Another story .......... just for the hallibut.
“The Martians Did It!”
By Kim Falk
Originally Written 1983
Revised March 16, 2002
H. G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” told the tale of the invasion of the Earth by large, malicious, technologically-advanced Martians. A frightening story to read although we are comforted by the knowledge that it is only fiction. I, however, have seen real Martians. I have watched as they persistently invaded a classroom in my high school. They were not large, nor were they malicious, but their numbers caused a great disruption in the everyday activities of my English class for several months.
It all began in “Stalag 206” one winter morning. Stalag 206 was how the students referred to our English class. That morning I was being verbally lashed by the “Kommandant” for doodling when he believed I should have been mesmerized by his disjointed ravings at the front of the room. I had been drawing a series of small, oblong creatures whose two skinny legs and bony knees protruded down from directly beneath the tiny body. The body itself was dominated by two huge friendly eyes which completely dwarfed the two tiny nose holes and the little smiling mouth. Two antennae, which protruded from the top of the head and bent towards the sides of the body like two elongated, backwards parenthesis, completed the picture.
The teacher looked over my “Martians” briefly and made some rather cruel statements concerning their appearance, parentage, and reason for existence. I felt sorry for the poor little things. They had certainly done nothing to warrant such harsh treatment. I decided right there that the Martians were entitled to some small measure of retribution.
A few weeks later, after allowing our beloved teacher’s mind to wander far from his recollection of the Martians, the attack began. I had carefully created ten “life-size” Martians and, just prior to class, placed them strategically around the classroom. The “Beast of 206” stormed in at the bell to start class. By the time class was over, as was the plan, he had been completely frustrated by the discovery, every few minutes, of another small smiling creature. I was genuinely amused by the many and groundless threats of violence he uttered towards his unknown assailant. This was fun! I quickly decided a “second wave” was in order.
One week later our Kommandant’s ire was raised, once again, to the boiling point as he stumbled through another class discovering the twenty-five Martians who had come to visit. The threats of violence now began to include not just the unknown trickster, but the trickster’s parents and any possible relatives, living or dead.
I waited a month before the next attack. It was a rapid one-two punch that left him breathless. First, he was surrounded by fifty tiny, smiling Martians. Then, a few days later, before he could fully recover, he came into class to find it nearly wallpapered by over one-hundred smiling little faces. He seemed particularly perturbed by the plaid ones. The epithets screamed at the class by the madman with the red, contorted face convinced me that he was near the breaking point. The Martians were near victory in this war, and I needed to help them post the win. All they needed was one carefully planned final assault. An attack so devastating that the revenge of the Martians would be complete. I had a plan … it would just take a little time.
Exactly two weeks later, on a bright sunny December day, I walked into school carrying a large manila envelope. It was time. Everything would have to go perfectly if what I had planned were to work.
I entered the classroom quite early so that I would have the time, and the privacy, to set up for the assault. I opened the envelope and carefully began placing the two-hundred fifty, brightly colored, full-size, smiling little Martians around the room. It took a while to get the job done, but the effect was startling. Anyone entering the room would find themselves stared at from every possible nook and cranny. I had even found a way to slip a few through the cracks into his locked desk drawers. I then pulled one last Martian from the envelope. This Martian was huge. The poster board he was on measured twenty-four inches square and he filled every inch. This was the “King Martian.” Complete with crown, robe and scepter he was a regal sight to behold. I carefully smoothed him out and taped him onto the small blackboard on the rear wall of the classroom. This gave the effect of all the other Martians facing him as his loyal subjects.
At this point a few of the other students began arriving for class. The stunned looks and giddy smiles as they entered that Martian “Wonderland” told me I had done well.
Enlisting the aid of several other students, I finished the scene. Carefully, we turned all of the students’ desks around to face the back of the room where the “King” presided over his motley court. I then instructed everyone to turn the desks upside down and for every student to sit in the opening created by the desk legs which, to be perfectly clear, were now all pointing up in the general direction of Mars. The final coaching was completed only moments before the Kommandant arrived.
