I was looking at a commentary about something unrelated and came on this stuff about narcissism. My immediate reaction was, do I suffer (excessively) from that. Do I suffer at all from it?
Good question. I can only say that the most upset I've gotten a doctor in the last 20 years was the way I filled out his 'new patient' questionnaire. Guy was into Jesus, and he was looking for some kind of 'god put me here to do his bidding' answer to the question, "Why are you here:". I answered it, "Nothing has killed me yet." Then he wanted to argue about it, and I said, "Nothing has killed me yet, I'll be around until something does, and not one minute longer." He really didn't like that.
I believe that guy was losing his mind. All of a sudden, I'm real critical of a lot of older people losing their minds. There were a few in my life. My Finnish grandmother used to say she wanted to be allowed to wander out on the ice and freeze to death someday. Her grandmother who took care of her when she was a tot was 'elderly-crazy', infected her with it, and in spite of it not being a biological pathogen, I really think she was doomed from the time she was four to screw up every life she would touch for the entire rest of her life.
When I was in my mid 30's and a non traditional college student, my mother said she was going to put my grandmother (her mother), into a loony bin. I told her grandma was harmless, and to send her out here, she could live with me. My mother asked me what would happen if Jesus told my grandmother to kill me? I told my mother, that was such an absurd comment that I should dismiss it out of hand. Now, I wouldn't. Now, 25 years later, after she's dead, I have to admit, "Yeah Ma, people like Grandma are capable of doing things like that, only I'm way too hard to kill. I'll take the chance, not because it couldn't happen, but because she couldn't pull it off." Now, ESPECIALLY now that I'm getting up there in age, I know how bad you can hurt from head to toe, just moving around, and even if Grandma did out weigh me by more than 50 pounds she was totally incapable of holding a pillow over my head, awake or asleep.
Where was I............ oh yeah, the Jesus freak doctor. Well, that guy poisoned me, about 100 weeks ago. Why would he do that? So, I'd be broken financially, and out of desperation I'd have to seek out Jesus. Sick, right? Regrettably, I'm absolutely certain that's what went down. Would I offer his name or the details? (do I want to get sued? ah, no) Was his sick relationship with Jesus a lot like my own grandmother's? Unfortunately. Yes, Ma, I should have listened to you. Historians note that when Nazi Germany was falling, a huge number of people found god. Take away an old person's warm place to live, food, booze if they're a drinker, and... it figures.
It never ceases to amaze me how many screwed up people are running around out there. In the 'perfect' world we had 2,000 years ago, there was no societal support system to keep propping people up. So, 2,000 years ago, we didn't have supermarkets, TV's, or many elderly who were crazy.
When that guy (the doctor) was 55, which isn't that old, the rest of the medical community stripped him of everything but his license to practice. He was no longer a surgeon. I understand why now.
(Please, if that kind of thing ever happens to me, let me wander off into the cold. The thought of being that fucked up is really repulsive)
The fictional character Olivia Soprano has really struck a nerve, and I really see Virginia McPhee in her. (the name on my mothers high school diploma)
Oh, yeah......... The other story. Here goes: Years ago, when I was in college I met this guy who grew up out in the plains, became the all American success story, and was hiding something totally unacceptable from his family, the people he grew up with, the professionals he worked with as a young adult, the people of his small home town, the people he worked with while learning his craft............. Everybody! AND, if my hunch is correct, the driving force that made him such a screaming success, was precisely the reason he can't ever go back to his home town to live. Strange isn't it? Add memory of Dave Dixon to material to work with.
I mostly have a couple of snippet length images in my memory of the guy, and 'his story', but I'm seeing a lot of potential in it. Why?
