answered the phone. I explained my new situation, and he said, "A diabetic kit? I've got it here, in the office." He should probably be a fireman.

I retrieved my kit the next morning (BTW, the country ham biscuits at Bojangle's are superior), and arranged to have my truck towed to Toyota of Knoxville for the installation of four new tires (they were, pretty much, shot), for which I paid with my VISA.

But that's a story involving our current president, and I don't want to give anything away. Until next time, keep your eyes on the road, your hands on the wheel, and get a damn cell phone!

My Equine Tendencies

2011-03-20T08:09:00.036-04:00

First of all, let us establish that I am not a clothes horse; very much the opposite, in fact. I know little about pop culture, and less about fashion, but I know what I like. It is my opinion (for what it's worth) that -- for men -- the most flattering types of formal wear are the tuxedo and the military dress uniform. Having never been a military person, I don't get the honor of wearing the latter, but the former, I would don daily if I had the liquid assets and the excuse. I love a nice tuxedo. Of course that "liquid assets" thing pretty much eats away at my opportunity for tuxedo-donning.

This post is not about a tuxedo, but will explain my inner angling toward hors-i-ness.

In 1991, when I was an employee of Sta-Con-Tatelyle (I never know what to call it these days, as it has been passed around like a small-town whore), I was assigned to the corporate headquarters -- Decatur, IL -- for an industrial research effort. This effort involved a good deal of overtime and swing-shift labor, but was the most exciting working year of my life. The company was booming, the checkbook was open, and we learned something new and interesting every day.

We, the family, resided in an apartment, paid for by the company, about 1.5 miles from the local mall. At the mall was a Bachrach's haberdashery, and in the window was a suit after which I lusted, mightily. The suit was a black, double-breasted, pin-stripe affair, with the stripes alternating a teal and mauve in color. Now "teal" and "mauve" are made-up words to describe the colors green and lavender for women. In fact, "teal" is a kind of duck, and "mauve" is actually an in-between color of burgundy leaning towards lavender. But, to communicate with the fairer and more intelligent gender, these are the words I must use.

One week, in the spring, after a particularly lucrative compensatory notification, I told my young bride that I was going to Bachrach's to purchase the suit. I was excited about it, as was she, because she had not -- heretofore -- seen this side of my personality. Thus, off we went.

We arrived at the haberdashery, and -- for the first time since I had noticed it -- the suit was gone from the window. This caused me to worry, but in we went, so that I could inquire. I went to the counter to ask after the suit, and the clerk asked, "You mean this one?" and pointed behind him at the wall, where it hung, handsomely, in all its wool finery. I told the young man that I wished to purchase the suit, and he zipped from behind the counter to show me all of the accoutrements that I would need to go with it.

This was a new thing for me, but it made sense as we dove headlong into the process. Why buy a new suit if one has no socks, shirts or ties with which to complement it? I got measured for the purpose of securing the proper size jacket (40 regular), and making certain that the pants were properly trimmed (32/30; I was in better physical condition at the time). After the measurements, I had to select some dress shirts. I believe they successfully sold me on four of them, as well as accompanying ties with each. Then I had to get matching socks, so I didn't look goofy with -- well -- plain black, for God's sake. Oh, and pocket squares! Can't forget those! That was a new folding talent I had to learn.

After all was said and done, I left the store with the extras, a promise of the suit's readiness a few days later and a receipt that registered between $750 and $800. I felt like such a spendthrift.

You know what? It was totally worth it, every time I put the thing on. Especially when I wore the plain white Perry Ellis shirt, the most comfortable dress shirt I have ever worn. It was like wearing a cloud, but lighter and softer. Maybe I was totally in touch with my feminine side, but --when I wore the suit -- I felt good, head to toe.

Of course, I can't wear it anymore, 'cuz that was 20 years and pounds ago. It still hangs in my closet, looking abandoned and forlorn, wishing that I would simply drop the extra weight and don it again, promising the same old feeling. Like that'll happen.

Reaching The Science Fiction Future

2011-02-20T09:44:00.033-05:00

Once again, because I am aging -- as opposed to gracefully dying young -- a recent event has reminded me of an adventure from my youth. The Boy (Woodrow Robert, according to official state records) has rendered his old box spring set useless. This is probably a no-fault occurrence, as he has been on this bed set for several years. Thus, my young bride betook herself to our local furniture gallery, Greer's, to procure a replacement. We have shopped here exclusively for the past decade due to superior aid and service, as well as decent prices.

She explained to the person who helped her that she was looking for a twin box spring at a discount price, since The Boy is eighteen and will be going on to his Naval career (his decision) in only a few years. He located a discontinued model whose price had been heftily lowered, quoted the cost, and the deal was made. When she inquired about method of payment, debit card, check, whatever, he actually said that cash was good. Cash? Nobody takes cash anymore, without a gun pointed directly at their temple.

I went the next day with my truck (the one that is now old enough to vote and buy tobacco products), and, when the time came to render remuneration, I dragged out my wallet and produced the government issue, paper representations of my labor. Then the woman behind the counter counted out my change, without benefit of any electronic device, coins first, then bills, as God intended. It was very surreal, in an historic context.

I remember reading futuristic fiction and watching films in my adolescence, wherein people would buy things and pay with "credits." Our society has now reached that point, such that my debit card takes care of my fuel and food purchases, as well as the occasional stop for consumption-grade ethanol at Bob's. Which, finally, brings me to the memory that reared up from all of these occurrences.

When I was married the first time, all those years ago, we -- as a couple -- decided to spend July 4th weekend, 1980, in Knoxville. For young people who had hardly ever been anywhere, or done anything, this was a big deal. I made a reservation at what is now the Marriott, but was then the Hyatt Regency, near the Civic Coliseum/Auditorium building. At that time, this was the closest thing to a luxury hotel that Knoxville had. We parked the car as near to the front door as possible, and perambulated to the front desk, where the young lady who was operating things was deep into a terribly important conversation, which I interrupted, being the rude person that I am.

I made known that there was a reservation with my last name attached, and she grudgingly checked the records. She then asked how I intended to pay, and, with not a hint of guilt on my part, I pulled a wad of filthy, possibly terminal, cash from my wallet (Lord knows where it had been). Now, in my fuzzy memory, I can see the young lady handling the bills -- two-fingered -- as if they were infected with cholera, or perhaps anthrax. I'm certain that is just my mind doing a little creative editing, but it entertains me, nonetheless.

Having procured my, probably diseased, change we made our way to the hotel room. Here is what I remember about it, with absolutely no memory edit whatsoever:

-- It was dusty. I wrote my name into the dust on the bureau; it was that bad.

-- It needed to be vacuumed. There were dust bunnies under both beds. I looked out of curiosity inspired by the coating on the furniture.

--There was a beautiful window view of the rear parking lot.

-- The water heater did not work. Cold showers, what a treat!

When we checked out the next morning, cutting our two-night stay to one, I detailed the reasons with the desk-charge-of-the-moment. He was somewhat apologetic, and inquired if another room might be offered, but I said, "No, I've had enough luxury for one weekend. I'll find a hotel that wants my business and money." I got my second night's lodging money returned, and we stayed that night at a Holiday Inn that was on Papermill Drive.

The room was sparking clean, and had been vacuumed that morning, as far as I could tell. Also the water heater was obnoxiously efficient, such that I spent extra time in the shower, just 'cuz I could.

Oddly, I don't really remember any details of meals eaten or events attended, though I'm certain we watched fireworks somewhere. But those memories are so clouded by the events at our "luxury" hotel, that I simply cannot seem to recover them, and that bothers me. I nearly always remember good meals and times, but not from this experience. It's a consternation.

Someday, maybe, there will be a neurological instrument that can restore memories. I hope I have enough credits to hire it out.

$Control$

2011-01-30T07:53:00.053-05:00

I am something of a control freak when it comes to money. I realize -- and have for a long time -- how very irritating that can be to family members, and I sympathize, somewhat. However, if I were not a control freak, now that my annual income has basically been halved, we would not have been able to keep our home, and would likely be in public housing, dodging meth mongers and bullets, at any given time.

Thus it is a source of consternation to me when people are loose with cash, and have little knowledge and no control, for the most part. I was divorced at the tender age of 23 years, and remarried around four years later. In that span of time, my checkbook was out of balance once in the amount of $0.05. That's a nickel for those of you who don't follow cash-flow charts. It took me a couple of days, but I finally worked out where the mistake had been made, thank God, because then I could sleep again.

Several years ago, I was confronted by a co-worker with the old saw "time is money," and -- for the first time ever -- I really put some thought into the saying, and came up with this core philosophy: Time is not money. The exact opposite is true. Money is not the paper bills you receive from the bank and spend at retail outlets. Money is not the gold stored in Fort Knox, up yon in Kentucky. And it absolutely is not that seemingly magic plastic in your purse or wallet. Money is all of the time that I am forced to spend away from my home and family at labor for an employer. The numbered paper bills and credit cards are mere pale representations of the time I must spend at my job, keeping the earth spinning on its axis.

Thus, one of my core philosophies: Money Is Time.

When one desires a particular manufactured item or a nice meal, one must decide if it is worth the time spent gathering the funds necessary. When I was employed by Tate & Lyle, I worked a good deal of overtime so that I could pay cash for my vacations. And we had some outrageous vacations that were worth all of the time it took to pay for them. Our hiatuses were paid in full before we left the house, and if the credit card was used, it was because it had been prepaid.

In my in-between years -- my early to mid-twenties when I was a swinging bachelor -- I lived for a short time in Cougar Town. I had a tendency to date women of a certain age, because I found that, mostly, they were less pretentious, and approached life with a cynical eye forward, as I did.

At one point I was seeing a woman who was more than a decade older than I, and had two sons, thirteen and seventeen. I had received from work, as a safety award, a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant of my choice. I chose Chesapeake's, a Knoxville seafood emporium, given to fresh seafood and excellent service. I left Athens with my gift certificate and $150, cash, in my possession.

The meal consisted of cocktails, an appetizer, our chosen entrées with appropriate wine, and dessert. When the repast was done, the waiter brought the check, and I dug out of my wallet the certificate and necessary cash to take care of the bill and tip. My date, however, was absolutely incredulous that the gift certificate had not covered the cost in its entirety. I looked at her. Then I asked how long it had been since anyone had taken her to a decent place to eat.

She admitted that it had been some time since she had been confronted with an atmosphere of Chesapeake's caliber. I told her then that, when I intended to have a dinner the likes of which we had just finished, along with a tag-along date, I never stepped out of the house with less than $200, ever. She was flabbergasted. I then told her that $200 was always more than enough to cover the check, but better too much than not enough. However,had the money not been in my possession, we would not have gone there. Foreknowledge of the potential expenditure is part of the control aspect.

And, of course, I always kept a running total of my available funds pinned to the bulletin board in my head. I still do, but the funds are less impressive these days, so there are a lot fewer meals out than there were, back in the day. Vacation, of course, is a distant dream, as I believe in taking enough cash to burn a wet mule.

Which brings me to Exhibit B.

More than twenty years ago, my Young Bride and I took our first trip to Walt Disney World. We had friends living in Orlando, and the plan was that we would spend three nights in a local inn, then four with Jim and Peytyn. Also, the host couple planned to accompany us on our third day at WDW, spent in the Magic Kingdom.

We had an okay day there, and when it got on toward time for dinner, we shopped about for an eatery. The Liberty Tree Tavern looked workable, so Jim and I stepped into the foyer to look at the menu. When my best friend got a gander at the prices, he got that look on his face. "I can't afford this," he said. Remember, he was not on vacation. I asked to see the menu.

It was gourmet fare, surely, with escargot on the appetizer menu and various types of steak and seafood for entrées. I did some quick math in my head and said, "Buddy, this one's on me." Let's not forget that this couple was putting us up for several days, gratis. That philosophy of having enough money to light up a creature of equine heritage paid off. And, let me say, without hesitation, that this favor has been paid back many times over in the intervening decades. That's how it works.

But, had I not been able to afford the meal, we could have easily eaten hot dogs at Casey's, or burgers at Cosmic Ray's. The ability to do simple multiplication also helps in the arena of control.

And if I ever have that kind of cash again, trust me, off we'll go. But I won't leave the hacienda until I have the money/time my hands; 'cuz that's the kind of control freak I am.

Big Comedy From (Some) Small People

2011-01-16T09:30:00.060-05:00

I am a nut for comedy. Some of my favorite films are "Bringing Up Baby," featuring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, as well as "What's Up Doc?," one of the films it inspired. Also, Dudley Moore, as "Arthur" is an all-time great in my perfect world. Of all the cable channels available, Comedy Central is one of my top picks, along with ESPN and Discover, mostly because they both have amusing content at any given time. Those of you who are fans of "MythBusters" and "Pardon The Interruption" know from whence I emerge.

I have seen a respectable number of live comedy shows over the years. My eyes were opened in the early '80s when some smart person in Knoxville first opened a place called The Funny Bone, a low-rent comedy club located behind an unpainted furniture store on Kingston Pike. That was my first experience with live, stand-up comedy, and I fell in love with it to the point that I actually took a stab at it once on open mic night. While I didn't totally bomb, I can see with clear 20-20 hindsight that I am not cut out for the comedy stage. I'm not adept enough, in the verbal sense, and I have a tendency to go ugly-sarcastic more quickly that I ought when heckled.

However, let me tell you about the big-time names I've seen through the years.

Years ago, in the early '90s, my Young Bride and I saw Paula Poundstone at the Comedy Catch, in Chattanooga. We also saw Pam Stone there, she who played Dauber Dybinski's girlfriend on the TV show, "Coach." At that show, we were seated front and center, and Ms. Stone quizzed us and bantered openly with us for improv material. Those were both very good shows. I also saw, at the Comedy Catch, my high school buddy Bart, and his comedy troupe that worked out of St. Petersburg, Florida, in the waning days of his service in the United States Navy.

In the early part of the past decade, my Young Bride was visiting her sister in Las Vegas. My sister-in-law, Amy, called one afternoon to inform me that she had scored tickets to see Kathleen Madigan at Harrah's Casino, and they would attend that very evening. I called Amy ugly name, and charged her with getting me an autographed T-shirt. When my Young Bride returned, T-shirt in hand, I almost forgave them.