The angry look of stunned horror on his face as he entered the throne room that used to be his classroom put victory within easy reach. He was livid! He had trouble breathing he was so angry and flustered. Finally, after several minutes of struggling to regain some semblance of composure, he managed to blurt out, “What the Hell is going on here?” To answer him, the entire class turned to look at him and began chanting in unison, “The Martians did it! The Martians did it!”
He gasped. He growled. He made genuinely ridiculous noises as he tried in vain to find any words at all. It was of no use, however, and he stormed speechlessly out of the room. My Martians had had their revenge.
The teacher was so flustered by the whole affair that he did not return to class for three days. When he did return, he acted much more pleasantly and significantly more human. We were all amazed that the Principal or one of his assistants hadn’t come down to see the spectacle and punish us all. They must have thought he needed it as much as we did. Anyway, the plan was a success and the Martians and their King returned back to their home planet victorious and happy. It was a great and wonderful occasion.
Still. I wonder, though. What I could have done with Venusians.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
It's Not the Size of the Engine ... It's the Road It Travels
Recently a friend was feeling rather depressed and confided to me that he had been thinking about his life and how he hadn't done anything "big" with his life. I thought about that for a while and I realized that he was looking for comfort and validation for his life in the wrong place. Very few people in this world do huge things that make them famous or noted. You can't judge your life by impossible criteria. You make a difference one person at a time. Small victories. Just being there at the right time or helping steer someone the right way. I taught at college for six years as adjunct faculty. I still meet up with ex students and I can't tell you how many of them thanked me for what I taught and for being helpful and patient with them. I was a scoutmaster for a while and I think I helped make a small difference in how those kids viewed the outdoors and their own self-sufficiency. I've had people confide the worst things to me because they needed a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen and they know I will keep the secrets they have asked me to keep. So I am not famous. I am not going to cure cancer or create world peace. But, hopefully, I have been a positive and guiding influence to some and, hopefully, they will pass that along to others. I can make a difference in the lives of many .... as long as I do it one person at a time. And THAT is a huge victory and a reason to keep going on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
What "Family" Really Is
It has become very apparent to me lately that the term “family” refers to the people in your life that nurture you, and guide you, and love you. This often has nothing to do with the people who created you biologically, and anyone who may be related to them.
My dad was an alcoholic and died when I was nine. My mom raised my sister and I by herself. We always knew she cared for us and she always did her best for us, but she was not a huggy kissy kind of person. We were never really “close.” She was always cold and aloof and rarely praised us. Even when we had good grades and stuff it was always, “Well, you could be doing better.”
Because she was always working, my sister and I were “latch key kids.” This meant that we really had minimal supervision. Where I generally took that as a challenge to try to “do the right thing,” my sister looked at it as free-range to do as she pleased. We both abused it at times but no one’s perfect.
My sister was always very selfish and everything was always what she wanted, and she wanted everything. She was angry when I was born because I cut into her having her way and she has treated me badly my whole life. She teased me, denigrated me, and generally bullied me until I was in high school and finally got the nerve to tell her off. I’ve refused to let her bully me since.
For many years, my mother lived with my sister. This was, in my opinion, primarily because my sister used my mother to bail her out of all of her financial crises. My mom always complained to me about how my sister had to borrow money, or how she had to help her pay for something. But for many years we all hardly talked to each other except on holidays or if there was some “important” news about a relative, like someone died. I never considered this a bad thing because if there was one thing my mom taught me, it was to be independent. We always had an understanding between us that “no news was good news” so we never felt compelled to talk “just to chat.”
My mom eventually moved out and got her own apartment where she lived on her own for a long time. A few years ago, she began having weird spells and memory problems and she was diagnosed with dementia. This has progressed and she is now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For a couple of years, meds kept her fairly stable and she could still live on her own with my sister keeping close tabs on her. My sister did this because she lived very close to her and worked from her house. I worked business hours in an office 35 miles away and we both agreed it was better if she did the day-to-day stuff. But she is no longer able to care for herself and is now in a nursing home.
