I love people.

One of the things I get to do for my job, is an occasional trip to exotic places, like Ware, MA or Conover, NC.  OK, maybe exotic is a stretch, but they are lovely places.  I have warehouses in those towns, so I go there and verify that the material we think is there, is in fact there and in good condition.  I enjoy this part of my job, because it gives me the opportunity to meet the people I deal with everyday via email or phone.  Now, to get to those places, involves flying there and visiting at least two airports.  Those airports are loaded with, lets say interesting, people.  My trip started with an hour and a half delay, due to non-functioning exit lights.  It seems that properly functioning exit lights are required by the FAA on all flights.  I guess I can live with that rule, even though if we crash, there will be plenty of light from the fireball that appeared immediately after we landed/crashed.  The flight was to Charlotte, NC, which for me, made it a direct flight.  For the rest of the plane, Charlotte was merely a connecting airport, and now at least half of the plane was going to miss their connecting flights.  They were not happy.  Me, I was disappointed that I got up at 4am to be at the airport on time, when in reality, I could have been one hour late and still been early.  There wasn't a lot going on in Des Moines, but there was one guy that was puzzling me.  The waiting area I was sitting in for US Air, is right across the hall for the waiting area for Delta.  I saw a guy walk up to the US Air area, stare at the flight board, which clearly stated US Air to Charlotte, NC and the time.  He then proceeded to walk across the aisle to the Delta waiting area, which clearly said New York, NY.  I think you will agree that those do not appear to be even close to the same.  I'll give you that they are both on the east coast, but that's it.  He sat down in the Delta area.  After the announcement was made that our flight was delayed, I saw him walk across the aisle and get in line for our gate attendant.  Oh, he must be on our flight, just waiting in the Delta area.  I've done that when the area for my plane is full, or the case when I was in Minneapolis and there were only 3 seats in my area, which seemed to be poor planning considering we had a whole plane waiting to board.  He stood in the line for about five minutes while the guy in front of him was being repeatedly told by the gate attendant that he had to go down to the main terminal to change his now worthless ticket, since he was going to miss his connection.  The second guy was not hearing it and kept standing there telling the lady that he WASN'T going down to the main terminal and back through security, and she needed to help him.  Well my guy got tired of waiting, so he went back to his seat at Delta.  He sat there for about five minutes, then gathered his things, and walked over to US Air and got in line right outside the boarding door, to board the plane that they weren't boarding yet.  I watched as he stood there, for what reason I don't know, for about 5 minutes, when he either realized they weren't going to board him just because he was in line, or he just got bored.  Now he comes and sits right next to me, where he proceeds to twitch and fidget for another 5 minutes.  He then walks back over to Delta, without his luggage, to talk to the Delta lady.  He then comes back to US Air and gets back in line to talk to the gate lady, who is still arguing with the guy from before.  He waits for awhile, then comes back and collects his luggage and goes back to Delta and sits down again. Now I can't wait to see what is next for Sir Walksalot, but unfortunately, the exit lights are fixed and we are boarding. The flight went well, except for the cramped bathroom which I posted on Facebook. We landed in Charlotte and I had something happen to me that has never happened to me before, and I bet it never happened to you either, or anyone you know. I had checked my bag, so I went to the baggage claim and I waited by the chute. As I waited, I realized something. I was the only person from my flight waiting for a bag. Just me. My bag came out, and only my bag. I thought that maybe the other people just hadn't made it to the claim area yet, but nope, I was the only person on the entire plane that checked a bag for Charlotte. That's a first. On my way to the baggage claim, I watched as person after person, loaded up on one of those moving sidewalks, that wasn't moving. I'm guessing they didn't see that it wasn't moving until they got right up to it and by then, it's too late so you might as well walk on it, but it has groves in it so their suitcases were making all kinds of racket all the way down the terminal. It was lunch time, so we drove the hour to the town we are staying in, and found a place to eat that had TV's so we could watch football. Did I mention it was a Hooters? Perhaps I shouldn't say it, since it isn't a place my wife wants me to visit. I see no reason to outcast the restaurant, just because there are scantly clad women working there. I'm under no illusion that any of these 20 something year old ladies is even slightly interested in a poor, 45 year old, married, father of three. Somehow, I don't feel I fall into their dream dates category. I will say that I think when two guys come in to eat and watch football, that they have no idea what to say to these two guys who aren't hitting on them one bit. Our waitress, who was more than qualified to work at Hooters, kept stopping by to talk to us, but wasn't really saying much, so she just kind of stood there. Perhaps she thought if she stood there, showing her job qualifications, that we would start the hitting on, or perhaps it was just a ploy to increase her tip. Sorry, but I know the game and I'm not playing. I did stuff my face so much that as I type this, nearly 3 hours after lunch, I still feel stuffed. I'm supposed to meet my workmate at 8pm for supper, so maybe a salad is in my future. Funny thing about the east coast, 8pm is a acceptable time for supper. I learned that from my New York travel mates years ago, when we would meet in the lobby to go to supper at 9pm. I think that's bad for you digestion, isn't it?