However, only a few months later, I learned that Ms. Madigan would be headlining at Zanies in Nashville. I was, at the time, still employed by Tate & Lyle, and had ready cash and loads of vacation to burn, so I nearly ripped my hip pocket off to nab my VISA for procurement of tickets. It was at that show (photo above -- my autographed T-shirt in evidence) that we first saw a youngish man named Keith Alberstadt (It's Pronounced Jenkins). Now, opening acts are always a roll of the dice at comedy clubs, as the entrepreneurs normally rely on local "talent." This is understood; however, we were blown away by Mr. Jenkins and his observational humor.

Turns out he is a graduate of Vanderbilt University, which doesn't suffer fools, and has since moved from Nashville to Manhattan, where he writes, now, for Weekend Update on SNL. He has also been across the oceans to entertain our military troops several times, and appeared on David Letterman. All of these things can be learned on his website, keithcomedy.com.

And, lest we forget, the trip was made to see Kathleen Madigan, whose career I had followed since the early 1990s. Smart, self-deprecating, and loves to rip on her Irish-rooted family (something we have in common). She was rip-roaring funny, and my diaphragm hurt for a couple of days afterward.

At the post-show line-up, I got a photo (above), and a hug from Kathleen, which I still can feel when put my feeble mind to work. She's hot, don't you know? And little. She must get the bulk of her clothes from Gap Kids. I also wrote a column about it for the local rag, which she posted on her website, kathleenmadigan.com.

Since that show, we have seen Keith three times in Knoxville at the club that began as The Comedy Zone, and has evolved into Sidesplitters. We have also seen Blake Clark there, twice, and I acted as a host for a charity golf tournament sponsored by Mr. Clark, who is the nicest, most down-to-earth guy ever to be forced to live in the insanity that is Los Angeles. After the first time we saw him, we waited in the bar at The Comedy Zone. He had gone to his hotel to change clothes, as the lights cause anyone to perspire profusely.

When he arrived in the lounge, he and the Young Bride had old home week, because they both originate from Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country), and exchanged pleasantries about places only they knew.

At Mr. Clark's golf tournament, I played babysitter to Tom Parks, one of my favorites from the late '80s and HBO's "Not Necessarily The News." The night before the golf began, we were introduced at a hotel off the Cedar Bluff exit. We chatted, as middle-aged men will, and I was explaining to Mr. Parks that, if I began acting erratically while on the golf course, he should instruct me to drink my juice, which would be in the cart with us. He rolled his eyes at me, and withdrew an automatic syringe from his right pocket. As co-diabetics, we watched out for each other.

Since that time, we have seen Ron White in concert twice, once at the Civic Auditorium, and once at the Tennessee Theatre, both shows rib-graspingly hilarious. We also saw Lewis Black at the Tennessee Theatre, and his anger-inspired, physically demonstrative comedy was even better live than it is on "The Daily Show" and HBO.

Recently, I got notification from Keith Alberstadt ('cuz I'm on his mailing list) that he would be appearing in Knoxville yet again, and we should come see him, which we did. He's as good as ever, though he seems to be misplacing more and more of the hair from the front of his head, which he covers more than adequately in his program (the "losing-his hair" subject, not his balding head). Now, while at Sidesplitters, we learned that only the next week, none other than Bobcat Goldthwait would be appearing there at Sidesplitters.

Let me iterate, here, Bobcat is one of my top favorites -- ever. His HBO special, "Is He Like That All The Time?"(1989) is a remote tosser at my house to this day.

Okay, I don't have that great-paying job anymore (which, we understand, I only had for 27 years, so no great loss), but -- come on -- it's Bobcat. So I jinked a little here, juked a little there, and came up with the cash for three tickets down front, stage right. Bobcat, if you know who he is, has a history of interaction with people near the stage, and he had a blast talking to The Boy, because he's eighteen years old, and looks about thirteen. He also had a heckler get on his bad side about half-way through the show, so he had a mid-show snack, and I cried, it was so funny.

After the show, of course, we stuck around to see if he would emerge in the lounge. He did, and -- you can believe this or not -- he was as gracious and nice as any celebrity with whom I have been confronted. Well, he didn't hug me like Kathleen did, but -- hey -- I didn't ask.

And, of course, the photographic evidence of our meeting is on my blog page now, 'cuz it's Bobcat, for God's sake! Notice the similarity of our eye-wear, and how very tiny a person he is. I never realized, but he may be one of those leprechauns that Ms. Madigan talks about in her latest Showtime special, "Gone Madigan (oh, my God, she's still hot)."

Anyway, it was great, and I will remember it much longer than Bobcat does, naturally.

I can hardly wait until Keith AlberJenkins shows up again. I'll go. It's comedy, and I like it.

My Continuing Education

2010-12-31T07:25:00.049-05:00

Some recent events that have come to pass have reminded me of a valuable lesson I learned years ago, when I was an adolescent, and -- had I been asked -- had no need for new knowledge. The older I get, the more I realize I need to learn. I would really like to be able to pass a portion of this important information on to my progeny, but some of this stuff simply must come from painful experience.

The lesson to which I refer above had to do with two young women. The first was a girl named Brenda Combs, who originated out of North Carolina and resided for a time with her aunt and uncle -- in Athens, Tennessee -- the names of whom have escaped me over the years. I never got the details of why she was living with her aunt and uncle, but my assumption was some complication in her home life. Who knows, really?

Brenda was a short, plush and pretty girl who came and went with the metaphoric speed of an ultrasonic F-15 Tomcat in my youth. She tired of my indecipherable BS after only a few months and broke my heart before moving back to North Carolina and disappearing into the ether for all eternity. Most likely, she has no recollection of me, and -- if quizzed -- would reply, "Who?"

The second young woman was a girl named Shelia Mull (yes, I spelt it correctly -- her first name really is constructed S-H-E-L-I-A). We dated for a respectable time before becoming engaged just after high school graduation. She was, for the most part, sensible. She also was pretty, well put together, and had a resonant alto voice which she put to use in a gospel quartet, driven all over East Tennessee and other regions by her Dad, Kenneth Mull, a rail company employee. All of the quartet and musicians were members of East View Baptist Church in Etowah, Tennessee.

In my teen years, as a passenger in the King's Children van, I saw some of the smallest, backwaterest, most welcoming congregations in the history of organized religion. I met good, bad and interesting people, and learned a great deal about the human condition without even realizing that I was being educated. Then, one night at the Mull hacienda, I received the all-important lesson of which I was recently reminded.

To give you some historical data, the Jergens company used to manufacture a hair care product called, for real, Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific; and they were correct. Further, Brenda Combs -- the plush heart-breaker -- utilized said product on her long, luxurious brunette locks. Any time I was confronted with the aroma thereafter, it was a sharp reminder of the pain of this lost relationship. Mind you, I didn't dwell on it; but I didn't forget either.

A couple of years after said loss, I was at the Mull home one evening, and we were having a buffet-style meal wherein everyone served themselves, found a place to perch, and gnoshed on good, southern food (I'm fairly certain that fried chicken and mashed potatoes were involved). I was -- I can see it in my mind, and I still can't stop myself -- standing in the kitchen, plate in hand, trying to figure the best place to break line, when one of the other members of the quartet -- at about 5' 2" -- walked directly under my nose. The following came rolling out of my stupid yap, unabated by any sense of imminent danger:

"You smell like Brenda," said I, the requisite wonder and awe covered not in the least.

To the best of my recollection, I never stopped paying for that particular transgression until the inevitable -- and yes, even more painful -- break-up. Truth be known, I deserved everything I got for it. It was a stupid and hurtful thing to do, and was an important lesson in simple diplomacy.

Absolute honesty has its place on planet earth, as does thoughtful duplicity. They are the yin and yang of communication which must be applied carefully, with a good deal of forethought and compassion.

But gee, her hair really smelled terrific.

Dealing With Traffic III

2010-12-05T11:39:00.025-05:00

Having worked in Knoxville, off and on, for the last year +, I have learned more about getting around the Big City than I ever cared to know. Getting to work is normally easy, as traffic is fairly light before 7:00 AM on I-40/I-75. However, getting home -- especially on Friday evenings -- has become and adventure in discovery.

My employment is centered just off Exit 1 from I-640, so I'm near Papermill Drive. This inspired me to try going down Northshore, which begins at Papermill and ends near Cedar Hills Golf & Country Club just north of Lenoir City. This was interesting, because last year we discovered that the KnoxPatch-Powers-That-Be had installed a roundabout at the intersection of Concord and Northshore. A roundabout; I'm dead serious. That brought about a monstrous disappointment when I first came to the intersection recently, and discovered that a traffic light had been installed. They put in the traffic signal that should have been there to begin with, but they left the roundabout. So now, one must stop at the light when it is red, then curve to the right, then back left if one is to continue in what used to be a straight line. The island in the center is intact, as if a homeless person may come along one day an pitch a tent.

The route is fine for Fridays, and though it is more mileage, I feel that it takes less time due to the lack of parking facilities such as the ones on I-40 near Papermill and Pellissippi Parkway from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM. However, I began to investigate the possibility of another alternate route one day, and found that Middlebrook Pike runs straight into Hardin Valley Road, which ends close-by to the Watt Road I-40 entrance. I know that I really don't want to hit the interstate there, but I found that Campbell Station Road also ends at Hardin Valley, and it would give me the chance to completely bypass the major Friday evening traffic tie-ups which lie in a southwesterly direction.

So, one evening, I headed down Middlebrook Pike. The first thing I learned is that one doesn't want to explore unknown country, going at a rate of 50 miles per hour or so, with the setting sun directly in one's face. It's hard to see traffic lights change, and impossible to read street signs. But, as I was headed that way, I was determined to forge on. I passed Cedar Bluff Road (which I only knew by recognition of the area), then several other streets and neighborhoods of which I have no knowledge, whatsoever. The next landmark I recognized was Pellissippi Parkway, an overpass at Hardin Valley. I knew, then, that I was at least close to Campbell Station, my ultimate goal.

I passed the fairly new Hardin Valley school complex (Home of the Hawks), then I went by a Food City -- good information to have for a person with a Food City value card, and a potential need for gasoline. I then came to the end of Hardin Valley Road, which meant that I had completely missed North Campbell Station, damn the Scots, anyway.

But, in exploration mode, I went ahead onto East Gallaher Ferry Road, which became Williams Road, then Williams Ferry Road, which brought me to Melton Hill Park, of which I had never known; and that's where my road ended. By this time, I knew that I had lost the chance at a short way home, due to the fact that I would have to turn around and retrace my tire marks.

This I did, and I tried Hickory creek road, which goes in the same general direction as the location of the interstate, but I got buffaloed there, also, and wound up retracing back to -- Hardin Valley Road. I headed back east, toward Knoxville, and -- remember that Food City I discovered? North Campbell Station Road is right in front of the Gas 'N' Go located there. With the setting sun in my hindquarters, I could see the street sign.

So, I finally found I-40, and arrived home with new information for how to get from work to here during heavy traffic. Melton Hill Park? I'll save that for some spring day when I need to get outdoors without doing any real work. There has to be something worthwhile there, other than people who have gotten completely turned around, I mean.

18 Months

2010-11-26T10:21:00.026-05:00

On November 22, 2010 I finally -- after 1.5 years of spotty, at best, employment -- landed a full-time job with all of the trimmings and benefits. To recap, I was dismissed from Tate & Lyle on 5/25/09 as an "economic cut-back." I was not "laid off," as the powers-that-be, clearly, invited me to never return to the facility. Thus, I took all of my personals from my work area and my locker (with the exception of my stereo, which resided in the QA laboratory; it remained until its untimely death a few months later), turned in my ID badge, left my hard hat on the ridiculous "trophy case" in the breezeway, and walked into the slobbering jowls of the unemployment dogs out in the cold, cruel world.

It's a good thing that the company felt compelled to provide me a severance package for the purpose of keeping me from finding a lawyer and suing for wrongful dismissal. First, I could not have won the case, as -- with 27 years of incidents with which to work -- they could have proven that Mother Theresa was an unfit employee. Second, Tate & Lyle is a monstrous corporation, and can afford high-dollar, pinstripe-wearing, Ivy League lawyers, whereas I would have had a problem even finding one, if he/she were across the street, waving a sign that said "Will litigate for food."

So I began slowly constructing a résumé, listing all of the areas in which I had worked in 27 years of employment with the same company, and pointing out all of my significant accomplishments. To wit, after I had it all on the word processor, I could not -- for love nor money -- fathom why I had lost my job. Now, while it is true that I am a less than sociable creature, and a bit of a curmudgeon, I worked hard, and put in long hours doing many things which other people were unwilling to do. I believe that I am conscientious, and quality-oriented. In fact, I argued many times for the deciders to upgrade our quality specs. And, when asked my opinion, I gave it freely and liberally, at times to the consternation of the inquirer.

I worked in the Receiving department for four years, Ethanol and Waste Treatment for three years; the QA laboratory (without benefit of a degree) for three years; participated in a research project at the corporate headquarters in 1991, and was selected as a shift leader for a new process; learned the sugar-from-corn process well enough to write the Skill Block manual for said process, and illustrated same utilizing PowerPoint software; went back to the QA laboratory in 2003, and got the axe in 2009.

When I called my lab manager a few days after my dismissal to ask some stupid question, she started to cry, which was just too much for me to absorb. Honestly, would you have fired me? Doesn't matter, it happened.

There was a point at which I said to my young bride how lucky I felt to have done so well, financially speaking, for so long. To this she replied, "It wasn't luck! You worked hard, and put in long days and nights to help that company move forward! They're stupid, and I hope they all die in a plane crash!" Her adamant defense of my performance aside, I pointed out that there were many other people with only a twelfth grade education who worked just as hard, and were just as dedicated as I, but who had never been able to afford a vacation to Walt Disney World; so I still felt lucky.

Anyway, after my résumé made it onto the world-wide-web, I got a call from a temp agency -- ResourceMFG -- in September, 2009 for a job that would last until the end of the year. I learned the process there well enough that they called me back for several more short stints through the spring and summer of this year. I didn't know at the beginning that they were paying me more than some of their actual employees, as well as the temp-service fee -- but, hey -- you get what you pay for. However, that company simply doesn't have enough steady business to justify offering me full-time employment.

Then, in July -- when I was trying to figure out what to do after my severance package ran out -- I got a call from another temp agency; Aerotek. They had a possibility at an independent lab that does all kinds of testing on all kinds of materials. I got myself scheduled for an interview, wore my one suit, well if you're reading this, you saw that story in the previous post.

So, I have been doing that job to the best of my ability (still without benefit of a degree), and working long hours to complete many "need-it now" type tests. I have been surviving without medical insurance, as I had gotten pretty well stocked on all of my maintenance medications. Then, I ran out of insulin -- that's bad. Upon consulting a local pharmaceutical expert at Mulberry Street Pharmacy, my young bride and I learned how much my insulin costs without benefit of insurance -- that's worse.

