Gettin’ Old, This Adventure Called 'Life' Continues, However…………..

[glenn kangiser]

Don't hurt yourself... or anyone else who happens to see you....

Now where was that eye salve... think I'm gonna need the medicated kind for curing Pink Eye... make that  Hot Pink Eye...

[Gary O]

No worries, packin' my potato..and it's a baker

[considerations]

My great uncle Cal was the engineer of a train back in the early 1900s.
In 1999 got a letter of a distant relative doing a genealogy thing for our family.
Mentioned the train wreck of 1913 in Thorp, Kittitas  county, WA.
Head on 'tween freight and passenger.
Do you (or does anyone) know a best way to search this out?

News clip -
Anaconda Standard - Anaconda, Montana
January 7, 1913

"Seattle, Wash.. Jan. 6.—In a head on collision early today at Thorp Wash., between St. Paul train No. 6, eastbound, and a freight train, Calvin M. O'Danlels of Seattle, engineer of the passenger train, was killed. No other person was hurt. The wreck was due to the freight crew misunderstanding orders, it was said."

I have the newspaper page this appears on, and could attach it to an email if you are interested.

Another possible, and perhaps more detailed source of info:

http://nl.newsbank.com/nl-search/we/Archives?p_product=HA-SE&p_theme=histpaper&p_action=keyword&spotlightname=historical+archives&spotlightquery=archives#coverageMap

[Gary O]

OH...MY....GOD

Considerations
You da woman!

Now to get the details

Thank you so much!

Gary O'

[glenn kangiser]

Now how frikken cool is that... Nice find, considerations.  

Gary.... things are getting hot on the G&G line....

A inquiry has come from Down Under... from my Mate down there who is the very one who is responsible for my wearing this fine Aussie hat......

Here are the details...



Lucas Phillippe Binaisse

Hi G & G, most impressed by your latest in P.P.E. designwear (Personal Protective Equipment as we call it in OZ) and the boys on site agreed on the practicality of your design, of course the safety aspect is spot on, you Cannot miss it even from a mile off your eyes are going to be drawn to it until you realize you need to stay clear of it with your D9 buldozer, and additionally we agreed that with some of the less attractive PPE designs on the current market your's is by far a large improvement and can potentially enhance the workers good looks thus promoting happy and safe workers and thereby good morale.

So just to conclude , wanting to inquire of availability of FRIDGID Safetygear here downunder, in the hotter parts of Australia, we could do with some much cooler safety vests like yours.

We look forward to your response,
Luke Binaisse of Naiscon



From Glenn Kangiser

Dear Luke Of Naiscon,

With your being an operator of a large and successful concrete company "down under" I can understand your need for the latest in our Machine Proof Safety P.P.E. but regret to inform you that currently with the overwhelming response and demand, supplying your continent with our advanced designs would overwhelm the capacity of our state of the art manufacturing facility.

Sorry we are unable to assist you at this time and I hope you can understand our dilemma.

We will work to increase capacity as soon as possible and get back to you as soon as we are able to fill your orders.

With all due regrets,

Sincerely, Glenn of G&G Enterprises



GARY...... do you realize what this means...... We are sitting on top of a gold mine......


OK ...so I am in the gold country......... and you are in Oregon... but isn't this so cool......

[Gary O]

Dang, Glenn
That'd be really really good news, but..........

[glenn kangiser]

We are doomed.....

The work..... [ouch]

The time invested......

The money... the prototype cost $21.00   

Gary, you didn't happen to get one of those  "Bill Gates wants to share his fortune with you" emails did you.......

[Gary O]

Two words:
Write off

Two better words:
Bail Out

Oh, wait a minute...I think we fall under the "too small to bail" category


Think I'll just head out to the deck and put my head in the sky.
Cooling summer eve.
Big star aloft.

Feel a good howl comin' on

[firefox]

Darn, and I was just getting ready to offer some venture capital
to you guys.
Bruce

[glenn kangiser]

Thanks, Bruce, but it looks like our venture has already gone tits up........ [ouch]

Too small to bail....