I was handling her finances for a while, but, I could get no accountability from my sister and I didn’t like a lot of the things I was seeing in the checkbook. The more I asked for accountability the angrier and more abusive she became. Until she finally stopped taking any calls and blocked my emails. Imagine, I’m legally responsible for money she’s spending and she won’t tell me where it’s going. That was the last straw. Since I was legally responsible for the government money, and because I could get no decent accountability from my sister, I had to protect myself and my family by divorcing myself from my mother’s finances.
My sister has spent the last year telling everyone on our side of the family that I have “abandoned” my mother. I “never” visit her and “never” call her. She takes great pride in telling me how the rest of our family now hates me as thoughtless and evil. In the meantime, no one from our family has made any attempt to contact me for anything. Not to find out my side of the story, or even to see how things were going for me. Most of them haven’t sent me even a token Christmas card in years, and stopped inviting me to any family outings well over a decade ago. My niece is a chip off the old block. Harassing everyone in my family and attacking them at every turn.
This is supposed to be my “family?”
I have been visiting and calling my mother, and she once commented that I was not really a member of our family anymore. I seemed to be a member of my wife’s family. This is because when we talked I always talked about my wife’s family, her sisters and husbands, and their kids.
She was right.
I am a member of my wife’s family. I became that when I married her and they treat me like a “family” should. They are close and keep in contact. We are always invited to different homes around holidays and everyone sends cards and letters. We constantly call and email and when my mother first started having problems, many people on my wife’s side of the family called to ask how I was, how my mom was, and if there was anything they could do to help. It’s not all perfect, but at least people care and show it.
All I did was marry into this family and they have taken me in as one of their own. Just like in high school when my friend Joe’s family took me in and cared for me like I was one of their kids. I was just invited over around Christmas and spent time with them. These are the people I learned loving, caring, respect, and how to treat family from. Not my biological household. These are the people who are my family, not those whose DNA I share. I would be proud, at any time, to tell people I was a member of those families. I do not have the same warm feelings for my biologics.
So I watch with great sadness as my mother goes through this, and I will continue to see her and talk to her as long as she can remember who I am. We actually have nice conversations and she seems pleased to see me. My biological relations can think of me by whatever slander my sister feeds them. I’d sue her but she’s not worth it. It is their shortcoming and problem, not mine. I will continue to spend most of my time with my “family.” The ones who really care and the ones who really matter.
I really don’t think I care anymore what my biological relatives do.
They are simply not my “family.”
My dad was an alcoholic and died when I was nine. My mom raised my sister and I by herself. We always knew she cared for us and she always did her best for us, but she was not a huggy kissy kind of person. We were never really “close.” She was always cold and aloof and rarely praised us. Even when we had good grades and stuff it was always, “Well, you could be doing better.”
Because she was always working, my sister and I were “latch key kids.” This meant that we really had minimal supervision. Where I generally took that as a challenge to try to “do the right thing,” my sister looked at it as free-range to do as she pleased. We both abused it at times but no one’s perfect.
My sister was always very selfish and everything was always what she wanted, and she wanted everything. She was angry when I was born because I cut into her having her way and she has treated me badly my whole life. She teased me, denigrated me, and generally bullied me until I was in high school and finally got the nerve to tell her off. I’ve refused to let her bully me since.
For many years, my mother lived with my sister. This was, in my opinion, primarily because my sister used my mother to bail her out of all of her financial crises. My mom always complained to me about how my sister had to borrow money, or how she had to help her pay for something. But for many years we all hardly talked to each other except on holidays or if there was some “important” news about a relative, like someone died. I never considered this a bad thing because if there was one thing my mom taught me, it was to be independent. We always had an understanding between us that “no news was good news” so we never felt compelled to talk “just to chat.”
My mom eventually moved out and got her own apartment where she lived on her own for a long time. A few years ago, she began having weird spells and memory problems and she was diagnosed with dementia. This has progressed and she is now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For a couple of years, meds kept her fairly stable and she could still live on her own with my sister keeping close tabs on her. My sister did this because she lived very close to her and worked from her house. I worked business hours in an office 35 miles away and we both agreed it was better if she did the day-to-day stuff. But she is no longer able to care for herself and is now in a nursing home.