By contract, I still had about 290 hours to work before I was eligible for employment by Galbraith Laboratories, instead of my temp agency, so I stepped into the Lab Manager's office one afternoon, simply to ask if I would be required to work out the company-mandated 90-day probation once I made the transfer from A to B. He replied that, no, I had already been there longer than that as a temp, and my benefits would start, for the most part, upon my changing employers.

Then, he inquired why I was asking. So, I told him about my maintenance meds and the requisite expense of same. He then called the temp agency and bought out my contract. I am now a full-time lab analyst with a company that has a very good reputation for accuracy and dependability. I run samples for companies from Bowater Southern in Calhoun, TN to Saudi Arabian oil refineries looking for X in their Y samples (please excuse my tendency toward secrecy, but I don't want to bugger this job, understand?)

And yes, it's a serious cut in pay as compared to Tate & Lyle, but I'll take it. This company had enough time to see what I was like, and still hired me, curmudgeonly behavior and all. Who knew?

Brain Work

2010-08-28T09:11:00.038-04:00

I got another new job in July. To catch one up, I lost my employment of 27 years to "economic cut-backs" on May 25, 2009. Since that time, my medical insurance has cost me a fortune, and my bill-paying has been colorful and creative, at best. Barring the amount of cash that the company paid me to not sue, I would be one of the people who had lost their home and moved into public housing. I don't want that, not because I look down on public housing, but because, philosophically, I am against the concept, government agencies be damned.

How's that for immediate digression?

Last autumn, I got a job through ResourceMFG -- a division of Staffing Solutions -- at a company called Emerachem, which manufactures catalytic converters for industrial application. It was one of the easiest jobs I've ever had, and the shift was all daytime activity, a concept with which I have been unfamiliar since 1986. The pay was less than stellar, but it was enough for us to survive and move forward in the space/time continuum. However, it was a temp position, as opposed to a temp-to hire gig. The owner of the company, his second-in-command and the facility manager all expressed that they would like to hire me as a full-time employee, but the business they had simply didn't justify the expense. I understand this concept, though it isn't exactly happy news when one is in my position.

I worked there from late September until the end of 2009; then again from late February to April, as well as a couple of other short stints. I had an interview for a lab position at Fuji Hunt chemicals in Dayton, Tennessee, but they went with someone who had a chemistry degree. I took four weeks' worth of classes (pronounced "indoctrination") in professionalism from a company that is an hour-and-fifteen-minute drive from home, then was rejected because I used what turned out to be a questionable term in my interview, and the interviewer stopped listening to me. I was, I believed, a shoe-in for employment at the DDCE ethanol research plant, in nearby Vonore, Tennessee. I had people there lobbying for me, and did well in the testing and group exercises. Then I had a telephone interview with the facility coordinator, and completely buggered that from A to Z. Hopefully, I learned a few things from these adversities, however.

When all of this began last year, I never believed I would be one of those people who was jobless for this amount of time. I searched for a logical reason for my lack of employment, and the only explanation was me. I began to question my nature, my core philosophies, my work ethic, and my ability to communicate. I believe I am difficult to live with in good times, but this roller-coaster ride has had to be worse for my co-habitants, and -- maybe -- people simply find working with me unpleasant.

Then, in mid-July, another temp agency -- Aerotek -- came calling. They are a tech staffing company who provide folks -- who have scientific aptitude -- for employers who don't have the time or money for the search. A Knoxville employer was seeking a lab analyst, and they -- Aerotek -- were proposing that, considering my résumé, I may be a fit. The temp agent gave me the URL of the potential employer so that I could learn something about them, and said that he would get back to me about a possible interview.

The next day, I Googled the company, and here is what I learned. Galbraith Laboratories is an independent testing facility that does all kinds of laboratory work for all kinds of industries. The company was begun sixty years ago by Dr. Harry Galbraith (a UT graduate) and they have been a fixture in Knoxville, TN ever since. On the website under the "Careers" link, I found their solicitation for a lab analyst, and the e-mail address attached, so I sent them my résumé, my references and an introductory letter explaining my experience and the instrumentation (and corresponding software) with which I am familiar. That was on a Saturday morning. About an hour after I sent the e-mail, I received a reply from the lab manager, observing that I was obviously a motivated person and he would contact Aerotek post-haste to schedule an interview.

I had that interview in the middle of the next week. The day before, I was contacted by one of the Aerotek folks and given directions and some advice. When I quizzed him about how to dress, I was told that: "the lab manager wears a shirt and tie every day, so dress appropriately." Enter my fear that my one suit that fits, doesn't anymore.

However, my labor at Emerachem having been very physical in nature, I had gone from around the 208 lb. range down into the low 190s, and my pants actually fit. Somewhat snugly, yes, but not inappropriately so. So, on the appointed day, I donned my one suit and set out for another interview. I was worried, but hopeful.

During the interview, I was given a tour of the facility, and -- well -- it's a big ol' laboratory, and appropriately, a maze. I recognized many of the instruments, and made certain that the manager saw my familiarity. I was also interviewed by the production manager, who started at Galbraith through Aerotek, so he knows whence I cometh. I asked about the shift, and learned that people come and go from 5:00 AM to 10:00 PM. The only real requirement is that one clock in and out at the correct times, and put in the time necessary to complete the job. So, for me, it would be day shift.

A few years ago, I was mishandling a bout of mild depression, and in total denial. When I finally acquiesced to my young bride's begging me to seek counsel, I found Dr. Connie Cole, a doctor of psychology. The first thing we established is that she does not treat patients by throwing pharmaceuticals at a problem, she tries to find the origination, and help change the perception of it. At one point, during our first session, she asked me why I worked swing shift, the idea being that a day shift job would be easier, with my high blood pressure, diabetes, et al. I replied that I had a twelfth grade education, and made $XX,XXX per year (it was not an exorbitant amount, but I was squirreling 18% of my base pay into a 401k, and paying cash for vacations), and she said, "Ah," and that was the end of that series of quizzes.

Had I heard of Galbraith then, things might be different today.

Be that as it may, when all of the festivities were done, the Lab Manager asked me about my availability, and I told him that, if he would allow me to leave my jacket in his office, I'd go to work in my dress pants, shirt and tie. He laughed, but -- trust me -- I was serious. He told me that he would make a decision early the next week, but he had several more interviews through which to slog. I'm guessing that many of the possibilities were adorned with multiple degrees, so I had slim hopes.

Apparently, however, my one suit helped; in fact, may have been a deciding factor, for all I know. I have now been there for a couple of months, and the work is intriguing and enjoyable. I like puzzles, and this job is full of them. My young bride always points out that, "they hired you for your brain," which is a nice idea to hold close.

Again, the pay is not stellar, and -- having run out of my severance -- I'm going to have to cut back on some stuff, Like eating out and HBO. But, let's face it, when the forefathers spoke of our "inalienable rights," the movie channels weren't one of them. I am hoping that, at the end of my six-month obligation, they hire me full-time and I can get some damned medical insurance, without which it will be very hard to pay for all of my stupid maintenance medications.

And it's day shift -- who knew?

Jumping Into The Past

2010-07-31T06:18:00.089-04:00

Because of my elongated unemployment, we -- as a family unit -- have been finding inexpensive things to do to keep us entertained over the last fourteen months. The Boy, Woodrow, and I have been to Coal Creek Armory and The Oak Ridge Sportsman Association for the blasting of various types of targets (including an Osama zombie), with an entertaining variety of firearms, into recyclable waste. As a group, before my elder child moved halfway across the universe, we spent a couple of days in and around Helen, Georgia; hiking, swimming and touring. While there, we acquired a clay butter bell that will contain better than 3/4 of a stick.

Lately, we have visited a few of the nearby Tennessee waterways that are available to the public for the purpose of making certain that the fourth dimension meets its well-deserved demise.

One afternoon, we went to the Ocoee Whitewater Center and ventured into the area called "Blue Hole," a popular swimming spot in the river. We took with us: two vehicles, five camp chairs, two coolers, swimsuits, changes of clothing, the dog -- Doris Daylily -- one sink with two faucets... well, you get the idea. We also dragged along Emily's significant other, Jeremy, who now co-resides in a suburb of Denver with my first-born offspring.

The chairs remained in the back of my truck, due to the fact that the parking area for the Whitewater Center extends to about four miles down-river. We had a decent day there, though it was crowded for a Wednesday, and we picnicked very well in the designated area below the Center, on the opposite side of the river.

On the next trip in which I was a participant, we went to the Tellico River, at the site known as Camping Area 1, just above Baby Falls (that's the place in the photograph above). That time we only had three people, corresponding camp chairs, clothing changes, two coolers, still, etc. Oh, and the dog, who always goes with us, now. We splashed about in the river, but declined to go to the falls that day because it was Friday afternoon, and overpopulated. We did munch on myriad types of food, and we drank whatever we pleased (except beer, which is wrongly banned in national park areas). I also enjoyed a fine product of Nicaragua while drying out for the drive home.

All in all, that was a very pleasant and relaxed day.

Our next waterway visit was to the Little River in Townsend. You folks who are near the half-century mark remember Townsend as a bump in the road on the way to the snaking path through the Smoky Mountains. It has grown in the last couple of decades, and not in a particularly positive way. It's mostly cheap tourist traps, convenience stores and only-okay eateries. But on the north end of town, there's a small picnic area that is nowhere near any of the madcap rafting companies, and -- on a week-day -- can be low-key and enjoyable. The water, in places, is deep enough to actually swim, and the current is negligible. We visited a small railroad museum, which told the story of of the Little River Railroad. It's a small place, but it survives on donations only, and is worth a look, especially compared to most things around town.

While we were picnicking (we're now down to one cooler and three chairs), we hobnobbed some with a Florida family who, apparently, reside in the Orlando area, but originally hail from Indiana. Because of this, my young bride and one of the Florida-Folks' teen-aged daughters waxed poetic about the Colts and Precious, moon-hanging Peyton. The girl was using whatever excuse necessary to hang near The Boy, who is six feet tall, and weighs somewhere between nothing and 150, but has no discernible fat on his body -- making him, pretty much, solid muscle.

We spent a Wednesday gadding about in Polk County around the Hiwassee River. That was only an OK trip, as the river level was high, and the current prohibitive for swimming purposes. But the food was good, the atmosphere relaxed, and the product of Nicaragua enjoyable. One of the oddities we observed was a group of Amish women, who had driven the buggies down to the river to go swimming. I had no idea we even had an Amish community in the area, but it was nice to see some young girls who weren't glued to cell phones, staring at tiny digital screens, texting and adjusting their headsets, while ignoring the world around them. And no, I don't believe that an old cell phone that only makes and receives calls would qualify as "plain."

Our last trip was another jaunt to the Tellico River and Camping Area 1. The photographs at the top of this post are from that sojourn. The fat guy in the middle of his jump is me (I had not been off the falls since 1987), and The Boy is in the gray trunks, waiting his turn. I posted that photo on my Facebook wall, and there were several happy comments from people about days-gone-by. My buddy Winnie, on the other hand, pointed out repeatedly that drowning at Baby Falls was a distinct possibility. Now, we all know that, but we all also know that driving across railroad tracks while a train is bearing down is a poor choice -- a fact that had to be reinforced with Winnie a few years back.

The food was outstanding that day, because we purchased sandwiches from the Tellico Grains Bakery down in "town." The Boy and I both had roasted pecan chicken salad sandwiches, with grapes tossed in for fun. The Boss had a BBLT, which has smoked bacon on it, and the bite I wheedled out of her was good. For those who haven't visited Tellico Plains in years, there's also a Harley-Davidson dealer in a building that used to be a "Mom & Pop" grocery.

So far, the Tellico River has been our favorite spot. The water is cold, but not freezing. The numbers of bodies have been low-to-medium, the food has been outstanding, and Doris Daylily can walk around in the water without an unexpected sploosh.

Of course, I now have a job (temp-to-hire, through the Aerotek staffing company) that is straight days, in an actual laboratory, so we may have to adjust the way we do things. But employment is good, and I will adapt.

Dealing

2010-07-18T09:40:00.023-04:00

Currently, I am dealing with a few issues that have far-reaching implications -- well, in my life, anyway. I'll begin with my employment troubles.

I was "downsized" on 5/25/09 by Company A, exactly 27 years after I was hired by a previous incarnation of said company. I had begun in the receiving and warehouse department, moved on to one of the processes, then the lab, then back to another process, helped the company put down a union uprising in 1993 (an effort for which I will forever feel an enigmatic guilt), wrote the operation manual for one of the processes, went back to the lab several years ago, then got axed last year.

I have since worked off and on as a temp at Company B in Knoxville, where I have done a little of everything, including teaching some of the employees how to better watch after themselves (safety issues, or the lack thereof). I have also learned from the employees there, especially Jeff, Jerry and Mikey, the 13-year-old welder. But Company B is never going to hire me, because I cost too much.

Company C, for whom I would really like to work (it's only a 25-minute drive, and the pay is better than most, hereabouts), has -- thus far -- put me through their idiot testing and their group exercises, and I feel I did very well in both. My problem with Company C started when the Operations Coordinator called me for a telephone interview. I don't feel that the interview went well. Honestly, I was totally off my game, and was dealing with the fact that my first-born had moved out of my house only two days before, which tossed me for a bigger loop than I had expected. But I'm dealing with it.

I still have not received a rejection from Company C, so I hold out hope.

Company D granted me an interview after I had invested 36 hours and countless road mileage taking their "classes" (pronounced "indoctrination"). I felt that the interviews went fairly well, and believed that Company D would offer me a job, but was unsure of the money, as their pay scale is fairly low. My, how stupid I can be, sometimes.

I learned through a third party that one of the interviewers at Company D completely misinterpreted one of my attempts at humor. When she requested that I tell her a little about myself, I said "I have been married for 23 years to my 'trophy wife,' and we have two children." What the interviewer heard was, "I married my first wife, she produced me some kids, then I dumped her for a bracelet charm."

Let's get this cleared up, now. A looooong time ago, I was married for about four years. That union produced no children. I have not seen my first wife (for whom I have no negative energy) since 1986. My "trophy wife" and I have been married forever, and she is well aware that my first wife and I correspond on Facebook. She is fine with it, because there is no negative energy being produced.