Possible, Gary....

I'm only a 48A........

Too small to bail but might be big enough for a coffee filter.......

[glenn kangiser]

Nice pix, Gary.

[Gary O]

Darn, and I was just getting ready to offer some venture capital
to you guys.
Bruce

I still got a couple IPOs you might be interested in, Bruce.
Got a piece of Helen's ash I'm plannin' on diversifying.
And a small Oregon tap (ahem) spring water outfit that needs a few bucks pumped into it.
Ever take a bottle of Evian and look at the label in the mirror?


Hmmm, coffee filters.....hmmm, throw away mankinis.....
Glenn, FRIDGID may still be alive!

[Gary O]

Recollections
No humor, just recollections

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake. I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill. Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless, porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room. Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.
The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the ol' sink. Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The ol' wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal. Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
"If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!"
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm. Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the ol' Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake....then did the dishes.
One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... "Your throat is this big, the pill is this big".....minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...."OK, just drink your milk"
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents of satan.
We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it...not much choice really. Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice. To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.
The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms. They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch. Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times.....
The living room still had the ol' oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into it's material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of the ol' couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.
Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The gieger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll- ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.
The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.

[Gary O]

Nice pix, Gary.

Well, shoot, I just realized something. When doing a photo bucket clean up, anything deleted gets deleted wherever you sent it, at least it appears that way (or disappears that way).......and I thought I was getting censured on a couple other posts.......
(a little flake of data I must apply to my shrinking nugget of grey matter)

[rick91351]

Sassy's post on roping a deer reminded me of some family history:

Back in the thirties my dad and a fellow by the name of Bob Belt were riding gathering cattle in the fall.  Bob was a best friend and they hung together a lot.  Both cowboyed and picked up money when they could riding for the cattle association.   Bob had hung a gun on his saddle that morning and said if he seen a nice buck he would take him.  They split up a little and were kicking some cows and their now big calves out of the bush.  That time of the year mamas cows they have pretty well dried up and the calves were mostly weaned out there on the range.   The calves still stick close because it is their nature and habit and a little milk now and then.

Dad heard a shot and was riding along and there was a buck laying there next to some quaking aspens.  Nice buck, big rack.  It just laid there as dad rode up.  Clearly was not dead but did not take flight.  Dad thought this must be what Bob shot.  So he dismounted, tied his horse to a quaking aspen and pulled out his pocket knife.  The deer just laid there and watched.  Dad walked over to dress this big old buck out that Bob had evidently shot.  Dad reached out to turn its head to cut its throat.  It was about then it dawned on him that this big old buck was not on its last legs nor was it even wounded.  He could not get loose because the deer was now on the attack and shoving him with those sharp antlers.  Dad was trying his best to bull dog the deer down.  It was about this time dad said he figured that Rags his dog decided that it was time to 'help out'.  Rags being a working stock dog knows one thing, heel the critter.  Not go for the head and drive the beast away from my dad but go for the rear end and nip at those hocks.

So there is a great deal of yelling, swearing and cussing.  (My dad could and at 96 now still can.  But can't seem to yell as loud!)  Bob heard the yelling and dog barking and growling and dad's horse going nuts.  So he made no haste getting around to where the noise was coming from.  Dad was about done, the deer clearly was not.  Bob jumped off his horse, pulled his rifle and yelled drop.  Dad did.  So did the the buck when that old rifle found its mark.

As you can imagine both were pretty shaky latter on in the day when what happened finely sunk in.  Both claimed to be shaking so hard at the end of the day they could hardly stay in the saddle.    Seemed like every time those two would get together they had to rehash it all out.                               

[Gary O]

Now that's a campfire story, Rick....on a deer hunt of course.
Speakin' of dads, how's he doin'?

[rick91351]

Thank for the concern.  Dad and I have a special relationship and we know it........