Well, I was the opposite. There is nothing about education I could not have handled. I like reading. I like problem solving. There are specific things I don't do well, but you don't have to do those things well. I've never done Physics or Chemistry labs well, because I ran out of time perpetually. Solution, avoid those two areas, I did, and it wasn't a problem. With enough burning desire to be a chemist I could have done those labs, but can everybody be top 2 percentile in every thing? Not really. How did I actually do? 1.88 grade point average in high school. Passing grades in college, but how well you score in college is in large part a function of how well prepared you were when you walked in the door, and I wasn't. (prepared, that is)
I was acceptable to my father, and his theory was if he pounded the shit out of me enough, I'd be even better. The guy I thought of, got along great with his father. In large part, his burning drive to achieve was solely to avoid letting that father who thought so highly of him, see who he really was. Did his father ever see who he really was/is? I doubt it. Shame isn't it?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The Soprano's
I acquired the first 3 seasons, and I've been watching them. That's where I was exposed to the term 'vig'. I hadn't heard it in at least twenty years. The quality of the the story, continues to amaze me. Part of me wonders if presented in novel form would it would be mediocre? Some of the details of family's they're able to weave through it are really really good. And I love the shrink, I'm almost tempted to go talk to the guy I used to talk to, to see what he thinks of some of the stuff in the story.
Tony's mother and wife are particularly great characters. His mother because she's such a monster, much more dangerous and evil than Tony, and his wife because she's always there in Tony's shadow, being the strongest character in the story.
Tony's mother tries to get him wacked. She tries to get her brother in law, Tony's uncle to do it. Then she tries to get Artie, the restaurant owner to do it. The shrink is reticent to say, "Well, Tony, your mom is your worst enemy, and she'll kill you if she gets the chance." Tony wants to be a good son, and take care of/respect his mother. Being a good son, nearly gets Tony killed.
I see so much of my family in The Soprano's, especially my mother. When I was a kid, I wanted to be in my dad's business, and he screwed me over until I moved away from southern Michigan. But my mother....... And she had 2 sons, one she loved without qualification. Brother Eric flushed everything my mother had when she was in her mid fifties. Those of us who are over fifty can appreciate how bad an act that is. He was a rotten kid, he was a rotten man.
My mother's father, our grandfather didn't approve of my brothers behavior when he was a kid or an adult. I can remember being about 12, and my mother coming to me and saying that my brother had over heard my grandparents talking and they'd said I was their favorite, and it hurt Eric's feelings. What was I supposed to do about that? Was it true, or one of my mothers made up facts, which she would swear on her soul was true? I think she was lying, but what was the object, why? Was I supposed to go to grandma and say, 'You need to love Eric more.' What 12 year old is supposed to do something like that.
My mother's mother also has a link to Tony's mother. She was raised as a small child by her grandmother. She spoke of her grandmother as a religious saint. She grew up in a small log shack a few miles south of Lake Superior, in the sticks of the UP. I have to wonder if a lot of her behavior as a middle aged to old adult was the result of having a real sick (alzhimers or something similar) real elderly person exclusively taking care of her when she was real small. I'll never know. I only know, I didn't accept her crazy act, and when people wouldn't tolerate it, she got lucid and sane pretty quick.
When my brother was thirty, if there was life insurance on me or some other current profit, would my mother have wanted to see me dead, so she could give Eric even more money to flush? God, I love that Olivia Soprano character. And I love the shrink saying things like, 'well I was reluctant to call a spade a spade but your mom might be out to do you real serious harm..........'
Tony Soprano gives me questions about my own father. Tony is very real. Vito Corleone is more make believe. I can picture Tony being someone I run into from time to time. Tony is a very real character. My dad didn't want me in his business, road building, and why is anybody's question. Was it because my dad didn't make his money honestly? Good question. I will say this, he owned a vice cop. How did he get to know that cop that well in the first place? Why would that cop screw around with some random Joe-Blow if there was no profit in it? Were there cops like that in my hometown? Sure, that was before their modern age of great wealth.................... And does their modern great wealth make them above reproach? If you believe it does, I have a swamp in Arizona I'd like to sell you. I wish my dad was around so I could ask him about a lot of this stuff, and I wish he trusted me enough to answer me.
Did my dad hang around in a 'coffee shop', back in the day? Yes he did. It was a bacon and eggs joint called Fowlers, which was on the corner of Stadium and Liberty. If he wasn't home, my mother would tell people, to look for him there, just like Carmella would tell people to look for Tony at Badda Bing.
Sigh...................... Great fiction, really is.
Tony's mother and wife are particularly great characters. His mother because she's such a monster, much more dangerous and evil than Tony, and his wife because she's always there in Tony's shadow, being the strongest character in the story.