I imagine that the interviewer for Company D may be the victim of an ugly split for a bracelet charm, and after the term "trophy wife" was introduced, she stopped listening. I probably can't afford to drive the distance for the remunerative compensation, but I want them to want to hire me. It's a principle thing.

Which brings me to Company E. Last week, I got a call from yet another temp agency, which provides labor with a certain degree of technical expertise for companies in the area. Company E needs an analytical chemist who has experience with liquid and gas chromatographs. Now, I did not attend an institute of higher learning for long enough to attain any kind of degree. But I have between eight and nine years of QA lab experience, and I was the only person in my lab who did not have a degree; yet I did the same work.

I believe I have convinced Company Es manager to give me a shot at this position through e-mail. And, apparently, I am much more eloquent with written words than with spoken ones, as I have demonstrated in the above text.

I always believed that I was as smooth with verbal communication as I was with written, but I am being forced to re-evaluate that judgment. Honestly, I have held my own in conversations with people of various backgrounds -- be they ditch-diggers or Doctors of Philosophy -- and I normally felt that I did okay. However, my recent struggles say otherwise, and I must learn to relax more, and think before I speak.

Let me also say this: I have been without a full-time job for nearly fourteen months, now -- but I'm dealing with it. It has been a struggle and we have adjusted things right, left, and up and down. Everyone in my house has done without many luxuries that we had learned to consider "normal." And yet, here is my trophy wife, who blames anyone but me for all of the problems we have experienced. She is hardly a simple bracelet charm, and I would challenge many life-mates to be as supportive as she has been for me in the last year.

Take that and grind it for brewing, Company D.

Contraband

2010-05-30T07:22:00.050-04:00

Back in February, my young bride took a cruise into the western Caribbean. This was arranged and remunerated by her sister, Amy, who wanted to take a vacation, but not alone. I have since pointed out to Amy that she has vacationed with her sister -- my wife -- several times over the years. She has also hosted both of my house apes at her home in Las Vegas, and arranged age-appropriate sight-seeing tours. At this writing, she is on Cozumel with her husband, who was unavailable for duty in February.

My point being that Amy has never offered to take me on vacation, and I'm waiting. Still waiting. I even suggested to her that the island of Tahiti sounds like a decent spot for relaxation and tropical beverages, because that's the type of helpful, informative person I am.

Anyway, the two girls departed from Miami on a Norwegian Cruise Lines ship -- the Dawn -- headed toward the islands in the Gulf Of Mexico. My young bride, a prolific writer of all things travel, when she but rarely is able, has -- no doubt -- penned a detailed account of her trip and stored it on our home computer. But, as I was unable to see and enjoy the western Caribbean, the details are unimportant to me, at best. I know that they ate well, swam with dolphins on Cozumel, shopped prolifically, and The Boss took a wine tasting class, where she learned that she really likes champagne; good information to have, if one is ever stuck in Paris with nothing to do.

The two important events from their trip through the "Pre-Horizon Disaster" Gulf are -- A. They returned safely; and 2. My young bride brought me a (contraband), from the Grand Caymans, as a souvenir.

Now, (contrabands) have been illegal in the United States to own and operate since 1963, although many a politician and wealthy businessman have both owned and operated them with impunity. I, personally, have been an operator of (non-contrabands) for about the last twelve years or so. This began when I discovered that a (non-contraband) shop had opened in Loudon, and it was in my path between work and home. I would stop in from time to time and select a (non-contraband) for enjoyment on my porch. I never operate a (contraband) in the house, due to the smelly left-overs.

Anyway, this continued until I discovered the Thompson (non-contraband) company, who sell legally obtained (non-contrabands) from Central America, storage units, and humidity-control paraphernalia. Since that time, I became a regular customer and get regular shipments of (non-contrabands).

However, I have had a couple of actual (contrabands) before, thanks to Amy's penchant for travel. She and her husband, Paul, vacationed a number of years ago in England, where (contrabands) are not illegal. She brought a couple of them home for me to try. One of them was a big ol' disappointment, but the other was the best (contraband) I had ever operated, at the time.

That, of course, is before my young bride took a trip to the western Caribbean, arranged and remunerated by... well, you understand. I suppose I owe half the thanks for my souvenir to Amy, without whom I would never have been able to try a (contraband), at all, in the first place.

Now, as I stated, the girls took their trip in February, which is still a cold month in Tennessee, despite the efforts of the human race to eliminate the ozone layer and Tropicalize the planet. Thus, my (contraband) went into my humidity-controlled storage unit, for use at a later date. That later date came last week.

It was the last week of May, and the weather was perfect for sitting on the porch, conversing with one's spouse (the one who had taken a cruise to the western Caribbean, arranged and... okay, I'll stop now), and operating a (contraband) for the pure enjoyment of it. As of now, this is the best (contraband) I have ever operated. Sleek, smooth and even in its aroma and overall flavor, it was a good experience from the time I began operating it, until I threw the leftover nub into the front yard (biodegradable, don't you know?)

Someday, perhaps, I will be gainfully employed again, and will be able to afford my own trip into the Caribbean islands, where I will purchase a (contraband) and enjoy it right on the spot. Someday.

Until then, Amy, the planes normally land in Papeété, and one can rent a car and drive anywhere on the island. The climate is temperate year 'round, and, barring monsoon season, I hear it's a great place to visit.

Stupid Advertising -- II

2010-05-11T06:51:00.051-04:00

Ever since the Hardee's folks got back to basics and started making Thickburgers, I have been an advocate of their products. When I grill burgers at home, they are never less than 0.5 pounds, unless requested, because I'm American, and I like to go overboard on food. The Hardee's ad geniuses, however, have started to lose me with a couple of their more recent campaigns, and I'm torn about continuing to support them verbally and monetarily.

Late last year, there was a TV ad that emerged, depicting a bunch of guys gathering to watch what was obviously meant to be a NASCAR race. These manly men sat about an apartment, studying the race on television and gigging each other about their favorite drivers. Toward the end of the ad, the apartment dweller exits his kitchen with a cookie sheet in hand and asks, "Anybody want a fresh-baked biscuit?"

Whereupon the other "real men" only study him as if he were a giant insect who had just stepped from a worm-hole in the space-time continuum, spouting the famous soliloquy from Macbeth. The omnipotent commercial-voice then says, "Guys don't bake," and they encourage everyone to rush to Hardee's for their delicious breakfast foods.

They lost me here. "Guys don't bake?" Since when? I bake! I bake biscuits! Then I make sausage gravy to slather over them and sit down to enjoy a fine breakfast, while many millions of folks make do with dry toast and tasteless coffee! My mother taught me to make drop biscuits (no measuring cups, mind you) when I was hanging out in the kitchen on summer mornings years ago, and the lesson took. It was years, and many times of failing before I finally was able to perfect the formula for sausage gravy. I consider this one of my great culinary triumphs. "Guys don't bake," indeed! And I could rant further, but let's move on to the second irritating advertisement.

This one depicts four "regular guys" sitting in a diner. Three of them have giant American sandwiches of one kind or another, while the fourth -- the odd man out -- has ordered the grilled cheese sandwich from the kids' menu. The hot waitress brings him a coloring book and crayons, and the ad makes a big deal of him drinking his juice from a tiny box while he munches his tiny sandwich. And his compatriots -- again -- study him with ludicrous curiosity, while the other hot chicks in the diner roll their eyes.

Then they push the new "grilled cheese" sandwich from Hardee's, which features a thick slab of beef, as well as a couple of slices of bacon. This sounds delicious, don't get me wrong; I have no problem with the product. But it's a bacon cheeseburger, not a grilled cheese sandwich. Am I missing something?

The point of these ads, of course, is to appeal to the testosterone-poisoning to which all men are prone. Their target-range, however, must not include guys in my age bracket, and this I do not understand. In general, we 50-ish guys have more money to burn than all those young, image-conscious types.

I was there once, you understand. In the early to mid-'80s, I owned and wore a white cotton sport coat with colorful T-shirts and khaki slacks. I had a pair of shades for which I had paid way too much to go with this ensemble, and I shaved infrequently at best. All of this in the ridiculous pursuit of trying to imitate Sonny Crockett, because I thought he was cool. So, yeah, I get it. But now I'm too old, grumpy and impatient to care. I also have an ugly tendency to do my own thinking.

If I were one of those "real men," sitting about the apartment and watching cars travel in a continuous left-turn circle, I would be on those biscuits like slime on a slug, asking, "Where's the butter and jelly? Got any honey?" If I were out with three friends (as if I had three friends who would bother to go eat with me), the last thing on my mind would be how they perceive my menu choices. I don't care what they think, which is what constitutes real man-ism, in my mind. If I wanted something to eat, but wasn't terribly hungry, a grilled cheese sandwich is a good option. I like grilled cheese sandwiches. If I want a bacon cheeseburger, that's what I'll get, but for God's sake call it what it is! Also, if the waitress were to bring me a coloring book and crayons, I would write, "Here's your tip," on the cover next to the nickel I left. I'm kind-a snarky that way.

When I'm hungry, image and cool will not fill my (larger than it used to be) stomach. And I want what I want; not what you want me to have. I'm odd and demanding that way, also.

An Ode To Confidentiality

2010-04-24T07:12:00.071-04:00

In late February, I believe it was the 22nd, my phone rang. That would be my archaic, touch-tone, caller-ID-infused, non-digital land line. The ID said that the pursuant party was from Company X, for whom I had worked last autumn as a temp. The person on the other end of the line was Steve, the facility manager. He asked me what I was up to, and I replied that I was currently out of work, and still seeking employment. The gist of his text was that James, one of the regulars, was going to be on jury duty for a couple of weeks, and they needed someone to be there to help Clint, his partner-in-crime. It was only a couple of weeks, but it was work -- that pays. Thus, on February 23rd, at 7:00 AM, I was back on the job for " a couple of weeks."

The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.

So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.

In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.

For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.

But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.

One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.

Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.

And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.

Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.

Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.

Anybody need a date?

Stupid Advertising -- I

2010-04-16T07:02:00.051-04:00

Before I begin, let me state that this will be my second effort at this post, as my fingers got twitchy yesterday and I deleted the original. That's what happens when a T-rex and his tiny upper appendages attempt to utilize modern technology. We also have real trouble with shoulder massages. However, let the reanimation commence.

My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.

A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.

Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.

Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.

First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.

Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.

Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.

After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.

"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."

At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"

Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.

Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.

Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.

Meeting New People

2010-03-21T10:18:00.049-04:00

One day last week, I was returning from my continuing job as a temp at the Emerachem company, and I got off I-75 at Sugar Limb Road so that I could stop by the Loudon County Justice Center. My goal was to obtain a burn permit, so that I can turn some dead, lackluster brush that is lying about into ash -- legally.

Several years ago, when Clint Davis lived next door, he was burning some residual brush when a Sheriff's deputy showed up and demanded that he cease and desist. Clint was somewhat perturbed -- but, having not obtained the proper permission from the proper authorities -- he was forced to comply. I do not want to get myself into that kind of situation. This comes from the gift of learning from the mistakes of others that I was completely without in my youth. Now, as a curmudgeonly Old Guy, I pay better attention and apply -- with malice aforethought -- what I have learned.

Thus, I walked blindly into the Justice Center. I first strolled to the bullet-resistant window at the General Sessions Court office, where there was a line of rather young women in front of me who all seemed to be acquainted. One of them would exchange words with the woman behind the glass. They would form a gridiron huddle to make a decision, then the designated representative would announce said decision to the county employee, who would tell them something else. It was like watching Peyton Manning argue with a referee, with his teammates providing cannon fodder. This went on for a few minutes, so I strolled to the other side of the building, and walked into another office, whose name I have forgotten, 'cuz I'm a Guy, and it was unimportant to me.

In the other office, a woman at a desk asked if she could help me. I replied that I hoped she could, and told her of my need for a burn permit. She informed me that I could not get that from anyone there, but that the person with whom she was speaking (sitting there in front of me) worked in the General Sessions Court office, and SHE could provide me with the appropriate phone number of the folks in control of that sort of thing.

So back to the General Sessions office I went, where the young woman wrote two numbers on a Post-It (TM) note and gave it to me. I thanked her for her aid, and headed back outside to my truck, where I SHOULD have gotten in and headed home (foreshadowing, don't you know).

As I inserted my key to unlock my door (yes, Ol' Red is THAT old), I heard a voice that had a distressed intonation attached. I turned, and saw yet another young woman -- across the parking lot -- standing next to a car. She looked straight at me and screamed, "Somebody please help me!"

I looked back into Ol' Red, with his comfortable gray, unraveling vinyl upholstery, sighed heavily, removed my key and began walking toward the girl, the entire time saying to myself, "You're about to get into some shit from which you may not be able to extricate yourself."

As I approached the car in question, the girl inserted herself into the rear seat and disappeared. When I arrived, she was lying face-down, obviously crying. Again, at this point, I could have exited, but my paternal instincts are ugly and strong. My thoughts were along the lines of, "What if this were one of my progeny, and no one stopped to help?" So, I tapped on the glass. She looked, sat up, and opened the door. I asked, "Is there something I can do to help you?"

And she started to talk. Words and sentences tumbled out of her mouth one over another, as if she were completely incapable of stopping, which is a possibility. Some things made a semblance of sense, some, not so much. I'm thinking, "She's high as a kite, and I'm the only person with a semi-clear head within reach." From her long jumble of words, I gathered the following:

She had left her car in the Justice Center parking lot. She got a ride from the person whose car she was currently in to recover said vehicle. Said vehicle was no longer in the Justice Center parking lot. She believed she knew who had it. She had provided sex for said car-thief. She lived in Tellico Village, and she was better than this. She wanted to know if I would take her to find her car.

The answer to that last question -- for those of you who don't really know me well -- was "No." In my head, I saw all of the ugly possibilities: she screams rape; we find her car and the gang of meth freaks around it; she pulls a (gun/knife), which I then have to shove down her throat, then justify said action to the authorities; she rubs all over me and I wreck my truck, then have to explain this to my young bride; etc. She repeatedly announced that she needed someone to help her, so I arrived at what I believed to be a workable solution. I ordered her to look at me; I pointed at the door only forty yards away, and said, "There is the Sheriff's Department. They can help you."

At this point, she started spewing random material again, the gist of which was, no one at the Sheriff's Department could help. She then shut the car door again. I was off the hook. I started back toward my good old, comfortable truck. Then the door opened again, and she said, "Maybe they can help me." So I went back, I positioned her toward the door, and said, "Go there."

She asked, "Will you go with me?"