They discharged him today from the hospital.  We took him to a different facility owned by the same company.  A lot closer to us and a lost more handy as far as keeping tabs on his condition.  For 96 he does real well most of the time.  He is some what confused in the new dwelling.  He will be talking up a storm with anyone that will listen in a day or so.  Right now he needs to be getting his rest and his strength back from knocking on deaths door a couple days ago. 

[Gary O]

Man, yer dad is flirtin' with triple digits. Remarkable.

Yeah, parents seem to become more special as one ages. Good or bad, you come to realize they did their best, and ya grab the good stuff to hunker down and gently cram down yer kid's minds.
Or you just dwell on their felonious characteristics and waller in it til yer life morphs into their reflection.....precious time ill spent.

My dad is 88. Looks pretty darn good, still. But hearing is quite a bit south, and his vision is in the shadows (macular degeneration in one eye, and detached retina in the other, amateur boxing days), so if you prop him up in a Wal-Mart entry he's lookin' OK.
He even got in the right car after taking him to father's day brunch this year.

Gotta be a bit frustrating for him, cause he's always been a doer, lookin' forward.
Now, people that kinda got in the way before, are the ones that are left. But he puts on a good front.

Not sure I'll be doin' the same. Never thought I'd get this old, let alone the 70s or 80s....

My basic plan is to instruct the kids to do the 'Of Mice and Men' thing if my mind goes first.

If they happen of observe me playing 'Hunt for Red Oktober' with the contents of my bed pan, then:
Take me on a long walk and sit me down by a babbling brook, with alders and willows huddling on the banks. Set a bag, a large bag, of wonder weed beside me...and a six pack of a good IPA...and some chips....two bags....OK, three bags....family size...and maybe pour me a shot of a high end single malt to start things off...and plug in some ear buds...OK one ear bud, left ear...LEFT EFING EAR!...crank up some Pink Floyd...any song...they're all good....OK, shine on you crazy diamond....David Gilmour...Waters is too acid tech for me....and walk away for a while....check on me every 30 min...and when I have that far away look in my eye...farther than usual...with a silly grin on my mug....then take a 42 oz Louisville Slugger and swing for the bleachers......CRACK!....back back back back....I'm outta here!

[Gary O]

Aging Egos

Not that long ago (OK, a decade or two) I was sitting in my office, looking out the window at yet another glorious cloud filled sky, pondering, pondering what the hell I was doing, heading an engineering group, people with brains full of pulsing veins, people that actually read things, people with casual discussion of things like attenuation, gauss, and inductance vs direct current resistance.....
OK, thru the years I've rigorously maintained my hard nosed work ethic of sucking up to whoever came within reach, and somehow it kind of paid off.
So, here I am, no longer referred to as dipsh*t, now proudly wearing the moniker of Mr Dipsh*t.
The noise of my phone brings me back.
Peggy, of whom I've changed her name, but we'll call her Peggy, cause her real name sounds like Peggy, actually it's spelt exactly like Peggy, OK OK, her name really is Peggy.....where was I, oh, Peggy usually ferrets out sales calls, but she couldn't decide about the this one.
"Gary, Who's Who is on the line, do you want it?"
"Yeah, I'll take it." (I was kinda hoping they'd transfer me to the 'Why Me' dept.)