Tony's mother tries to get him wacked. She tries to get her brother in law, Tony's uncle to do it. Then she tries to get Artie, the restaurant owner to do it. The shrink is reticent to say, "Well, Tony, your mom is your worst enemy, and she'll kill you if she gets the chance." Tony wants to be a good son, and take care of/respect his mother. Being a good son, nearly gets Tony killed.
I see so much of my family in The Soprano's, especially my mother. When I was a kid, I wanted to be in my dad's business, and he screwed me over until I moved away from southern Michigan. But my mother....... And she had 2 sons, one she loved without qualification. Brother Eric flushed everything my mother had when she was in her mid fifties. Those of us who are over fifty can appreciate how bad an act that is. He was a rotten kid, he was a rotten man.
My mother's father, our grandfather didn't approve of my brothers behavior when he was a kid or an adult. I can remember being about 12, and my mother coming to me and saying that my brother had over heard my grandparents talking and they'd said I was their favorite, and it hurt Eric's feelings. What was I supposed to do about that? Was it true, or one of my mothers made up facts, which she would swear on her soul was true? I think she was lying, but what was the object, why? Was I supposed to go to grandma and say, 'You need to love Eric more.' What 12 year old is supposed to do something like that.
My mother's mother also has a link to Tony's mother. She was raised as a small child by her grandmother. She spoke of her grandmother as a religious saint. She grew up in a small log shack a few miles south of Lake Superior, in the sticks of the UP. I have to wonder if a lot of her behavior as a middle aged to old adult was the result of having a real sick (alzhimers or something similar) real elderly person exclusively taking care of her when she was real small. I'll never know. I only know, I didn't accept her crazy act, and when people wouldn't tolerate it, she got lucid and sane pretty quick.
When my brother was thirty, if there was life insurance on me or some other current profit, would my mother have wanted to see me dead, so she could give Eric even more money to flush? God, I love that Olivia Soprano character. And I love the shrink saying things like, 'well I was reluctant to call a spade a spade but your mom might be out to do you real serious harm..........'
Tony Soprano gives me questions about my own father. Tony is very real. Vito Corleone is more make believe. I can picture Tony being someone I run into from time to time. Tony is a very real character. My dad didn't want me in his business, road building, and why is anybody's question. Was it because my dad didn't make his money honestly? Good question. I will say this, he owned a vice cop. How did he get to know that cop that well in the first place? Why would that cop screw around with some random Joe-Blow if there was no profit in it? Were there cops like that in my hometown? Sure, that was before their modern age of great wealth.................... And does their modern great wealth make them above reproach? If you believe it does, I have a swamp in Arizona I'd like to sell you. I wish my dad was around so I could ask him about a lot of this stuff, and I wish he trusted me enough to answer me.
Did my dad hang around in a 'coffee shop', back in the day? Yes he did. It was a bacon and eggs joint called Fowlers, which was on the corner of Stadium and Liberty. If he wasn't home, my mother would tell people, to look for him there, just like Carmella would tell people to look for Tony at Badda Bing.
Sigh...................... Great fiction, really is.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The vig
Vigorish.
I was looking at a friends blog and he's making these observations about vocabulary. One of the words he found interesting was Vigoda, which is the name of an actor from my child hood.
A word I learned at 12 (the old old office) is vig which is short for vigorish. It was explained to me by Timmy. Timmy deserves a place in my stories for a number of reasons, I wonder what ever happened to him.
A different time. All the PSHA crowd, Timmy, and the word vig. I should expand on this and him.
I was looking at a friends blog and he's making these observations about vocabulary. One of the words he found interesting was Vigoda, which is the name of an actor from my child hood.
A word I learned at 12 (the old old office) is vig which is short for vigorish. It was explained to me by Timmy. Timmy deserves a place in my stories for a number of reasons, I wonder what ever happened to him.
A different time. All the PSHA crowd, Timmy, and the word vig. I should expand on this and him.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The beginning of a new collection
In a .txt format file I have a growing collection of first chapters. It's very educational to read them. I read them out loud to myself too, perhaps I'll get to a point where I have them memorized.
My new collection is publishers, and the first in the collection will be:
http://www.openroadmedia.com/
Why them? I don't have a good reason, I saw a reference to them somewhere and went to their web site. Maybe they were on 60 Minutes or something. Anyhow, they do have some authors, and I'm actually familiar with a couple of titles by their authors. Small world.