Holy Jesus on a bicycle, riding backward down an interstate highway! What did I have to do to get away? But I said, "Yes," and she grabbed onto my right arm as if gravity had somehow doubled where she was standing. We walked, and she talked, non-stop.

I got her inside the door, where Sheriff Tim Guider was on his digital phone. The girl was still talking, and now gesticulating wildly. A woman who apparently works for the department came from behind her bullet-resistant glass to see is she could help. I explained as well as I could that I had found the damsel in the parking lot, and she was in some kind of distress. By the time I finished, Sheriff Guider had excused himself from his phone conversation to supervise the proceedings, thank God!

I got the girl into a seat, where she continued to talk, repeating herself vociferously. Sheriff Guider attempted to ask her a couple of questions, from which he received nothing of note or aid. At one point she said something that indicated that I was somehow involved in the trouble. For the record, I don't believe this was purposeful, it was simply more random talk bouncing from the inside of her head onto the walls around us.

The Sheriff turned to me and asked my name, which I provided, clearly and concisely. He then asked how I was involved. I explained that I was not involved; that I had found the young lady in question in his parking lot, clearly under some kind of strain. I was very careful not to imply or suggest any drug use; he's the Sheriff, it's likely he could figure that out without my help. He then turned to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "Young lady, do you know this gentleman?"

She, thank goodness, looked at me and said, "No." Whereupon Sheriff Guider turned to me; I said, "If you need my help, I'll stay and try to help. If you don't need my help, I'd be just as happy to leave." Good ol' Tim expressed his questionable thanks for my aid and said I could go, which was what I had been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes.

Ol' Red was waiting faithfully, with my iPod ready, and my cigar awaiting a re-light. Jackson Browne and I started up and headed for home.

Sometimes meeting new people isn't as productive, or as much fun as it should be.

Coaching Changes

2010-01-17T07:26:00.058-05:00

Okay, let's just go ahead and get this out of the way. All of the folks who are upset about Lane Kiffin bolting the University Of Tennessee for USC -- huh? Are you nuts!? Here are my varied and sundry thoughts on the matter.

When Mike Hamilton tossed Phillip Fulmer aside like a dirty dishrag, I was of two minds about the whole thing. John Majors, not my favorite head coach ever, had achieved, at UT, a record of 116-62-8, then had been thrown out in a like manner in 1992. And while I was not a big fan, this was a dirty way to treat a guy who had attended, played for, and coached the Vols. The funny thing is, this had to have been done with Fulmer's knowledge and endorsement, as he was the replacement-in-waiting.

That having been said, the same scenario sixteen years later doesn't correct the mistake, although Coach Majors probably saw it as a rather spooky comeuppance. Let's face it, I refuse to root for the Dallas Cowboys ever since Jerry Jones showed Tom Landry the door in a very similar fashion.

Thus, Doug Dickey was wrong to treat Majors as he did, and Mike Hamilton -- who should have learned from a poor example -- was also wrong. In the first place, Fulmer was and is (merely opinion, folks) a much better representative of the university, and extends a better public image. Also, at 152-52, he was a better coach, because he won more and lost fewer games. And he won a national championship at UT.

So, I did not endorse the firing of Coach Fulmer. But that did not cause me to be against Coach Kiffin when he was hired. Kiffin had been hired and fired by the ancient and demented Al Davis, the worst owner in the history of the NFL. The Oakland Raiders' bad-boy image is a direct extension of their owner thinking he's king of all he sees. Davis is a bully who hides behind his money, and that's the mentality he wants in his players. Of them all, Howie Long has escaped that image more quickly and efficiently than any. Most Raiders and ex-Raiders are of the same ilk as Lyle Alzedo, who broke rules regularly, depended on steroids to make him stronger and faster, then wanted sympathy when he came up with cancer due to his stupidity. I never root for the Raiders. I root for Dallas when the two teams are playing, because Jerry Jones is merely the 2nd worst owner in NFL history.

Therefore, the firing of Lane Kiffin by Davis was -- in my opinion -- a ringing endorsement. One of the contentious issues between Davis and Kiffin was Lane's attempt to fire Randy Hanson, an assistant who is, apparently, one of Al's lap dogs. This was brought to the fore when Hanson got his jaw broken because he couldn't shut his yap in the presence of Tom Cable, Kiffin's replacement. Cable handled Hanson less delicately than Kiffin, and I'm okay with that. If Davis gets rid of Cable, maybe UT should give him a look (that's a joke, folks).

So, I was not against the hiring of Kiffin, I was against the firing of Phillip Fulmer. I waited to see what Lane would do, though my young bride was against him from the start, just 'cuz she loves Fulmer and his public image, and he coached her sweetheart, Peyton Manning.

Lane-boy arrived in Knoxville, and the first thing he did was shoot off his half-cocked, adolescent mouth, trash-talking Urban Meyer and UF. All right, here's another thing we need to get out in front. I am a Florida fan. I root against them one game per year, and that's when they're playing UT. I root for them against UGA, and Alabama, and I was happy when they squashed Cincinnati and taught them a lesson about playing with the big boys.

But I wasn't upset about the WHOM, I was upset about the WHAT. Honestly, could he not do his talking on the field? Did Fulmer ever respond to Spurrier's jabs other than by coaching and playing the game? No! So, I wasn't happy with Kiffy, though I wouldn't go so far as to root against the team, as The Boss did. I even got tickets (through my brother-in-law, Paul Turner -- thanks again) to the South Carolina game last year, which was played on my birthday. Paul and I sat/stood in the rain for most of the game as UT thrashed a team that had been ranked in the top 25 only a couple of weeks before. It was glorious.

Here's what I predicted would happen after the first time Kiffy ran his stupid mouth. Over a few years, he would be exposed as the trash-talking, 13-year-old that he is, and UT trustees would call for his head. At that time, Hamilton would be let go, 'cuz he's a moron, and Fulmer -- who still hasn't taken another coaching position -- would be installed as AD, and he would hire David Cutcliffe to be head coach, who would re-hire John Chavis as defensive coordinator.

That was my prediction, and I was willing to wait it out. Then Pete Carroll left USC, and Los Angeles came calling on Coach Kiffy, and the dumb young people on campus gave the local news something to yak about for days on end. I contend that the frat boys were protesting simply because they didn't want Coach's hot wife to leave with him.

Hamilton (I still believe his hiring of Bruce Pearl to be an extremely happy accident), scrambled quickly, doing a very good impression of Johnathon Crompton exiting the pocket. Trustees were already beginning to situate themselves on Fulmer's doorstep, the AD job in their little paws, and Hamilton needed to find a receiver, fast. He looked to Texas for Will Muschamp, covered. He looked to Cutcliffe at Duke University, but ol' Davey is one of Phil's boys, and he waved Hamilton off. He even looked at Jon Gruden -- another former Raider coach, who had taken Tony Dungy's team in Tampa and won a Super Bowl, then began making them one of the worst franchises in the league. None of them bit.

So Derek Dooley wound up with the football. The Boss is all upset because she -- like everyone in Tuscaloosa before Saban showed up -- thinks we should hire someone with a history at UT. She was a history major, and I understand her position.

But, as I was willing to give Kiffy an opportunity, I am willing to give Coach Dooley an opportunity also. Coach could have attended the University of Georgia, where his father is a legend, and been assured of a place on the team. But he went to the University Of Virginia, where he walked on, and earned a scholarship with his play. I admire that mentality.

One of ESPN's Pat Forde's comments about Kiffy was that he "was born on third base, and acts like he hit a triple all the time." Mixed metaphors aside, Derek Dooley doesn't seem that way. From appearances, he hasn't tried to trade on his famous father's name to make it in coaching. The best thing we can do -- again, opinion -- is to sit back and see what he's made of, on and off the field.

He could begin by hiring John Chavis, who crafted the #3 defense in the NCAA in 2008, away from LSU. It would be a start.

Dealing With Traffic II

2009-12-12T08:24:00.030-05:00

Warning! The below was written when I was NOT in the Christmas spirit.

My young bride thinks I'm an odd duck. She is an introverted stage mistress who loves communicating with people as long as she doesn't have to face them. Stage acting and the internet (one again, thank you, Albert Gore Jr.) are the best things ever for her. She can bask in the adulation of an audience without having to actually speak to them directly, and she can communicate personally with people world-wide and never have to sit and drink coffee at The Brown Cup in Lenoir City with them.

I, on the other hand, am a semi-educated extrovert with a pretty good general knowledge of things historically and pop-culture-wise, and an opinion on just about everything. I have the ability to talk to just about anyone, from the intelligence-challenged to X Smith, PhD. I simply choose not to do so the bulk of the time. This is because -- based on my experience -- people are idiots. And many are narcissistic idiots who only ask one's opinion so one can agree with them.

Also, I do not totally absolve myself from this category, just so we're all clear on this. I have the capacity for self-centeredness just as any other person does. But I am aware of this, and do my utmost to keep in under control, along with my testosterone poisoning.

Another traffic example from my travels back and forth to West Knoxville for my job as an industrial temp: Recently, on a Sunday morning, I was making my way toward Emerachem for a day of labor. As I approached the Watt road exit from the west, there was an automobile coming up on me in the center lane, while I was in the right lane. There was no traffic of which one could have spoken. When I went beneath the underpass, I saw that a semi was making its way out toward the eastbound lane. Driving laws and common courtesy, at this point, direct that I make room for the truck to enter the roadway, so I engaged my signal and moved to the left. The car coming up on me was moving rapidly, but the driver had ample time to move into the far left lane, which was totally unoccupied.

Thus, the other car moved into the right lane to pass, causing the poor guy driving the truck (one can only hope that the car-driving donkey's Christmas present was on the truck, and is now sitting in a warehouse, lost to the point that delivery will be somewhere between never and 50 years from now) to have to slow his massive vehicle, then try to get back up to speed as he was climbing a hill.

I think most people are like Donkey-man. Of course, that's merely an opinion.

Thus, I will also give the next example, positing the questionable existence of good-will, and the concept of spreading it about.

On a recent trip to Bob's Package Store, to procure various and sundry bottles of ethanol as Christmas gifts, I was forced to position myself on Kingston Pike, in the middle of the holiday season, so I could then take my place on the interstate parking lot. I had moved from North Winston, and was behind a white Cadillac Escalade, the chosen SUV of the entitled, as far as I can tell. This is not to malign the folks who drive these vehicles because they enjoy them, it is merely an observation.

As traffic moved slowly toward Gallaher View Road, we found ourselves in front of a small strip mall -- behind a red light that was at least a quarter of a mile distant -- and Entitled Driver positioned his vehicle directly in front of the exit from the strip mall, which irritated myself and the young lady who was attempting to enter Kingston Pike from the strip mall lot.

The traffic light finally turned green, and -- ten minutes later, when the cars in front of me began to move -- I motioned the young lady to enter the Gordian Grid. She acknowledged my courtesy, and was then stuck with the rest of us. However, at the next opportunity, she allowed someone else to enter the trafficious puzzle. And that person passed the courtesy forward, and so on.

So, I could be wrong; perhaps the majority of people aren't idiots. I'll go into a holding pattern and wait to see.

El Magnifico

2009-11-08T10:48:00.042-05:00

My kitty-cat died recently. We had been owned by Hector since 2003, when he adopted us at Super Petz in Farragut. I don't really remember what stupid name he had been tagged with there, but when we started home with the 23-pound lug, I decided on the way that he would be "Hector," named for the heroic Trojan prince who sacrificed himself to give his stupid king an opportunity to out-maneuver the Greeks who held siege at the gates.

Yes, his sacrifice was in vain, but that does not -- in any way -- diminish the spirit in which it was made. It is theorized that our cat was at least part Snowshoe, which is some really hooty-tooty breed about which neither of us could have cared less. Hector was an extraordinary animal, damn the heritage, full speed ahead; and I loved him dearly.

When we took him home, he was about six years old. He was also without front claws. Now, I am against this practice in general. It's like sending a soldier to the front lines with a broomstick and telling him/her to point it and say, "Bang!" But clawless he was, so there would be no going outside for the big boat anchor. He used his litterbox just fine, but had some trouble with coverage. Many times, I heard him tugging at the sides of his box trying to cover his "business," and he never figured out why it was still there.

The title for this particular missive comes from the fact that, Woodrow, my brain-damaged son, one day -- in an Hispanic accent -- tagged him "Hector, The Magnifico." It suited him, so it stuck.

Now, many of you cat-lovers will be reluctant to believe what I am about to propose; but it is, nonetheless, true. Hector was less trouble -- as a pet -- than any animal my young bride or I had ever owned. He never created a fuss; he did not complain. When we brought a puppy into his home last year, he dealt with it by totally avoiding and ignoring the ridiculous little thing. By the time of Hector's passing, the puppy was almost as big as he was (Doris is a Welsh Corgi).

Over the years, Hector -- who was obese when we brought him home -- had lost down to about 17 pounds, practically svelte for his enormous frame. He was never unable to jump wherever he needed/wanted to be, and he did not eat as much as one would expect. Also, his taste ran to the inexpensive in food. He preferred Friskies dry cat food, which can be had for nearly nothing. This is more evidence of his perfection, and complete disdain for complexity.

Hector made regular visits to the veterinarian, where he always got a clean bill of health. We carried him there in his dog crate, because they never made a cat crate big enough for him. I still remember his first vet visit after he adopted us. We were actually heading to Walt Disney World not long after he came to us. When we dropped him off in his crate, the look on his kitty-face said clearly, "Great. Here we go again."

When we brought him back home after our return, he kept walking around the house, not quite able to believe he wasn't a victim of foreclosure. Before the dog came and he gave up his rights to the front of the house, he spent a good deal of time lazing about on the couch and in my leather recliner.

Many times, when I would go to bed at night, kitty would jump onto the bed and lay down behind my head, then give me a neck massage. I have no idea what pleasure he got from this, but it felt fine, and we both were happy.

In the mornings, he would always come to the kitchen while I prepared coffee, and tell me all of the assignments he had accomplished while I was laying about after my massage. Then he would sit on the floor by the computer desk, making himself available for petting while I checked ESPN and my mail.

A couple of weeks ago, I got up to get ready for work. Hector came and jumped onto the bed, where I petted him, and he purred at me. I went to start coffee, then went back into the bedroom for something (I still don't remember what). As I stepped around the bed, I trod on a soft object, and thought, "That feels like the cat. Can't be the cat, he would have jumped." So I turned on the light. Of course, it was El Magnifico.