"Thank you for taking my call Mr O'Daniels."
"Sure, what can I do for you?"
"Actually, it's what we've done for you, Mr O'Daniels. We just wish to congratulate you on your entry in the Who's Who."
"Really?"
"Yes, we just need to ask you a few questions about yourself, do you have a few minutes?"
(Let's see, I've got a suicidal QA manger waiting for me in the conference room, production has a line down situation, and our CFO needs my end of month report in two minutes...)
"Sure."
"Great, tell us about your hobbies, interests, blah, blah, blah, blah......"
"Fishing, blather, blah, embellish, wood working, blather, blah, embellish, scouts, blather, bluh, embellish, embellish, embellish, blather, blather, wretch, blather." (ego pressing against my occipital and parietal lobes)
"Great, thank you Mr O'Daniels, now we just need your credit card data."
"Credit card?"
"Yes, for your personal, gold embossed issue."
"How much?"
"Just $300 Mr O'Daniels, and we'll need your 'ship to' address."
"THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS?"
"Yes, Mr O'Daniels, it's your gold embossed personal issue."
"So, if I happen to forget who I am, or just who do I think I am (as I'm referred to by my associates), I can go to the reference section of any Library and look myself up, right?"
"Well, yes."
"Without laying down $300."
"Correct."
"Then no thanks."
"Did I mention it's gold embossed?"
'Uh, yeah, but you see, if I don't get some figures to our CFO in one minute, then he's going to emboss his pants with something other than gold....Bye Bye now."

Days later, the fax machine gave birth to the confirmation of our CFO's purchase of his personal issue............

[Gary O]

The quest for Quest

So we down sized, liquidated a couple properties, sold our residence, and moved into the rental, a '95 wobbly home. Several issues that needed to be addressed, but my bride and I were up to the tasks.
However, a mfg home has inherited issues, one being the plumbing. This one was built with quest materials. Hate 'em. The fittings used are the one time only kind. There was a time you were pretty much married to the stuff. However, I found conversion couplings called 'shark bite' that lets you proceed with pex. Nice fittings too, just press on and bam, you're connected.






A newer dishwasher became available in the neighborhood, one that would actually remove the dirty from dirty dishes, and even make it all disappear! Same size too!
So I scheduled the swap out this morning, before our afternoon get together with some folks. You know, how mechanics always talk about jobs like they were changing shoes? "Yeah, I jerked out the tranny, and slapped in the new one".....suuuure.
Thing is with these shark bite goodies, the only ones seemingly available are the conversion couplings. The polybutylene to polybutylene couplings are not available...and why would they be.
So, the just-back-out-of-retirement-from-construction-now-at-my-new-Home Depot guy informed me that in getting the female 'faucet' connector hooked up to the ½" pex line required a crimping tool, a $60 crimping tool...however, he could crimp it on for me...but needed to get the ladder to get his kit of tools......20 minutes later, after taking inventory of every connector and tool on the aisle, it dawned on me that my new found guru had scurried down the aisle and went into hiding in the restroom....sitting there contemplating re-retirement....occasionally peeking nervously thru the stall gap at what could be an irate overfed ogre guy wanting to experiment with a newly purchased crimping tool on a prized part of his anatomy.
But no, like a well-trained dog, I remained tethered to aisle 12....however, while waiting to pick up the tell-tale rattle noise of those HD (for employees only) ladders, another thing dawned on me.
I could use two conversion couplings, with a strip of pex line in the middle and we'd be washing dishes automatically in no time..........except for the hardwire to plug conversion, the 'what's this bracket for' self quiz, the OMG the reservoir really was full of water I just mopped the floor discussion scene, the what hurts worse, my back or my knees session, the I need another tool than a channel lock or stillson wrench gotta go back to Home Depot discovery, and the shocking sensation of water and 15 amps.
The day has an hour of light left, so I should have just enough time to yank my back into correct alignment, slap on a couple new kneecaps, and go on my evening banana slug safari quest...there's that word again.....

[Gary O]

Penned a few months ago, but still a fresh thought in retrospect


A continuation of my post mid-life introspect

Take my pole.....please

The other day I was looking for a bungee to re-harness a sagging fishing rod, one of 48, that's clipped to the ceiling of my den.
I foraged thru a box in my shop, marked straps-bungees-binders, of which was beneath three other marked boxes, full of assorted, 'important' stuff to organize other important stuff.

I've done it again...collecting.

Who needs 48 fishing rods?

OK, I have two level wind for salmon, four (2 level/2 spin) for steelhead, and two (spin) for trout.
The others I dust........

Are these subliminal trophies, 'accidentally' shown off with fake disdainful self-reproach when a buddy visits from Alaska?