I was handling her finances for a while, but, I could get no accountability from my sister and I didn’t like a lot of the things I was seeing in the checkbook. The more I asked for accountability the angrier and more abusive she became. Until she finally stopped taking any calls and blocked my emails. Imagine, I’m legally responsible for money she’s spending and she won’t tell me where it’s going. That was the last straw. Since I was legally responsible for the government money, and because I could get no decent accountability from my sister, I had to protect myself and my family by divorcing myself from my mother’s finances.
My sister has spent the last year telling everyone on our side of the family that I have “abandoned” my mother. I “never” visit her and “never” call her. She takes great pride in telling me how the rest of our family now hates me as thoughtless and evil. In the meantime, no one from our family has made any attempt to contact me for anything. Not to find out my side of the story, or even to see how things were going for me. Most of them haven’t sent me even a token Christmas card in years, and stopped inviting me to any family outings well over a decade ago. My niece is a chip off the old block. Harassing everyone in my family and attacking them at every turn.
This is supposed to be my “family?”
I have been visiting and calling my mother, and she once commented that I was not really a member of our family anymore. I seemed to be a member of my wife’s family. This is because when we talked I always talked about my wife’s family, her sisters and husbands, and their kids.
She was right.
I am a member of my wife’s family. I became that when I married her and they treat me like a “family” should. They are close and keep in contact. We are always invited to different homes around holidays and everyone sends cards and letters. We constantly call and email and when my mother first started having problems, many people on my wife’s side of the family called to ask how I was, how my mom was, and if there was anything they could do to help. It’s not all perfect, but at least people care and show it.
All I did was marry into this family and they have taken me in as one of their own. Just like in high school when my friend Joe’s family took me in and cared for me like I was one of their kids. I was just invited over around Christmas and spent time with them. These are the people I learned loving, caring, respect, and how to treat family from. Not my biological household. These are the people who are my family, not those whose DNA I share. I would be proud, at any time, to tell people I was a member of those families. I do not have the same warm feelings for my biologics.
So I watch with great sadness as my mother goes through this, and I will continue to see her and talk to her as long as she can remember who I am. We actually have nice conversations and she seems pleased to see me. My biological relations can think of me by whatever slander my sister feeds them. I’d sue her but she’s not worth it. It is their shortcoming and problem, not mine. I will continue to spend most of my time with my “family.” The ones who really care and the ones who really matter.
I really don’t think I care anymore what my biological relatives do.
They are simply not my “family.”
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Transformation of a Town
This story is a mite older. It reflects more my status as Grand Duke of Hoboes and gives you a better feel for why I appreciate the honor.
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Christmas Got Run Over by a UPS Truck
Chestnuts roasting on a cardboard fire
Jack Frost chips a vinyl nose
Tapes of Yuletide Carols sung by a Plywood Choir
and Mannikins Dressed Up like Eskimos
Oh, Everybody Knows
Tofu Turkey and Fake Mistletoe
Neighbors Competing with their Lights
Tiny Tots before the Tube All Aglow
Will Find it Hard to Sleep Tonight.
They know that Santa's on His Way
Mom and Dad Have Been Ordering from Amazon All Day
and Every Mother's Child is Gonna Cry
If the Room's not Stacked with Presents ... Sky High
and so I'm Offering this Simple Plea
To everyone including you and Me
Let's Keep Christmas for Family and Friends
and Make It Mean Something Special Again
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ewigkeit
I said I would probably publish some of my stories. Here is a relatively recent one. If you want to know what the title means ..... it's German ..... look it up.
Ewigkeit
By The Grand Duke of Hoboes
Initial Draft (July 13, 2007)
Revision 1 (July 14, 2007)
Revision 2 (February 7, 2008)
© Copyright 2007
Three hundred years.
He was surprised it had even crossed his mind.
He had been hard at work thinking about other things when it just popped into his head and stole his attention completely.
Three hundred years.
He had stopped thinking about birthdays ages ago. What would have made this one pop into his head?
Three hundred years.