I picked him up and tried desperately to talk him awake. When it became clear that he was not going to wake up -- ever -- I shook The Boss awake and told her the news. To her credit, she handled everything extremely well while I cried like a beauty contestant who just wants world peace. She also observed that in death, he was still Hector. No muss, no fuss; just a quick cardio stoppage, and done. I got myself cleaned up and headed to work, though I didn't really want to go.

I know it seems ridiculous, but Hector was -- truly -- one of a kind. I miss him terribly.

Dealing WIth Traffic

2009-10-11T07:32:00.029-04:00

I already realize that those of you who live and work in an urban setting are going to roll your eyes at my complaints in this post -- and I don't blame you -- but the current situation is fairly new to me, and this internet thing gives me an opportunity to vent. Thank God for Albert Gore, Jr. (snort)!

For the last sixteen years I have resided within just a few miles of my job. Really, it was to the point that going to work and putting in four hours, then going back home was no big deal. In light traffic, I could go from driveway to parking lot in ten minutes. In "heavy" traffic, it was a max of fifteen.

Now, however, after four months of unemployment and my acceptance of a temp job just to survive, I find myself driving daily to within a few miles of downtown Knoxville. According to Google Maps, it is 35.3 miles door to door. That translates to about 45 minutes in decent traffic. I have yet to experience an industrial strength tie-up on I-40/75, thank goodness.

But I have also discovered that I have fallen into a strange sort of driving pattern. When I am going to work, I keep my speed -- pretty much -- between 65 and 70 mph, and do little as far as lane-changes go, unless they are absolutely necessary. When I am on my way home, though, I am, apparently, in a God-awful hurry to get out of the Volunteer City.

I normally get on I-40/75 at the Papermill Drive ramp, because it is the closest one to Emerachem. This is one of those frustrating trafficious (I made that up) jigsaw puzzles that comes in two parts, with a cloverleaf involved. The first time one takes it, and one believes one is on the interstate, one discovers quickly that one must then enter traffic twice. For Country Bumpkins like myself, this can be overwhelmingly baffling the first time around, especially when one must deal with tentative drivers who don't have the first clue how to use an entrance ramp.

Please excuse me while I wipe away the sweat generated from simply thinking about the situation. I have driven -- periodically -- in heavy city traffic, in places like St. Louis, Atlanta and Miami. I just don't expect this kind of stupid abeyance close to home.

Anyway, I enter the Indianapolis Speedway at Papermill, and I immediately start moving left as quickly as I can go. This has its ups and downs, as I managed to lose the one side-view mirror that was on my truck years ago whilst driving in some woods. Honestly, there was a small pine sapling growing sideways in front of my truck on the trail. I was easing past it so I wouldn't damage the poor thing, and when it snapped back, my mirror went flying.

So, with a good deal of side-glancing, I move toward the far left lane, weaving as necessary, clutching, shifting, and punching the accelerator with authority. When I hit 70 mph, I ease up a bit and allow those moving faster to go past me as I am able. But I sit between 70 and 75 (barring one of those inexplicable slow-downs, which I have experienced a few times) all the way to the Watt Road exit, after which, having shed the traffic headed toward Nashville, I can relax enough to slow down to the actual speed limit, which is 65 mph.

And there I stay all the way to Philadelphiaburgh, excepting the necessity to stop off for something in Lenoir City or Loudon, which I do as little as possible. It would seem to be a convenience to have all of these opportunities to snag needed items on my way home, but I hate stopping. I really want to get home after a day at work.

Some of the guys at Emerachem talk about going to a place called Ray's, near West Town Mall. While I'm certain this could be fun, I just don't see me going there without benefit of a shower after work, and I'm too lazy and cheap to go home, then turn around and head right back into the fray. Also, I haven't hung out in bars for so long, I wouldn't know what's what.

And, there I'd be, driving home afterward in the same damn traffic I deal with daily. Nah, not for me.

I have counted the exits I pass, and they are a paltry ten in number. Including my entrance and exit, we're talking about a total of a dozen exits between here and there. I feel stupid whining about it, 'cuz at least I have a job for now. Also, too (the Department of Redundancy Department sends greetings), I have the advantage of Papermill Drive being the Knoxville location of McKay Used Books and Cds, which everyone in the family loves. I often stop by after work to hunt my Young Bride's white whale -- "Dodgeball" -- in widescreen on DVD.

I have told her repeatedly that she can get a used copy from Amazon for a few dollars, but it has now become a challenge to find the movie at McKay, and she'll do it or go down on the Pequod, cursing Hollywood and Vince Vaughn. Ahab lives.

So, for now, I'll navigate traffic as I must, and try to see the positives as I am able. It's still better than unemployment, no matter what the traffic is like.

Employment Is Good

2009-09-26T08:28:00.022-04:00

I got a job this week, and proved that I was right -- an extra bonus. I have said since I got canned at Ye Olde Tate & Lyle that if I could only get someone to interview me, I would find employment. I realize that sounds a bit egotistical and crass, but -- just the facts, ma'am -- I interview well.

I had sent an application and résumé in response to a HotJobs online advertisement for a chemical analyst to a site called ResourceMFG. Turns out ResourceMFG is a temp service that supplies people -- like myself -- who have industrial experience of various degrees to companies far and wide. Therefore, I am now a temp. I already hate myself. Everyone hates temps.

Also, where I am working, I am the new guy; so I doubly hate myself.

Some background: I had my last job for 27 years. When I met new technicians, I would shake their hands warmly, apologize and tell them, "It's not your fault, but I hate you." I would then explain that I hate all new people, because the new guys' main job is to complicate life for me and my co-workers. I would further elucidate that -- in 1982, when I was a new guy -- I hated myself. Most understood.

Anyhoo, I got the call from ResourceMFG telling me about the opportunity, and asking if I could interview Wednesday, 9/23 at 9:00 AM. I did just that, and Wednesday afternoon the temp agent called and said, "He wants you there at 7:00 AM tomorrow. I told him you hadn't taken your drug screen yet, but he said, 'I don't care, have him here in the morning,' are you okay with that?"

Duh.

So I got this temp job at a place called Emerachem. They manufacture industrial application catalytic convertors that turn carbon monoxide emissions into CO2 and steam; a very GREEN sort of thing to do. They have a huge contract for some power generation place in California, and they are hiring temps to help get the work done in the contracted amount of time. Therefore, I have employment until at least January 2010.

The work is not difficult. There's some chemical mixing, fork truck driving (probably my greatest skill for them is my ability to operate a fork truck in tight spaces), and assembly line-type work. Admittedly, it's not a QA laboratory, but it IS a damn job. I'd rather work forty hours for twice my unemployment check than sit on my dead ass and get gum'mint pay -- anytime.

I now have to get all of my medical junk straightened out (passed the drug screen Friday afternoon -- although there probably was some Kentucky bourbon in there), but that's another problem for another day.

Employment is good.

The Georgia Alps

2009-09-06T08:51:00.077-04:00

Last week, the family all mounted our communal automobile and spent a couple of days in the Georgia Appalachians. This began as a request from my young bride, who has dealt rather well with my obsession with the salt waters of the earth for the past 22 years. Our normal vacation spots have been Walt Disney World and Edisto Beach, South Carolina. But since I currently have no job, and we have little cash to spare, a true vacation was pretty much out of the picture for this year.

A few weeks ago, The Boss said we should run down to Helen, Georgia and spend a night, then kill a day seeing the sights in and around town. If you have never been to Helen, it is a smallish tourist spot that was experiencing a slow and painful death until the late 1960s, when the town deciders opted to put some Bavarian cosmetics on the tiny burgh and remake it into a sort of false-front Alpine resort. The efforts paid off, and during the summers and Oktoberfest, it is a busy place full of people from foreign lands like New Hampshire and Oklahoma, who come to eat German delicacies such as Wienerschnitzel, and drink lots of beer.

Historically speaking, my young bride had spent her childhood summers on Lake Burton, near the town, attending Camp Cherokee For Girls (notice that there is no attached link; that's because the camp doesn't exist anymore). She made many friends there, up to and including Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls. I, on the other hand, visited Helen once in Oktober of 1982, where I first discovered Beck's Beer, the best mass-produced beverage on the planet.

We began our trip down by cutting through Cleveland, TN and hitting US 64. We stopped for lunch at a Subway between Cleveland and Benton, and bought the only gas we required for the entire journey (have I bragged about my hybrid lately?) at the attached fuel emporium. We then wound our way up the Ocoee River, stopping at one point near the dam just to browse and relax for a spell. We then went through Copper Basin, which is still recovering from the sulfuric acid poisoning of the old mining operation, then slowly made our way through northeast Georgia until we came to Helen.

Luckily, The Boss had done some research before she planned the trip, and found an inexpensive place for us to sleep. The Quality Inn, on Yonah Street, snuck up on me such that I passed it and two more streets before I could turn back. But I finally found the parking lot, and we got checked in. Before I forget to mention it, I'll add now that we took The Boss's puppy, Doris Daylily, our Welsh Corgi. While she can be a handful sometimes, she is a sweet dog, and the motel is pet friendly. The people who work there were all very homey, and they -- to a person -- went on over the dog, and rubbed her tummy to make her feel special.

We got our bags unloaded, and I got settled in to watch the Bones re-runs on USA. Afterward, we walked about and found where we would eat dinner. The Café International serves a variety of foods, but mostly it's Bavarian fare with outdoor seating. This is my favorite eatery in Helen, although there are better places. I enjoy the dining over the Chatahoochee River, and the general atmosphere. I had the Wurst Platter that evening, with knockwurst, bauernwurst, and German potato salad. My young bride found the potato salad too vinegary, but I really liked mine. If it weren't for acetic acid and cayenne pepper, I'd probably stop eating.

After dinner, we walked for a bit, though most of the stores were closed. I also visited the local grocer, Betty's IGA, which was right next door to our motel. There I found some ear plugs which, after years of working swing shift and sleeping during the daylight hours, I now require just to feel comfortable enough to sleep at all.

The next morning, the first thing I discovered was that a major event had taken place in the space/time continuum. My young bride was already awake, and had taken the puppy for her morning walk. This is not so much abnormal as it is freaky; I kept waiting for Herr Einstein to show up, strolling upside down along the ceiling, counting the black holes in the universe while humming Rocky Top. But I recovered, took a shower, and partook of the Continental Breakfast that was available at no charge in the Motel lobby.

The breakfast was better than many. There were individually packaged Lender's Bagels, as well as fruit danishes, bear claws, various cereals, margarine, cream cheese, a microwave and a toaster. I didn't know where to start. But again, I recovered, and chose a bagel and some microwavable oatmeal. I took my selections back to my room where we had a microwave also, and The Boss had brought our personal coffee maker so we could have our Coffee AM Kenya AA.

After that I took Doris for another walk, The Boy and Emily explored, and The Boss planned our day; our first move was to book another night at the motel, for which I had been lobbying since we had discovered that the word Quality in the title was not wasted.

We then headed for The Old Sautee Store, which appears to have been there since man has walked upright. My young bride had me purchase some Swedish Hushallsost Farmer Cheese with flat bread to accompany it. The cheese went into the cooler which had conveniently found its way into our trunk. There is a small sandwich shop next door that advertised frozen cider, of which I took note.

Our next leg was to head toward Lake Burton and the former site of the revered Camp Cherokees For Boys and Girls. The Boss drove around the area, lamenting the loss of such quality entertainment and education for young people. I'm fairly certain one cannot experience the same lessons via XBox 360 or PS3. There is now a collection of McMansions along the shore of Lake Burton where the boys camp used to be.

Money talks. I'm not against the concept, but sometimes the spirit is applied poorly.

We next headed up to Wildcat Creek to take a gander at what was always called "sliding rock" by the campers. This is a small falls area on the creek, with a place that serves as a perfect water slide (about an eight foot drop) from the upper area into a deep pool below. We were going to slide there, but there were a couple of gentlemen fishing, and it was a tad chillier than we had anticipated. We walked about, however, and Doris enjoyed smelling everything up and down the dirt road along the creek.

Our next stop was an old pottery vendor. The Boss says that for her mother, The Old Sautee Store was an absolute when she was in the area; for Amos, it was Mark Of The Potter. The shop is on the banks of the Soque River, where gigantic trout hang out to be fed at $0.25 per handful, and the owners don't allow anyone to fish for the piggish icthians. We admired some of the wares (I, especially, am taken with pottery mixing bowls, of which I have many, acquired through years of hanging out at yard sales and flea markets), and I eventually bought a new butter bell for our kitchen, which is a good deal larger and prettier than the old one. It will hold a whole stick of our creamy, unsalted butter.

After that visit, we made our way back to Helen, where we ate lunch at the Hofer Café and Bakery, which smells like Heaven ought'a. I had the Schnitzel Delight, a breaded pork cutlet, fried and served with Hofer German potato salad and steamed broccoli. -- and a Beck's beer, natch.

After lunch The Boss and I napped while my children did whatever it is they do these days. When we had recovered from our morning activities, we walked up into town again and bought some fudge at the Hansel And Gretel Candy Kitchen. I tried some immediately and found it to be fairly good, especially the plain chocolate. We walked about some more, looking at all the shops that were totally uninteresting. I postulated to my young bride that -- if I were a photographer -- I would have a tintype shop with Heidi costumes and lederhosen instead of all the cowboy fare that has nothing to do with the Alpine part of the world.

We decided to try dinner that evening at The Farmer's Market Café, which promised traditional southern foods. They were right, and we ain't talkin' Cracker Barrel, neither. I had a homemade chicken pot pie, the crust of which was flaky and crisp. The go-withs were fried okra and fried green tomatoes, and both were very good. Our waitress was attentive without being bothersome, and I had absolutely no room for dessert. After returning to our motel, I fell asleep very early.

The next morning I had another bagel along with blueberry muffins from the continental fare. After gadding about the downtown area some more, we got checked out of our quarters and headed for the Anna Ruby Falls trail. This is a short 0.4 mile hike to the waters that form Smith Creek in the Unicoi State Park on Trey mountain. Smith creek comes forth at the falls where Curtis Creek -- a 153 foot drop -- and York Creek -- a 50 foot drop, join together. It is not a difficult hike at all, and the weather was cool and pleasant. Doris seemed to enjoy her part of the activities, which consisted of keeping her nose glued to the Earth so she could smell all of the dogs, 'coons, and other critters that had recently passed by.