Are they my security items?

Are they a subconscious adherence to a biblical proverb....spare the rod...?

Or am I one sick puppy, the rods symbolizing multiple choice Freudian instruments of self-flagellation?

Naw, I just like shiny things.
'Hey, look! That reel has a Super Stopper Anti-Reverse Plus Backup Anti-Reverse Pawl!
I need that!"


Upon returning from mainland China, and having witnessed utter poverty face to face, I swore I would be more aware of my first world habits. Getting home, going thru the stores, seeing hundreds of style choices for even tennis shoes; basketball, walking, hiking, running, jogging, skate boarding, posing, strutting, worshiping, and yes tennis, revolted me.

The legless man, sitting on his torso, in a dirt street of a northern Guangdong village, sewing Huarache sandals with a tiny crude manual machine, had awakened a dormant nodule of moral awareness, deep within the insole of my soul.

Had I shown myself as the epitome of Burdick and Lederer's portrayal of Americans?

Am I a lower form of the 'let them eat cake' genre?

Or am I just conveniently born in the middle of a pecking order, abhorring both poles of the spectrum?

My obsessive nature dictates order, so there's an element of inborn restraint, but on the other hand, it sends me on stock pile tears, 48 bars of Irish Spring, 12 bottles of my favorite shampoo, a drawer full of socks (all the same color).....this amuses my bride....., but even though needful things, why so much?

Are these various trappings a form of enslavement?

Is the abject poverty stricken legless man, the antitheses of luxury, sewing shoes for the comfort of someone that has so very much more than he, in misery, or is he more the free one?
Moralists, thru the ages, tend to think so, and as I take a breather, and prepare for the trek down the hill, my opinion has gone from "Yeah, right" to "Why am I building another shed to store all this crap"?

In my heart of hearts, our cabin is a mild form of that same freedom.

There, the dictates of preparing necessities, like a dishpan of hot water, and a means of heating the water, and of course water, reduce and remove the time afforded to the accustomed trappings. They become simple pleasures.

And, the not so pleasurable, but nonetheless compulsory events, the trek to the privy, the incident itself, down to the careful selection of 'site' cleanup (WHERE'S THE G-D TOILET PAPER!!!!) become a sometimes pressing race toward urgent enlightenment, a much anticipated desired relief of sorts, concluding with an immediate liberating mental trek back to tranquility.

So I ask myself, 'Is your cabin a place to put more toys and house all the electro-gizmo trappings of home, or a spill-over of collections, or a refuge from their enslavement?'


I kinda apologize in bringing up a subject that has been previously beat to submission, but on the other hand, me, being a cynic, in an unfamiliar, aging retrospective empathetic mode, I take mental adventures, and am filled with awe and wonder at the resiliance of the street artisans, like the little old legless cobbler in China, stitching away the day, then as the sun sets on his work shift, packing up his little machine (on a skid with a forehead harness?) and dragging it behind himself as he hand walks his way to the tin hut, simply filled with his mat and a humble means of cooking.
I so wanted to chat with him, but disregarding the warnings to never leave the hotel compound alone, I got restless when my broker/interpreter was away, and ventured into the village (w-a-a-ay off the Caucasian route, let alone tourist haunts).
So communication was a tad limited.

Was he the last link of a conglomerate chain?
Who was his broker?
What would our conversation have been?

Me:
So, Mr Huang (pronounced Fong in some provinces), do you know the name Nike?

My Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗?
Do you know the name Nike?

Mr Fong to my Broker:
嗯，你觉得，我是无知的无足混蛋，只是高兴地走出的一只手？
我讨厌游客的上帝。
当然，我听说耐克体育用品公司。
地狱的人，你认为我的公寓小屋支付？
(Well, what do you think, I'm an ignorant legless bastard, just happy to get a hand out?
God I hate tourists.
Of course I've heard of Nike.
Who in hell do you think paid for my 60 inch plasma set, and state of the art stereo?)