On a similar but different subject.....
In the process of working on that first chapter, I discovered a couple of reasons why people go to fiction for stories that are really memoirs. You can't remember all the tiny details well enough to fill in the stories in your book, so you say to yourself, oh well, that's what fiction's for.
For instance: I well remember when I made the decision to move to Madison, Wisconsin. How many details do I need to fill out the scene that I can't remember? And how many of them can I look up, so they're accurate? Well, Terri (to become my second wife later on), and I are sitting on the end of Francis street. It's late June or early July, nice warm day, and we're arguing about something. What? Who knows. All that #*@%^ ever wanted to do was argue about nothing, or something there was no control over anyway. Francis street runs into the lake, literally. I'm sure it was some kind of boat ramp many years ago. There's a bluff/hill on the east side of it, and at the top sits French House. On the west side, the low side, sits the DU house. There are wonderful trees with a canopy of leaves over us. So, we're sitting there in the shade, listening to the waves lazily lap against the pavement, arguing over nothing. Sitting on the curb.
There's a guy sitting on the curb on the opposite side of the street, that we weren't paying any attention to. It's a public place, and we're not slugging it out or anything, but she's got to argue. I wish I'd had enough sense to get up and tell her to find her own way back to East Lansing, and walk away. I know what she would have done, called her dad, and he'd get to rescue her, yet again. He lived for that. God, he was such an idiot. Anyway..... back on subject...... We're sitting on the curb about 15 feet from the water lazily lapping the end of Francis street, across from this guy we don't know. ARGUING, as usual.
The guy introduces himself as Jerry. He asks us if we'd be willing to shut up, if he got us stoned. Terri would always stop arguing for a joint. So, Jerry got us stoned, and I said to myself, "Here we are sitting by this beautiful lake, in this great campus district, and this guy has a joint for us. What a great place. I want to live here."
And that's how I chose Madison, Wisconsin. Now, where do I go with that...... Perhaps a longer work that is a collection of arguments with that idiot. But I'm really glad I made that realization about her father being a moron who gloried in saving his daughter. In a lot of ways, she's just like my younger brother was. Too many ways. Only, my mother wasn't as stupid as her father was. Nice guy, I really liked him, but stupid........ So stupid. And let his wife lead him around by his nose. And, WHY would she want a man like that? He was pudgy, stupid, didn't make much money.... She was pretty good looking, ambitious, had family behind her, what did she see in him? Sigh.............. who knows.............
My new collection is publishers, and the first in the collection will be:
http://www.openroadmedia.com/
Why them? I don't have a good reason, I saw a reference to them somewhere and went to their web site. Maybe they were on 60 Minutes or something. Anyhow, they do have some authors, and I'm actually familiar with a couple of titles by their authors. Small world.
On a similar but different subject.....
In the process of working on that first chapter, I discovered a couple of reasons why people go to fiction for stories that are really memoirs. You can't remember all the tiny details well enough to fill in the stories in your book, so you say to yourself, oh well, that's what fiction's for.
For instance: I well remember when I made the decision to move to Madison, Wisconsin. How many details do I need to fill out the scene that I can't remember? And how many of them can I look up, so they're accurate? Well, Terri (to become my second wife later on), and I are sitting on the end of Francis street. It's late June or early July, nice warm day, and we're arguing about something. What? Who knows. All that #*@%^ ever wanted to do was argue about nothing, or something there was no control over anyway. Francis street runs into the lake, literally. I'm sure it was some kind of boat ramp many years ago. There's a bluff/hill on the east side of it, and at the top sits French House. On the west side, the low side, sits the DU house. There are wonderful trees with a canopy of leaves over us. So, we're sitting there in the shade, listening to the waves lazily lap against the pavement, arguing over nothing. Sitting on the curb.
There's a guy sitting on the curb on the opposite side of the street, that we weren't paying any attention to. It's a public place, and we're not slugging it out or anything, but she's got to argue. I wish I'd had enough sense to get up and tell her to find her own way back to East Lansing, and walk away. I know what she would have done, called her dad, and he'd get to rescue her, yet again. He lived for that. God, he was such an idiot. Anyway..... back on subject...... We're sitting on the curb about 15 feet from the water lazily lapping the end of Francis street, across from this guy we don't know. ARGUING, as usual.