After our morning hike, we found our way back to The Old Sautee Store. The Boss had them play the Nickelodeon for us, and a woman at the "jewelry" counter nearly drove her to distraction with her prattling. I, personally, took the opportunity to acquire one of the frozen ciders at the market next door. It was a muscadine combo of some kind and was delicious and refreshing. I sat on the porch with Doris Daylily, lording it over the rest of the planet until time for lunch.

We inquired at the Hofer Café about sitting outdoors so that we could have the dog accompany us. They were very accomodating, and took our order, then knocked on the front window when it was ready. This time I had a Brat on a bun, with brown mustard and sauerkraut, the way God intended Bratwurst to be eaten. I highly recommend this place to folks who visit.

After lunch, everyone walked about town some more, though we had seen everything more than once. Honestly -- speaking for myself -- there's not a lot to do in Helen, other than eat. For entertainment, I recommend getting out of town. Most of the shops are T-shirt and hat vendors, and, let's face it, it's not really Germany, after all. I enjoyed the trip, but mostly because The Boss knew where to go and what to do.

And now we're home, and I'm back to the reality of unemployment and looking for anyone who might hire a person of my background and temperamental nature. But yes, it was good to get away for a few days. I am refreshed, and less negative in my outlook. I think it was the beer.

Public Service

2009-08-15T09:54:00.063-04:00

For any who are unaware, my favorite radio station on the planet is WUOT. They are the NPR affiliate that is associated with the University of Tennessee. There are a number of reasons why I enjoy them so much, but I'll only list a few here:

They play classical music, which, while I know little about it, I still enjoy.
I like the hosts, my favorite of whom is Chrissy Keuper, the host of Morning Edition. She has a very soothing tone, and helps me relax, even during world crises.
I am afforded the opportunity, at least twice a year, to hang out at the station during the fund drives. The food is excellent, and the company better, while the conversation subject matter can range from Keirkegaard to Pamela Anderson, and all places in between.
For some inexplicable reason, they seem to appreciate my rather meager efforts on their behalf.

WUOT will be celebrating its 60th anniversary this year, and to celebrate, they are holding an open house on Tuesday, August 18th. To aid in preparation, I sojourned to the the station a couple of days ago to perform slave duty for Lisa Beckman, the Membership Coordinator (which is business-ese for "the one who deals with the unemployed nuts who want to help"). Most of the labor was of the manual variety, with which I am uncannily familiar.

When I first arrived, I fully intended to store my truck -- for the duration -- in Circle Park Drive. What I should have done was tell the attendant that I would be going to the McClung Museum, so that he would provide me a two hour pass. Being a guy, however, I'm not gifted with that kind of foresight. When I arrived at Circle Park, the conversation went thusly:

Me: "I'm going to WUOT to work for a couple of hours. Can I get a two hour pass?"

Attendant: "I can only give you a 45-minute pass."

Me: "What if I tell you I'm going to the museum?"

Attendant: "But you're not."

There were a few more limited sentences, but I could see that the young man took his job much more seriously than I, so I accepted the 45-minute pass, and resolved to move my truck every hour or so.

When I first arrived in the station proper, Lisa wasn't quite prepared, which I attribute to two phenomena: I was a tad early; and, she's probably used to being stiffed by volunteers who make empty promises. After it was established that I was on site and ready for work, she got her station map, and dragged me back, forth, east and west, moving and hefting.

As a guy, I expected to perform most of the actual labor, 'cuz, hey, I'm a guy. But every time I turned my back, Lisa was lifting and moving things that were bigger than she is. At one point, we had moved some new, as yet uninstalled, electronic equipment into a particular spot, and cousin David Williamson (his mother -- of Irish heritage -- was burdened with the maiden name "Loftis") expressed -- rather sternly -- that the servers would have to be moved into an area under lock and key. I believe he would have preferred an armed guard, also, except he's one of those left-wing-lunatic-anti-gun-nuts.

I razzed L'il Davey some about his serious attitude, then later, I thought, "You shouldn't have been such a derriere; he's just trying to protect a rather significant investment." So I stopped in his cubbyhole to express my understanding about the fact that, at some point, somebody always has to be the hardass. David began to explain his position, whereupon I elucidated, telling him that there was no need for him to explain; he was, obviously, just doing his job.

He looked a little puzzled, and I wondered if he had ever had a volunteer who expressed the understanding that business is business.

After the second time that I had to go move my truck, Lisa suggested that I park it in the staff parking lot behind the Communications Building. Since it was already 4:30 PM, and it is legal for me to be there after 5:00 PM, I took her suggestion -- more on that later.

After a while, I told Lisa that I needed to check my blood glucose level. I'm still acclimating to having an insulin pump, and sometimes I don't do things the right way. I was perspiring too much for the work I was doing, and I was more fatigued than was warranted. So my blood sugar was -- um -- low, and I inquired with Louise Higman about the nearest drink machine, to which she directed me with unerring efficiency.

I sat in Cindy Hassil's office, drinking my Coke while the three of us passed the time. After several minutes, I felt back to normal, and Lisa and I began generating more perspiration. At some point, we began hanging signs that set newbies in the proper direction, and told people not to eat and drink in the control areas. Now, Lisa is a little -- how shall I say this -- particular. She was attempting to hang signs from the suspended ceiling using only 8 1/2 X 11 sheets of copy paper and Scotch tape. And she wanted them to be perfectly straight. Girls are funny, aren't they?

She would stand on a chair to adjust a sign, hop down and eyeball it from ten feet. Back up into the chair; down; eyeball, repeat.

After another little while, all the tables that could be moved had been, all the signs that could be hung were, and we had rolled a grand piano across the performance studio and into a corner out of the way. Also, David, if you read this, the servers are locked in Dan's office.

Lisa expressed her appreciation for the minimal work I had performed, and sent me on my way. When I got back to my truck, which was now in the staff parking lot, I found a ticket from my favorite law enforcement officers, the UT cops. It was generated at 17:01, which, for the uninitiated, is 5:01 PM.

It is legal to park there after 17:00, and the ticket said 17:01. Hmmmmm. So I did what I normally do with them. I wadded it up and threw it into the nearest trash receptacle. What are they gonna do, come to Philadelphia and impound my truck? They haven't yet.

I was glad for this opportunity, because, though I have conquered a number of tasks here at home over the last few weeks, helping someone else gives me a different sense of accomplishment; more satisfying somehow. And it makes me feel useful again, which is different.

Safety First

2009-08-10T08:37:00.081-04:00

I have to get a job. Soon. If not, I will have to shoot myself in the foot to keep from doing things around the house.

I am a notoriously bad handyman. In the last couple of weeks, however, I have replaced our bathroom vent fan, put a new motor on the air conditioner fan (had to re-wire it -- not too sharp with electricity, it scares me; more on that later), and installed a new microwave above the stove.

The really frightening part is, all of these jobs were completed with relative success. The vent fan is obnoxiously efficient, the air conditioner works as well as it is going to in this heat, and the microwave is still on the wall -- and operating.

I started with the vent fan. I figured, "If I bugger this simple job up, that will keep me from doing anything else. Safety first."

I found the breaker for the bathroom fan and light switches, which are on the same circuit. Got that turned off. Then I started trying to take the back of the fan off the wall in the back hallway. This is not correct procedure, but at least I learned something. After several minutes of not being able to budge the fan housing, I decided to try from the vent side.

Enter Mr. Flashlight, because the breaker for the bathroom light was turned off. I took the vent cover off, which I had done before for cleaning purposes. Enter my stupidity (with all these entrances, the bathroom was starting to get crowded). The fan was right there in front of me, had I ever bothered to pay any attention all the times I had cleaned the vent cover. And it was plugged into an outlet!

So I unplugged the fan and turned the breaker back on so people could see to pee. I then removed the two screws that held the fan and motor in place, and -- voila. Being experienced in things like this, I patiently waited for the roof to collapse, as the removal had been much too simple.

Then off The Boy and I go to Home Depot. I do not prefer one over the other when it comes to Home Depot vs. Lowe's, but for me, Home Depot is closer. I took The Boy with me because we had been there recently and researched the whole vent fan issue, and I was hoping that he would remember anything I had forgotten. As it turns out, this was a pretty good move.

We walk into the store, and I head for the area where I believed we had looked at fans. When I looked back to find The Boy, he asked, "Where are you going?" I replied that I was trying to find the vent fans that we had perused recently. He then said, "They're in the back of the store."

He showed me where I needed to be, and we began the search in earnest. The big thing, of course, was making certain that the wattage and voltage were of equal value. So I found one that was $14.99, and while checking the details on the sticker, I noticed that it said 50 cfm, as did the old one that resided in my hand. Now, I'm not a genius, but I figured out very quickly that "cfm" does not mean "coffee for me." It actually means "cubic feet per minute," which is the amount of air that the fan can move.

So I checked one that was $24.99. Its sticker said 70 cfm. I knew for a fact that the vent fan that had punked out sometimes had difficulty keeping the bathroom clear of the fog generated by a hot shower, especially in winter. So for $10 more I got a fan with the same motor, but a bigger blade.

Next we went through self check-out (which sounds eerily narcissistic), then stopped by the Brown Cup Coffee Company so The Boy could have some Chai, and I could have a double espresso (I'm a 2 cfm guy, at best). Then back home we went, where The Boy installed the new fan, which runs like a champ (and with me giving instructions, The Boy, Mr. Flashlight and my stupidity, it was starting to feel like a meeting in a phone booth -- young people, ask your parents about those). And there is no residual mist in the air after a shower; and the breaker didn't give out from the bigger fan; and the roof didn't collapse.

So my next project was the air conditioner fan motor. This is the motor that pushes air into the house, draws it out of the house, and recycles it to make it a more efficient system. And if we didn't have a POS Rheem air conditioner/heater, this would probably work okay.

Mr. Wilkerson, who installed the unit, has been to my house no fewer than three times every summer since the Rheem was installed (a new gas heat unit, about a year before 9/11; $$$$$$$). He has been here often enough that I have learned how to do a number of things myself to keep the thing running. Earlier in the summer, I replaced the fan rotor, which moves the air. This involves removing the entire unit, taking the fan apart, installing the new blade, then reversing the removal. The old motor had wires that plugged into it, then ran hither and yon through the space/time continuum, moving electrons back and forth. All one had to do was write down the order in which the wires were plugged, left to right. "Easy, peasy," as Sam Axe would say.

A week after the motor quit -- and two different suppliers later -- I went to Mr. Wilkerson's shop, and there was a new motor. There was no plug unit on it, and it had loose wires running everywhere. So I got a lesson in electric motor wiring, and brought the new beast home. Now, Mr. Wilkerson made the wiring sound easy, but that's with his 50+ years of experience. As mentioned before, I am afraid of electricity, and avoid it when possible, other than turning switches on and off.

But somebody had to do it; Four of the wires that were pointed out were actually plugged into one another. Part of the lesson was thus: this motor is reversible; if it rotates the wrong way when first started, plug the wires in the opposite way. So I put the fan back together, new motor ready to go; then it started raining -- check that -- pouring. This summer shower was similar to the ones they get in central Florida. It rains buckets for about twenty minutes, then the sun comes out, and everyone gets a steam bath.

So, with water vapor going up and sweat pouring down, I went through at least three telephone inquiries to poor Mr. Wilkerson, several tiny screws, six or seven wire nuts of various sizes, and a number of colorful phrases learned over years in industry. I then crossed every phalangial digit available, plugged the breaker back in (which, yes, had been removed -- safety first), and the fan started to rotate in the correct direction. I couldn't believe it. By the next morning, the heat was nearly back to the bearable stage, and the air was way less humid throughout the house.

And the roof didn't collapse. Therefore, after about a week's rest, I decided to install the microwave that had been sitting here for a year, with me waiting for it to magically leap onto the wall above the stove.

Removing the old microwave turned out to be a breeze, comparatively speaking. After some close and rather uncomfortable inspection, I discovered the method used for holding it up (not including the twenty years of cooking oil, which had hardened to epoxy-like consistency). Then, The Boy found a schematic which clearly stated that yes, these two giant screws are your gravity-denial system. A screwdriver, however, did not do the trick (did I mention it had been there for twenty years?).

I then employed my small Robo-Grip pliers to loosen the screws, and The Boy removed them while I held onto the oven. When they were out, it only took a shake and a rattle to get the thing loose, and it was down. It has since been taken to the recycle center, where, hopefully, some of its parts can be used in service 'bots of the future, who will eventually rebel, and Neo and Morpheus will have purpose in their lives.

I looked over the installation manual for the new unit, and discovered that the vent fan needed to be removed and redirected, such that the air blew out the top. This had never been done on the old microwave, 'cuz the previous homeowner is lazier and more useless, even, than myself.

I won't bore you with a lot of detail, but installing the new oven was not simple. Better planning would have made it so, but that's for smarter people than I. I will simply relate that I was required to drill six holes -- according to the instructions, which I followed. Luckily, I only had to double that number to get the holes where they were needed (note to manufacturer: a template for the two suspension screws in the top would be a great help).

After hours, loads of sweating, and The Boy learning a couple of my colorful industrial phrases, I plugged the stupid thing in and turned on the vent fan, which blew out the top, as it was meant to do. I then turned on the lights, which burned dim and bright. Lastly, I put a cup of water inside the oven, and started it. It ran, and the turntable rotated.

And the roof didn't collapse; so I had a drink.

As a postscript, I will state that -- in the middle of the first night, apparently -- the vent fan developed a rattle. When I was made aware of it, I pondered, off and on, the trouble of removing the oven and the fan for the simple purpose of discovering the origination of the irritating noise.

I had not gotten around to acting on these thoughts, when, a few days later, potatoes were being boiled on the stove, and I turned on the vent to keep moisture from collecting above the pot. The rattle started, then stopped, and I had a small piece of white plastic on the front of my shirt. I should have saved it for framing, because it is trouble like that which will keep me from doing things for which I am -- ultimately -- unqualified.

Safety first. I don't want the roof to collapse on anyone's head.

A Golf Lesson

2009-08-01T14:12:00.026-04:00

My continuing education hit a nasty "S" in the learning curve last week. Now that I am unemployed, my son (who will, hereafter, be referred to as "The Boy") has taken a more than casual interest in golf. For those of you who are unaware, golf can be an expensive hobby, like photography with Haaselblad cameras, or collecting Fabergé eggs.

Then there is my approach to the game. I bought a used set of clubs in 1988. For the clubs and bag, I paid $100. The woods were actual persimmon, and had been lovingly used for a number of years by the former football coach at Loudon High, the late Henry Blackburn. Around 2003, a co-worker ran into a deal on some new Northwestern clubs in Etowah, TN. So I bought that set for $100, and I'm still using Henry's old bag. The course I normally play costs $30 for eighteen holes (that's cheap for golf), which I never play. I am a "nine and done" golfer, especially in the heat.