Broker to me:
No

Me to broker:
Amazing....I wonder if there is something I can do for him, a token of appreciation, maybe some little wheels, or a new torso pad?

Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗？
(This sorry, bleeding heart consumer, wants to know if you want a new torso pad, or some little wheels no less?)

Mr Fong
告诉他是给我的礼物就是立刻离开温暖的阳光我当时正在欣赏他出现之前。
(Tell him his gift to me would be to get the hell outta the warm sun that I was enjoying before he appeared, and to go back home and buy some huaraches. F---ing tourist bastards.
Oh, and leave me some Pink Floyd CDs.)

Broker to me:
No, but many thanks and have a nice day.

Me:
Incredible, a true testament to human resilience (heart blood letting profusely).

I walk away, enlightened...........

[glenn kangiser]

Great read, Gary and you see things a lot as I do except I'm not the organized type, ever since I quit being a mechanic and needed to find my tools.

Now Sassy has to keep things organized for me.

[Gary O]

Yeah Glenn, in reading your posts, you are more me than me. It's quite the adventure, ain't it.


Naps

How terribly underrated.
Fought 'em from 3 to 'bout 60.
Now I wake up and start lookin' forward to the morning nap.
When three, folks would nab me and toss me on the bed most afternoons. During solitary confinement I found fascination with ceiling stains, bugs on the wall, boogers on the wall (from countless previous incarcerations), and the wispy sheer curtains, taunting me with flavors from the other side of the open window.
Eventually gramma would pardon me.
Free at last, free at last!

Next 50 some years, work/play 'round the clock. Sleeping was for suckers, could miss out on some fun.
Driving jobs, oil field, work 80-100 hrs a week, then play, hard.
Sometimes just go back to work.
Bar maids got used to preparing me breakfast for my graveyard shift.
The third day gets tricky, however. Seems you must dream whether you sleep or not. Giddiness turns to grumpassiness, then you finally drop somewhere. Waking up at the steering wheel seems to immediately raise several questions....the brief panic subsides.
Never new about REM, but drool, I hear, is a strong indicator you were there, especially when waking up with your face feeling like a glazed donut.

Now, now the nap, this sacred rite, beckons.
At work, this pathetic office job of 8-12 hrs, requires a nap at around 12:30 or 1, sometimes even at 10a. Closed door, feet on desk, 'snork', I'm up, refreshed. Can't wait to get home, finish.
Sometimes I like napping in an uncomfortable position just to wake back up so I can drift off again.
One time I fell asleep with my arms behind my head. Woke up to the phone ringing. In reaching for it, my arm just flopped down to my side. Thought I'd had a stroke while napping, both arms paralyzed. Panic. During the struggle to pick up the phone with my mouth, they started coming too.
I also have dreams, wonderful dreams, dreams of fishing. You know, the ones. You want to go back to sleep to get back in it, but can't.
Well, mine is recurring, same ones over and over...........
Sleepy now.
Hope I remember the bait this time.

[Gary O]

It's good to see yer offspring mature.
My youngest son, 38 now, has been a commercial fisherman for the last 20 yrs.
Started with King Crab outta Bristol Bay.
He's pretty well known up and down the Oregon coast.
Knows where just about every Dungeness crab is from Warrenton to Florence.
Talked to him for a couple hrs on the phone this morn.
He's settlin' down a bit.
Had a steady woman for the last 3-4 yrs.
Kept both his boats for 'bout as long.
Cannery personnel, authorities, and acquaintances no longer run and hide when he comes around.
Bars are now a bore for him.
I listened to his stories of his latest tussles, but they're getting farther and fewer in between.
We discussed the fishing business.
Big money in, bigger money out.
He won't ever change professions.
Can't.
I understand.
His woman understands...she's a crew member.

We talked about family.

We talked about God.

We talked about sin.

We talked about Christ's blood.


We both wept.

......for joy.

[Sassy]

Awesome!