Maybe it was just the "milestone" aspect of it that had unconsciously caught his attention. After all, reaching the age of three hundred should mean something. It had been a long time since the year 2055. But he knew it really held no significance anymore. He was in an elite group by reaching that milestone. There were only 743 humans, including himself, that had reached that milestone. But he knew that was only because he was part of the first 1,000 to undergo the procedure. Billions had followed since those early days and, someday soon, this milestone, like most of all previous human milestones, would mean virtually nothing. Still, even with all those billions coming up behind him, he would have the smug confidence of knowing he’d hit all those future milestones just a little ahead of the crowd. Not bad for a wild kid who never thought he’d make thirty alive.
He thought back over those three hundred years. His memory was perfect. He remembered the philosophical, moral, and political firestorm that erupted when scientists and doctors had first announced that it was now possible to transfer all of the thoughts of a human into a machine. The wonder of a human mind in an android body. People argued about it for several years. He didn't see what the big deal was. Artificial and lab-grown replacement body parts were old news. He, himself, had several replacement organs and thought nothing of it. He didn't understand the objection over the total body overhaul. Many other people apparently thought the same way and were also intrigued with the idea, like he was. They all joined in a lawsuit to be allowed to live their lives as they pleased.
They won.
The decision was to allow 1,000 to undergo the procedure and monitor them for several years to make sure it was safe. He was one of the 1,000. It took five years to get everyone converted. He had the procedure done in year three and was happy to do it. He had just turned 50 and his age was beginning to catch up to his body. Even though there were many medical procedures and drugs to control and correct those ravages of age, the thought of putting all of that behind him and jumping back into his youth thrilled him. He had no children and his wife had died in an accident just a few years earlier so he had nothing to lose. His physical body, like that of all who undergo the procedure, was stored in a repository. This was to preserve his biological DNA in case he ever got married and wanted children after becoming a machine. The monitoring went well and, eventually, the procedure was opened up to any adult. People flocked to the labs by the millions to have it done.
Why not?
Who didn't want to live forever? Who didn't want to eliminate aging and sickness? Who didn't want to be young and strong forever? The conversion would, for all practical purposes, make a person immortal. A little routine maintenance, an occasional mechanical upgrade, and the avoidance of major accidents would keep you alive indefinitely. Those wonderful little engineers even fixed it so you could have and enjoy sex. Once people realized that they would retain their personalities and individuality and not become part of some mindless collective hive, they were happy to leave behind all of the frailties of the human body.
At least, most of them were.
There was an almost religious upheaval by a small minority who felt that it was not "natural." They preached that people were meant to live time limited lives in physically limited bodies in order to better understand themselves and the “Human Condition.”
His own sister was one of those "flesh zealots." Five years his junior, she had a mind of her own. She argued with him and he argued back. She spoke of the spirit while he spoke of the body. She reached for the soul while he reached for knowledge. In the end, they agreed to nothing except the other person’s right to live as they so chose. He never could convince her to undergo the conversion and she doggedly held fast to her ideals. He was very sad when she contracted an illness and died just after her 80th birthday. She had been dead now for 215 years. An odd wave of sadness washed over him again as he contemplated that. He had never thought about her death in quite those terms.
It temporarily startled him.
The conversion led to an unexpected change in the destiny of humanity. Man-made evolution. People were now machines. They didn't need to breathe air or eat food. They could be sent directly into space to live and work without all of the cumbersome supporting structures that had plagued Man's efforts to move away from the planet. Suddenly, space travel was a breeze. When you have unlimited time, and need little infrastructure, space travel and exploration becomes, well, fun. Knowledge becomes an end to itself.
People left the planet in droves to explore the solar system and beyond. Individual humans, buzzing about the universe on individual quests for knowledge, were everywhere. Colonization groups banded together and began traveling out to other solar systems, bringing along their packed corporeal bodies like early travelers brought suitcases full of clothing.
One of the original philosophical fears was that some country would use the technology to build a super army and take over the Earth. What the worriers didn't seem to realize was, once you released a person from his constraints and no longer bound his existence to Man, Money, or God, he didn't care anymore about killing others for glory. He didn’t have to reach for Heaven, or run from Hell. There were much more interesting and enjoyable things to be done.