I also have a sort of Zen method of playing golf. For years, at my former place of employment, every time a golf tournament came up, someone would ask me if I planned to play. My reply was always: "Nobody wants to play tournament golf with me." The inquirer would then make an assumption, and ask: "Are you that good?"

Whereupon I would reply, "No, I simply don't care who wins; and people who play tournaments are competitive, whereas I am not."

The rules I follow while playing are fairly simple:

While it is okay to celebrate a good shot, never bother being upset over a bad one. These come much more frequently, and are to be accepted.
I am not now, nor will I ever be a professional golfer. Therefore I don't have to follow PGA rules. If my ball is lying in rocks, I can damn well kick it into the grass if I please. I am also one of those guys who will dig my ball out of the deep rough and "tee it up" on a patch of sturdy Johnson grass.
Never keep score.
I paid the greens fee, I will watch the ball go into the cup.
If I am alone, and the course is not mobbed, I walk.

Yeah, and walking and my ego are what recently got me into that learning curve problem.

There is an annual amateur golf tournament called the Women's Trans National Golf Championship that recently celebrated its 79th anniversary right here in East Tennessee. The 2009 WTNGC was played at the Tennessee National Golf Club in Loudon, TN on a course designed by none other than Greg Norman, my favorite player from my generation of professional golfers.

I used to watch in agony every year as The Great White Shark would make his charge on Friday or Saturday at August National, only to melt down in some new and creative way -- annually -- on Sunday afternoon at The Masters Championship. He never won The Masters, and, as a fan, it is one of my greatest regrets.

So on Friday, July 24th, The Boy and I wandered through the mostly empty Tennessee National residential area, where it is approximately $100,000 just to acquire a section of grass on which one can put a caddyshack of minimal proportions ("which I am certain is regulated by a board of directors," he observed haughtily). We stopped at the guardhouse at the golf course area, announced our intentions to watch the ladies play, and were given directions to the clubhouse -- very courteously, I might add.

First, let me say that the golf course itself is a work of art. The layout is well done, the fairways pristine, and the bunkers are a mix of your standard American monsters, with a few decidedly European-looking beachheads having a good deal of depth to them. The Boy couldn't stop talking about how pretty the course is, and the way Watts Bar Lake and its inlets are worked into and out of the rolling landscape. As a confirmed cheapskate golfer, I'm not even used to having bunkers with sand in them, much less ones that are perfectly laid, manicured, and maintained.

The tournament is match-play, such that every day players went head to head and were eliminated according to who won the round. By the time we arrived on Friday afternoon, only four players were left. We followed the pairing of Stacey Keating -- a young Australian who is at least 5'10" based on the fact that she was looking down at me when we shook hands -- and a teenager who just finished her freshman year at Wake Forest who goes by the name Cheyenne Woods (she has a famous golf-playing uncle of whom you may have heard).

Watching those girls play was truly a revelation. I watch a lot of golf on television, but being able to see their steady, even swings and watching the balls fly straight, true, and land nearly every time in the fairways and on the greens was awe-inspiring. I believe Ms. Keating missed one fairway in eighteen holes, and Ms. Woods missed three. And we're talking about missing by a couple of feet, not digging through poison-ivy, missed-the-fairway efforts such as yours truly consistently concocts.

By the way, for you guys who are wondering, they weren't hard to look at, either. Both were very attractive young ladies who conducted themselves admirably all day.

Now, let's get to the part where I feel superior -- as we unemployed, blue-collar types are wont to do. When The Boy and I first began our tour of the grounds, there were eight people in four carts following the action, and the two of us were walking. After a while, there were another couple of folks who were also walking and a few more carts. By the time the match finished, there were at least ten carts of people following the action.

The Boy and I walked the whole way, and I -- as mentioned above -- felt entirely above all the people in their electric transports. Taking into account that I had minor surgery on my left foot only a couple of months ago, I felt justified in my aforementioned haughtiness.

However...

Later in the evening, hours after returning home, I started to get out of my recliner. That was when the feeling of superiority was replaced by a burning pain in my feet. Eighteen holes is a lot of golf course to walk, even if you aren't swinging a club, and my lazy, unemployed extremities were now paying the price for my earlier determination and over-aggressive ego.

But you know what? It was totally worth the discomfort. The Boy got to watch some superior golf; we both congratulated the young players (Ms. Keating won the match 2-up), and it was a day spent outdoors without either of us doing a lick of actual work.

Everyone at the clubhouse was courteous and helpful, all of our questions were answered and when we bought a couple of Cokes at the bar after the match, they cost $2 -- total. This, of course, appealed to the cheapskate in me.

On the way home, I asked The Boy if he had noticed young Ms. Woods' diamond nose-stud, and his reply was, "Huh? No, I was looking at her eyes. They were really pretty."

Uh-huh.

The Eyes Have Had It

2009-07-17T06:07:00.018-04:00

7/17/09

I will be forty-nine years old in October. Soon I will be so old that I'll begin typing the number instead of the word, because it takes less effort. At forty-nine, I will have been wearing glasses for over forty-three years (pardon me while I wipe away the sweat from operating my keyboard).

Because I wear glasses, I have to consult eye care professionals from time to time. Because I am diabetic, I have to see an ophthalmic physician, to make certain that my retinas are holding up under the pressure of my delicate condition.

My ophthalmologist is Dr. Leslie B. Cunningham, of Cunningham, Campbell and Taylor, a consortium of medical doctors (which makes me wonder if they ever have to knock on doors and loudly announce their status, as Dr. Agent Scully used to do on "The X-Files") who specialize in ocular care and maintenance. I went to the office in Dixie Lee Junction yesterday for a check-up. My young bride was forced to drive me there, because they must dilate my pupils. The last time I went, then drove home, it was quite an adventure... for all the people who were sharing the road with me.

In the last several years, I have been forced to remove my glasses for the purpose of reading, due to my advancing age (which we've already covered). My spectacles are now for watching ESPN and driving to our new local liquor store, The Grove Wine & Spirits. If I ever get that job in Oak Ridge that I want so badly, I'll wear my glasses to drive over there... and to watch sports and drive to the liquor store.

Anyway, we were sitting in the waiting area, and my young bride observed that the digs in this place were much nicer than the old place in Loudon, which is true. She then pointed out that the "Sports Illustrated" that she had picked up had nothing in it about fashion, decorating, or shoes. This was also true, but it was her first comment that got me to notice my surroundings.

I wonder if the physicians who inhabit the building did their own decorating. Or if, perhaps, they hired a former jock to do the decorating for them.

The office color scheme is a sort of muted green, somewhere between pea soup and olive drab. The walls are in squares of about 5" X 5" light, then dark, but all green. When I was in the examination area, I visited three rooms, which all had art prints on the walls. The colors in the prints were orange, brown, red, white and black. That was the entire color palette.

And none of the colors were pastels. They were stark and masculine. The place looks like an office space designed for an NFL coach. I, personally, was very comfortable there, with or without my glasses.

When Dr. Cunningham came to take a look at my eyebones, he was preoccupied with politics, which I am always willing to discuss with a reasonable person. I discovered that the good doctor is, like myself, a fiscal conservative, and a social liberal. What that means is that he believes everyone has rights, not just people who agree with him. However, he does not want the government to be a tax and spend machine.

He was, apparently, unimpressed with the previous administration's ways of cutting taxes and spending like there was no tomorrow. Nor is he very taken with the present administration's socialist tendency to demonize people simply because they are good enough at something to become wealthy.

We Libertarians have a high old time when we find each other, which is rare.

Soon enough, of course, we solved the world's problems with an agreement that minding one's own business was a good day-to-day policy.

Afterwards, my young bride and I passed through Lenoir City on the way home, and stopped by the Brown Cup Coffee Company yet again. This time I had a real, live macchiato, with the steamed milk-foam on top. The Boss had a Mochaccino and a piece of lemon-berry-something-or-other.

At forty-8, it's tough for me to remember everything.

New Hangout

2009-07-16T21:39:00.008-04:00

7/16/09

I have a new favorite place to hang out in Loudon County. I realize that, before I was downsized, my favorite place to hang out was work, but there was a reason for that.

A. I liked my job.

2. My manager was a good person.

III. It was a purpose-driven environment for me.

Since my employment went away, however, my young bride has been on sort of a mission to find something to do with me, other than let me sit around feeling sorry for myself. And I don’t hang out in bars.

One afternoon, sort of by accident (before my downsizing event) we stopped in a place called the Brown Cup Coffee Company, just to see what went on there. We had seen the place several times in Lenoir City, sitting there facing 321 in front of Home Depot. We now found ourselves with a little time to kill, so in we went.

The interior is casual-nice, with a patterned tile floor, a variety of tables – some with chairs, others with stools – and an HDTV in the back corner surrounded by comfy-looking sittery. Across from the television area is the counter, where orders are placed, while the front has a small stage where music is provided on weekends.

Having been there several times since the first, my young bride and I are apparently “regulars” now, as we are recognized by the counter staff, and they know what I want before I order it.

Oddly, the first time we were there, I ordered the chai tea. For those who are unaware, I have, in recent years, become something of a tea person. There is, as always, a story.

Around a decade ago, I decided to try some Earl Grey tea. I did this because that’s what Captain Picard drinks, and, with his educated British accent (didn’t you guys ever wonder why he didn’t have a French accent? I did.) he always made it sound like a real treat. So, on a whim one day, I bought some Bigelow Earl Grey.

Speaking editorially: GGGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAGGGKKKKKK!

At that point I decided that I must not be an Earl Grey tea kind of guy. I was, as normal, mistaken. In 2006, we were vacationing in Walt Disney World and staying at the Beach Club. Being a deluxe resort, it has all the little bells and whistles that make people with expendable funds comfortable (understand, it takes me an entire earth cycle around the sun to accrue the necessary funds to stay at a place like that – and that’s with an employee discount from an incredibly generous person). Some of those things are a coffee maker, a variety of coffees and teas, and a small microwave oven.

One of the teas was Twinings Earl Grey. Since it had been a number of years, I decided to give it another go.

Speaking, once again, editorially: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

I really liked the Twinings tea. Since that time, I have also partaken of their Lady Grey, English Breakfast, and Irish Breakfast teas. The latter is my favorite flavor (or should I spell it “flavour?”). I have also acquired a small, two-cup tea press (a generous Christmas gift from my mother) for the making of these excellent drinks.

So, with all that taken into consideration, I decided to try Brown Cup’s chai tea on the recommendation of Dr. Peter Lloyd-Jones, one of my British co-workers in better days.

Allow me to qualify this. I do not, in general, sweeten tea. I got this trait from my father, and it has been a hard and fast with me all of my life. I did not, when I ordered the chai, realize that it is sweetened. But, oh, my lord! With all the other flavors involved, hooo, boy, that’s some good tea!

However, the second time I went there, I had a shot of espresso (all of you who want to put an “x” in that word, bite me). This shot of concentrated coffee made my whole day better. Now, when I walk through the door, they know that I am going to order a double shot of espresso. Last time, I had the barista warm the cup for me ahead of time, and that was even better.

At some point, I will be obliged to stretch a little. They do, after all, have a variety of teas available, as well as espresso off-shoots like machiatto and cappuccino.

If you are a local, and want to check out the menu, you can do so at the Brown Cup Coffee Company's website. They also have a number of baked treats, and will talk coffee and tea with patrons as long as one wishes. The last time I was there, the barista even invited me backstage so I could see how the espresso is prepared.

Local artists are promoted by the display of their wares on the walls monthly, and giving musicians a place to play. It is comfortable there, the drinks and treats are of good quality, the baristas are friendly, and there’s a television. Who wouldn’t want to be a regular?

2009-06-24T23:57:00.001-04:00

6/24/09

I apologize if I make stupid mistakes, but I have never blogged before. It’s my first time, so please, be gentle.

Welcome to my new world – here on the internet.

My name is Wesley Loftis. As of this date, I am 48 years old. Until May of 2009, I was an employee of Tate & Lyle, Loudon, TN, at which time I was downsized after 27 years of employment. At this time I am seeking work as a Quality Assurance Specialist.

Things I am good at:

*Flinging a football – even with one finger on my right hand partially gone, I can still throw nearly 50 yard spirals.

*Chemistry – though I faced challenges in my educational institution, practical application changed everything. I can follow written procedures, write new procedures, mix and standardize reagents, and run and maintain lab instrumentation like nobody’s business.

*Writing – not only can I write, I can also spell better than most college-educated journalists. Who knew?

*Drinking – I prefer good whiskeys, vodkas, and gins. For beer, I am a Budweiser man, though the best mass-produced beer I ever tasted was Beck’s Dark. Wines – well, it depends on what I’m eating. My favorite red is Concha Y Toro’s Cassillero Del Diablo – Carmenère; my favorite white is Clos Du Bois – Chardonnay.

*Biscuits & Gravy – Best ever – guaranteed. It took years for me to perfect my sausage gravy.

*Grilling – ½ pound burgers, pork chops, chicken, fish… whatever you like.

Things I enjoy, though I’m not particularly good at them:

*EA Sports Tiger Woods Golf ’09 – My Boy is teaching me. He’s better than I am, though my form is prettier.

*Following recipes – I have a tendency to wander in different and untried directions. I am not afraid to go with un-recommended herbs if I think they may taste good. I am especially fond of lemon basil.

*Vacations – our best family vacations have been to Walt Disney World (1996, ’98, 2000, ’01, ’03 & ’06) and to Edisto Beach (2002, ’04, ’05, & ’08). The frenetic pace of WDW is offset by the calm of Edisto. Also, we enjoy the historic tours around the Charleston, SC area. I cannot plan a vacation to save my ass. That is my young bride’s job. I execute the plan. If I stay with the plan, everything works well.

In better days for the newspaper industry, I wrote a column for the local rag; but – things going the way they are – I am starting a blog (yes, I realize it should be spelled ‘blog, as in web log, but who would recognize that, other than myself and Glenn Reynolds?)

Honestly, in future entries, I hope to be much more amusing. I will wax philosophic on things like local, national, and world politics. I will spout unsolicited opinion and I will give unsolicited advice to people like Jon, Kate, and Sammy Sosa.

For now, however, I will simply introduce myself as another in a long line of Victims Of The Recession With Something To Say.

Hopefully, next time I have something to say, it will be interesting and/or amusing.

Ciao for niao.