Recovery

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

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

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

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

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.

$Control$

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.