The guy introduces himself as Jerry. He asks us if we'd be willing to shut up, if he got us stoned. Terri would always stop arguing for a joint. So, Jerry got us stoned, and I said to myself, "Here we are sitting by this beautiful lake, in this great campus district, and this guy has a joint for us. What a great place. I want to live here."
And that's how I chose Madison, Wisconsin. Now, where do I go with that...... Perhaps a longer work that is a collection of arguments with that idiot. But I'm really glad I made that realization about her father being a moron who gloried in saving his daughter. In a lot of ways, she's just like my younger brother was. Too many ways. Only, my mother wasn't as stupid as her father was. Nice guy, I really liked him, but stupid........ So stupid. And let his wife lead him around by his nose. And, WHY would she want a man like that? He was pudgy, stupid, didn't make much money.... She was pretty good looking, ambitious, had family behind her, what did she see in him? Sigh.............. who knows.............
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Since I bored you..... (sorry bout that) Chapt 1?
......Yet again, I'm rewriting chapter 1 -- what/where I am this morning. ( from 1/1/89, 3am.)
I pulled up to O'Cayz looking for a pair. A guy ran out to the cab wearing only shoes, slacks, and a t-shirt. He was in good spirits and wanted to go to State street so he could party on. I had one in and two pairs to get, so I didn't have room for him. For a drunk, he was real nice about being told he couldn't get in. As I watched him run back into the bar, I couldn't help noticing the back of his t-shirt. It was black, probably from other men walking on him. Then a woman wearing an evening gown and her date hurried out. They carefully weaved through the dozen or so men wrestling on the ground in the snow. I pushed the passenger door open so they could slid into the front seat before one of those drunks grabbed one of them and dragged them into the melee. I was really pleased when the woman said Breeze Terrace. That was the destination I was looking for, they were my passengers. I didn't have to tell them I couldn't take them. I put the Dodge into drive, and pulled away.
Her date, sitting next to me in the middle of the front seat was a sight. One arm of his tux was hanging by a couple of threads. The back of his right hand had a knot on it the size of a golf ball, surely caused by a badly broken bone. She was wearing a beautiful evening gown. Over and over she said, oh you poor baby. He wasn't bleeding on my cab, but his general appearance could only be described as, all beat up. I thought to myself, "Yeah lady, that's why you spent five hundred bucks on an evening gown. So your boyfriend could get himself in a bar brawl and get all beat up."
Four blocks later, I was sitting in front of The Fess, tooting the horn. A couple hurried out and piled into the back seat, their destination was State street, specifically The Pub. They had the trademark New Year's Eve hats and horns. They were loaded, the cab was loaded, everybody was happy, and I hadn't even gotten to the square yet. All short rides too! I swung around the corner onto King street, every light the city had was on, giving it a surreal look. There was a line to get into The Majestic, at least thirty couples deep. Both gin joints on the other side of the street had lines too.
I pulled up to O'Cayz looking for a pair. A guy ran out to the cab wearing only shoes, slacks, and a t-shirt. He was in good spirits and wanted to go to State street so he could party on. I had one in and two pairs to get, so I didn't have room for him. For a drunk, he was real nice about being told he couldn't get in. As I watched him run back into the bar, I couldn't help noticing the back of his t-shirt. It was black, probably from other men walking on him. Then a woman wearing an evening gown and her date hurried out. They carefully weaved through the dozen or so men wrestling on the ground in the snow. I pushed the passenger door open so they could slid into the front seat before one of those drunks grabbed one of them and dragged them into the melee. I was really pleased when the woman said Breeze Terrace. That was the destination I was looking for, they were my passengers. I didn't have to tell them I couldn't take them. I put the Dodge into drive, and pulled away.
Her date, sitting next to me in the middle of the front seat was a sight. One arm of his tux was hanging by a couple of threads. The back of his right hand had a knot on it the size of a golf ball, surely caused by a badly broken bone. She was wearing a beautiful evening gown. Over and over she said, oh you poor baby. He wasn't bleeding on my cab, but his general appearance could only be described as, all beat up. I thought to myself, "Yeah lady, that's why you spent five hundred bucks on an evening gown. So your boyfriend could get himself in a bar brawl and get all beat up."