The end result was that less than 5 million biological humans now remained on the planet Earth. Without humans to overload and ravage it, the entire ecosystem began to renew itself. Wildlife flourished. Nature reclaimed the cities that Man abandoned. The atmosphere cleared. The ozone layer bandaged itself. There was no such thing as an "endangered species" list. Abandoned resources and materials were reclaimed by the inhabitants rather than creating more. Earth was now the Eden that Man had longed for it to be all along.
All we had to do was leave.
Once people became immortal machines, they started to put their intelligence into more esoteric pursuits. Of course there were a few accidents. Becoming an android doesn't automatically exclude you from stupidity. There was even still an occasional rare murder. But most of that was part of a long-gone past. Strangely enough, with such a vast universe to explore, there were even periodic reports of “fender benders.” He never did figure out how two humans could collide with each other in millions of billions of cubic miles of open space.
The UniNet was created when groups realized that they could network to each other, and gain the thoughts and knowledge of the others, without losing their own thoughts and individualities. New technologies made this possible even over vast distances in real-time once the underlying structure of the Universe was decoded. Privacy was even secured as one could simply break the connection at will and take a "vacation" from the masses. Secured memory areas were created too. Everyone didn't have to know everything. Within 60 years, nearly everyone was linked. Knowledge exploded.
So, here he was, three hundred years after his birth, waxing nostalgically about his life and Humanity in general as he studied a small black hole that was cruising independently though the outer edges of the Oort Cloud. But, he had spent enough time looking backwards. That original birthday thought, and all of the flotsam it brought back with it, had severely set him back in his observations. He had lost nearly a millisecond in precious observational time by reacting to that strange fleeting thought. It was a waste of time and an emotional annoyance. It was time to put it all behind him and move on. He would never think about it again.
Three hundred years.
Ewigkeit
By The Grand Duke of Hoboes
Initial Draft (July 13, 2007)
Revision 1 (July 14, 2007)
Revision 2 (February 7, 2008)
© Copyright 2007
Three hundred years.
He was surprised it had even crossed his mind.
He had been hard at work thinking about other things when it just popped into his head and stole his attention completely.
Three hundred years.
He had stopped thinking about birthdays ages ago. What would have made this one pop into his head?
Three hundred years.
Maybe it was just the "milestone" aspect of it that had unconsciously caught his attention. After all, reaching the age of three hundred should mean something. It had been a long time since the year 2055. But he knew it really held no significance anymore. He was in an elite group by reaching that milestone. There were only 743 humans, including himself, that had reached that milestone. But he knew that was only because he was part of the first 1,000 to undergo the procedure. Billions had followed since those early days and, someday soon, this milestone, like most of all previous human milestones, would mean virtually nothing. Still, even with all those billions coming up behind him, he would have the smug confidence of knowing he’d hit all those future milestones just a little ahead of the crowd. Not bad for a wild kid who never thought he’d make thirty alive.
He thought back over those three hundred years. His memory was perfect. He remembered the philosophical, moral, and political firestorm that erupted when scientists and doctors had first announced that it was now possible to transfer all of the thoughts of a human into a machine. The wonder of a human mind in an android body. People argued about it for several years. He didn't see what the big deal was. Artificial and lab-grown replacement body parts were old news. He, himself, had several replacement organs and thought nothing of it. He didn't understand the objection over the total body overhaul. Many other people apparently thought the same way and were also intrigued with the idea, like he was. They all joined in a lawsuit to be allowed to live their lives as they pleased.
They won.
The decision was to allow 1,000 to undergo the procedure and monitor them for several years to make sure it was safe. He was one of the 1,000. It took five years to get everyone converted. He had the procedure done in year three and was happy to do it. He had just turned 50 and his age was beginning to catch up to his body. Even though there were many medical procedures and drugs to control and correct those ravages of age, the thought of putting all of that behind him and jumping back into his youth thrilled him. He had no children and his wife had died in an accident just a few years earlier so he had nothing to lose. His physical body, like that of all who undergo the procedure, was stored in a repository. This was to preserve his biological DNA in case he ever got married and wanted children after becoming a machine. The monitoring went well and, eventually, the procedure was opened up to any adult. People flocked to the labs by the millions to have it done.
Why not?