Four blocks later, I was sitting in front of The Fess, tooting the horn. A couple hurried out and piled into the back seat, their destination was State street, specifically The Pub. They had the trademark New Year's Eve hats and horns. They were loaded, the cab was loaded, everybody was happy, and I hadn't even gotten to the square yet. All short rides too! I swung around the corner onto King street, every light the city had was on, giving it a surreal look. There was a line to get into The Majestic, at least thirty couples deep. Both gin joints on the other side of the street had lines too.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Slush
We all know what slush is, and god knows there's going to be a lot of it out there in the very near future. It's supposed to warm up to just above freezing, daytime temperatures starting tomorrow, so all that knee deep snow will start to melt. Then we get black ice (snow melt water that freezes into slick ice at sunset), and everybody who is driving professionally would almost be money ahead to park it for a week, rather than risk higher insurance premiums.
In publishing, slush refers unsolicited queries. I'm not sure if it's the whole query, or if it's just the sample of the work the author is hoping they'll publish. I do know that reading slush is considered drudgery by the people in the business.
An agent turned author had a contest of sorts on his blog. Post a first paragraph on the blog in the comments and it's entered. The winner basically gets an agent. No, I did not win, nor did I make it into the finals. BUT, I did enter. A step forward. Next time, I'll do better.
Which brings me to what I'm really thinking. First paragraphs......
The last time I seriously thought about writing a paragraph (that I remember) was when Kennedy was either running for, or had just become, president. A long time ago, to be sure. After that, instructors assume you have already learned basic English, and don't present it again. And why would you care anyway, if you can speak, you can write. This makes sense and works fine until someone expects you to do a good job on something longer.
Which is where we come to that first paragraph, and that "slush pile" on a literary agents desk. 100's, or 1000's of submissions (they call them queries), and if that agent is late for his kids little league game, he might not care how good the top query on that pile is.
My reaction to this is to get myself a big collection of first paragraphs. I can't keep them on the internet because I don't want somebody chasing me around over copy rite issues, but I can keep them in a file on a disk, and study them. I'm not scanning them, I'm typing them in, so book by book, I'm seeing what finally made it into print. AND the comments of that agent who got to judge the finalists of that contest begin to make a lot more sense.
Why didn't my 4th grade teacher tell me about this stuff? I seriously doubt she had a clue. She'd just gotten her Mrs. degree, was only minimally interested in teaching, and was just like a lot of the other morons teaching in the public schools in my home town back then. She was putting in her time, and putting her husband through grad school (another big 10 town), and wanted a nice neat little formula she could use in class. She had NO CLUE what a paragraph was really used for, and didn't care. I'm sure she's a grandmother today, and I'll bet her ears still touch. Oh well..............
Back to transcribing those first paragraphs.....
In publishing, slush refers unsolicited queries. I'm not sure if it's the whole query, or if it's just the sample of the work the author is hoping they'll publish. I do know that reading slush is considered drudgery by the people in the business.
An agent turned author had a contest of sorts on his blog. Post a first paragraph on the blog in the comments and it's entered. The winner basically gets an agent. No, I did not win, nor did I make it into the finals. BUT, I did enter. A step forward. Next time, I'll do better.
Which brings me to what I'm really thinking. First paragraphs......
The last time I seriously thought about writing a paragraph (that I remember) was when Kennedy was either running for, or had just become, president. A long time ago, to be sure. After that, instructors assume you have already learned basic English, and don't present it again. And why would you care anyway, if you can speak, you can write. This makes sense and works fine until someone expects you to do a good job on something longer.
Which is where we come to that first paragraph, and that "slush pile" on a literary agents desk. 100's, or 1000's of submissions (they call them queries), and if that agent is late for his kids little league game, he might not care how good the top query on that pile is.
My reaction to this is to get myself a big collection of first paragraphs. I can't keep them on the internet because I don't want somebody chasing me around over copy rite issues, but I can keep them in a file on a disk, and study them. I'm not scanning them, I'm typing them in, so book by book, I'm seeing what finally made it into print. AND the comments of that agent who got to judge the finalists of that contest begin to make a lot more sense.