Who didn't want to live forever? Who didn't want to eliminate aging and sickness? Who didn't want to be young and strong forever? The conversion would, for all practical purposes, make a person immortal. A little routine maintenance, an occasional mechanical upgrade, and the avoidance of major accidents would keep you alive indefinitely. Those wonderful little engineers even fixed it so you could have and enjoy sex. Once people realized that they would retain their personalities and individuality and not become part of some mindless collective hive, they were happy to leave behind all of the frailties of the human body.
At least, most of them were.
There was an almost religious upheaval by a small minority who felt that it was not "natural." They preached that people were meant to live time limited lives in physically limited bodies in order to better understand themselves and the “Human Condition.”
His own sister was one of those "flesh zealots." Five years his junior, she had a mind of her own. She argued with him and he argued back. She spoke of the spirit while he spoke of the body. She reached for the soul while he reached for knowledge. In the end, they agreed to nothing except the other person’s right to live as they so chose. He never could convince her to undergo the conversion and she doggedly held fast to her ideals. He was very sad when she contracted an illness and died just after her 80th birthday. She had been dead now for 215 years. An odd wave of sadness washed over him again as he contemplated that. He had never thought about her death in quite those terms.
It temporarily startled him.
The conversion led to an unexpected change in the destiny of humanity. Man-made evolution. People were now machines. They didn't need to breathe air or eat food. They could be sent directly into space to live and work without all of the cumbersome supporting structures that had plagued Man's efforts to move away from the planet. Suddenly, space travel was a breeze. When you have unlimited time, and need little infrastructure, space travel and exploration becomes, well, fun. Knowledge becomes an end to itself.
People left the planet in droves to explore the solar system and beyond. Individual humans, buzzing about the universe on individual quests for knowledge, were everywhere. Colonization groups banded together and began traveling out to other solar systems, bringing along their packed corporeal bodies like early travelers brought suitcases full of clothing.
One of the original philosophical fears was that some country would use the technology to build a super army and take over the Earth. What the worriers didn't seem to realize was, once you released a person from his constraints and no longer bound his existence to Man, Money, or God, he didn't care anymore about killing others for glory. He didn’t have to reach for Heaven, or run from Hell. There were much more interesting and enjoyable things to be done.
The end result was that less than 5 million biological humans now remained on the planet Earth. Without humans to overload and ravage it, the entire ecosystem began to renew itself. Wildlife flourished. Nature reclaimed the cities that Man abandoned. The atmosphere cleared. The ozone layer bandaged itself. There was no such thing as an "endangered species" list. Abandoned resources and materials were reclaimed by the inhabitants rather than creating more. Earth was now the Eden that Man had longed for it to be all along.
All we had to do was leave.
Once people became immortal machines, they started to put their intelligence into more esoteric pursuits. Of course there were a few accidents. Becoming an android doesn't automatically exclude you from stupidity. There was even still an occasional rare murder. But most of that was part of a long-gone past. Strangely enough, with such a vast universe to explore, there were even periodic reports of “fender benders.” He never did figure out how two humans could collide with each other in millions of billions of cubic miles of open space.
The UniNet was created when groups realized that they could network to each other, and gain the thoughts and knowledge of the others, without losing their own thoughts and individualities. New technologies made this possible even over vast distances in real-time once the underlying structure of the Universe was decoded. Privacy was even secured as one could simply break the connection at will and take a "vacation" from the masses. Secured memory areas were created too. Everyone didn't have to know everything. Within 60 years, nearly everyone was linked. Knowledge exploded.
So, here he was, three hundred years after his birth, waxing nostalgically about his life and Humanity in general as he studied a small black hole that was cruising independently though the outer edges of the Oort Cloud. But, he had spent enough time looking backwards. That original birthday thought, and all of the flotsam it brought back with it, had severely set him back in his observations. He had lost nearly a millisecond in precious observational time by reacting to that strange fleeting thought. It was a waste of time and an emotional annoyance. It was time to put it all behind him and move on. He would never think about it again.
Three hundred years.