Why didn't my 4th grade teacher tell me about this stuff? I seriously doubt she had a clue. She'd just gotten her Mrs. degree, was only minimally interested in teaching, and was just like a lot of the other morons teaching in the public schools in my home town back then. She was putting in her time, and putting her husband through grad school (another big 10 town), and wanted a nice neat little formula she could use in class. She had NO CLUE what a paragraph was really used for, and didn't care. I'm sure she's a grandmother today, and I'll bet her ears still touch. Oh well..............
Back to transcribing those first paragraphs.....
Monday, February 7, 2011
What's funny anyhow?
Back in the day, I used to sit in front of the awning at the Essen Haus if there was nothing else better to do. One night I'm sitting there, and Mike and Neil drag this struggling guy out and toss him on the pavement. Back in they go. Mike's the door man, and Neil 's the bouncer.
The guy comes up to me and asks me if I'll give him a ride to Langdon st. I say ok. He gets in, and we're off.
Almost immediately he's telling me what happened. One of the things you learn is you don't have to ask, usually they'll tell you what happened. If they're ashamed of what happened they won't tell you, and it doesn't matter if you ask or not.
He tells me he went there with his room mate. That's pretty common. They were drinking a pitcher of beer, sitting at the bar. Also pretty common. It's a week night, and on week nights they don't have that UUUoom Paaaahh polka band going. If you go there, it's to dine or more likely to drink. German beer on tap, and the best freshly made warm soft pretzels you could ask for to munch on while you drink.
He gets up and tells his room mate he's going to the bathroom to relieve himself. We all know you don't buy beer, you rent it.
He comes back and his room mate is cracking up. He asks the guy what's so funny. The room mate just snickers on trying hard to control the giggles and breaking into fits of laughing his ass off. Just what the hell is so funny?
So he takes a sip of beer and asks again. The room mate goes bonkers, laughing his ass off.
Finally after much pressing, the room mate confides that what's so funny is he pissed in the guys beer. It was only 3/4 full, so he unzipped his pants, slipped the stein down under the bar and topped it up.
What would you do? Almost anybody I've ever met would be ready to kill the guy. He acted just how you'd expect.
Neil doesn't wait for explanations, he breaks up fights and tosses people out. So the poor victim got tossed out, and was sitting in my cab telling me the story.
Now comes the punch line, sort of ....................... The guy tells me that the ultimate insult, what he's really really really pissed off about, is that his room mate is still inside the bar drinking. They didn't boot him out, so he can't kick the guys ass!
You've got to wonder what happened when the guy who didn't get kicked out finally got home.
The guy comes up to me and asks me if I'll give him a ride to Langdon st. I say ok. He gets in, and we're off.
Almost immediately he's telling me what happened. One of the things you learn is you don't have to ask, usually they'll tell you what happened. If they're ashamed of what happened they won't tell you, and it doesn't matter if you ask or not.
He tells me he went there with his room mate. That's pretty common. They were drinking a pitcher of beer, sitting at the bar. Also pretty common. It's a week night, and on week nights they don't have that UUUoom Paaaahh polka band going. If you go there, it's to dine or more likely to drink. German beer on tap, and the best freshly made warm soft pretzels you could ask for to munch on while you drink.
He gets up and tells his room mate he's going to the bathroom to relieve himself. We all know you don't buy beer, you rent it.
He comes back and his room mate is cracking up. He asks the guy what's so funny. The room mate just snickers on trying hard to control the giggles and breaking into fits of laughing his ass off. Just what the hell is so funny?
So he takes a sip of beer and asks again. The room mate goes bonkers, laughing his ass off.
Finally after much pressing, the room mate confides that what's so funny is he pissed in the guys beer. It was only 3/4 full, so he unzipped his pants, slipped the stein down under the bar and topped it up.
What would you do? Almost anybody I've ever met would be ready to kill the guy. He acted just how you'd expect.
Neil doesn't wait for explanations, he breaks up fights and tosses people out. So the poor victim got tossed out, and was sitting in my cab telling me the story.
Now comes the punch line, sort of ....................... The guy tells me that the ultimate insult, what he's really really really pissed off about, is that his room mate is still inside the bar drinking. They didn't boot him out, so he can't kick the guys ass!
You've got to wonder what happened when the guy who didn't get kicked out finally got home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)