Social Nut-Working
25 years ago, if I wanted to contact someone I knew, I had three choices. I could call them on the phone, mail them a letter, or drive over and see them. Today I have those same three choices ... plus ... cell phone, email, three different instant messaging accounts, texting, and Skype. However, apparently that is not enough ways to let people annoy me. My kids have been pushing for me to create a FACEBOOK page so I have. In the short time my page has been active, I have found out, by reading many of the posts I see, that many people have a highly inflated sense of self-importance. They somehow feel that, by posting on an internet board, they and everything they do is interesting to the world. Um .......... poppycock!!!!! The kind of crap I swore I would not do with this blog in my first post, is exactly what most people seem to be doing with Facebook. Why do people think it is important or interesting to tell people they are waking up, or going to sleep, or going to the mall, or that they are annoyed by the weather? My initial reaction to that stuff is, WHO CARES? I will leave the page up and I will post when I think I have things to say, but all of this time and energy-wasting drivvel may drive me off the scene in a short time. When I created the page, my son welcomed me to "the dark side" and promised cookies. It may take more than cookies to keep me interested in the "dork side." I'll give it a chance, though. For a while.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
All Aboard
Forgot to add the note that we have a new dog. I am still saddened by our loss in January, but, in March I was looking at some stuff on the internet and ran across a picture of an adorable dog in a shelter near where I work. I went to check her out and liked her instantly. We got her and she is our new darling. I love smart dogs and she is definately one of them. She's a real sweetheart, so we named her Candy. It always feels good to find such a happy, loving pet and rescue them from a shelter. Knowing we can give her a home and a loving family. I think we will have a long, happy relationship.
Sand Under the Wheels
It's been a long and busy year so far and I haven't had much time to devote to this blog. Went on a father/daughter vacation to Arizona late in the spring which was wonderful. This was my daughter's idea. When my kids were younger, we would go on family vacations every couple of years. In between, I would alternate taking short vacations with my kids. Long weekends and such to places within a day or so driving distance. We always had a blast. My daughter approached me last year about doing one last father/daughter vacation before she got too old and moved out permanently. We planned it out and did one hellacious trip all through Arizona. Not surprisingly, my son approached me about doing the same thing (without knowing daughter had asked first). So we are trying to plan a father/son somewhere out west next year. I got my traveling genes from my mom and I can plainly see they were passed along to my kids. I have lots of great stories and adventures from my early travels, but, my kids don't seem to believe them until they see them firsthand. I can't tell you how many times during our vacation my daughter told me "oh my god, you weren't kidding." Tickles my heart. She has a whole new appreciation for desolation after driving from Carlsbad to El Paso. That's it for now. I may post one of my writings soon ...... just because I can.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fires Gone Cold
On Saturday, January 24th, one of the toughest and saddest days of my life. Our beloved family dog, Samantha, was put to sleep. To be sure, I have had to have pets euthanized before. I grew up in a house full of pets and, occasionally, they had medical problems or age caught up with them and they had to be put down. But I was a kid then, and we were just told what had to be done, the pets went away and never returned, and we were sad. This was completely different. She was 12 1/2 years old and we had her since she was about 8 weeks old. I brought her into the house and, although the family all thought of her as "their" dog, she really was "my" dog. She was smart, she was happy, she was fun, and we were best buddies all this time. She developed tumors in her nose and sinuses and, other than controlling any infections, there was nothing we could do for her. She finally became so disabled by the things that it was just cruel to make her continue. She couldn't smell, she would hardly eat (lost 10 lbs in a month), and she was bleeding almost constantly from her nose. If she sneezed she would rip loose a tumor and blood would pour from her nose and mouth. She was tired and miserable ..... and I had to make the decision to kill her. That alone was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. The entire family went and we held her and were with her when they put her to sleep. It was quick, it was painless, it was quiet, and I felt like a freakin' axe murderer. It was as if I had betrayed her and killed her with my bare hands. I have never felt more horrible. I have been sad and depressed all week. My stomach was in knots for two days and, now that I am reliving all of this, it has been rolling over again. I know I will eventually get over this, but the heartache I feel for the loss of my beloved friend and companion I will never forget. I loved her with all my heart and I will never forget her. The love and friendship and caring she returned to us will always be a bright spot in our lives. Goodbye baby. You'll be missed always.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)