Let me be clear.

I want to be clear.  My comments about how I'd rather have my kids bring home the award below, than a sports trophy, by no means is a shot at sports trophies or the parents/kids that attempt to earn them. After reading my Facebook posts where I made those statements, I was concerned that my statements my be taken as a shot at trophy winning kids. I meant nothing like that. I myself have been know to put emphasis on winning trophies, as an adult, that I didn't win as a kid. In fact, as a kid, I never even played on a sports team, so my chances of winning any kind of sports award, was zero. However, when I was a kid, not everybody got a trophy, or medal or even a ribbon. With my athletic ability, the chances of me getting anything more than a participation ribbon wasn't very likely. The only ribbon I ever got as a kid was for actually building my pinewood derby car, that advanced to the finals of my heat, only to get its not existent doors blown off by my friend Doug, whose car broke the sound barrier that day. My car finished last, but I will say I was highly handicapped by my stepfather who couldn't help me, because he couldn't work a saw to save his life. As an adult, I began playing volleyball and fell in love with it. OK, to be honest, my first love was the beer we all drank after the games, but eventually, I got to be a decent player. Not good by any means, but passable. I was fortunate to play with very good players, who in turn helped me look less crappy. I was fortunate to be on these teams, that helped me earn my first trophy. Over the years, they helped me acquire several more trophies. Now, here is the pathetic part, I paid for my trophy. Oh I don't mean with my fees to the league, I mean the team I was on won a first place trophy and I was so desperate to have a trophy, that I took the one we won to a trophy making store and had them make me another one, so I could keep it. That was how badly I wanted one, and I got it. So I hope I have cleared that up. I have nothing against trophies and trying to win them, I just feel an award for academics or for volunteer work, is more valuable. Let me explain my view, and you can agree or disagree, and that's cool with me. The odds of a kid going pro in his favorite sport, are extremely low. That doesn't mean that a kid shouldn't continue to strive, or go for their dreams, but you might want to have a plan B, is all I'm saying. Mason, is not an athlete. He has played sports, and due to his asthma and his complete lack of desire to play sports, he hasn't exactly excelled. However, he is smart and has a heart of gold. So when he told me about winning the award, I was extremely proud of him and was glad to see a kid with little to no athletic ability, get recognition for doing something good. To me, an award for your character, is way better than an award for your physical ability. As I say that, I realize that I have never won an award for my character. I guess that shouldn't surprise me, but as I typed it, stung. That might be because there just aren't that many awards for character. Yeah, lets go with that.  That all being said, here is the letter we received from Mason's school.

Dear Parents/Guardians,

On behalf of the students and staff at Stilwell, we would like to thank your son for exhibiting the kind of positive behavior that helps to make Stiwell Junior High a great place to be.

Every month students from each team are nominated by staff members to be featured in the Celebrating Stiwell Students program.  Students receive a coupon for a free lunch or a la carte menu item in addition to having their photo and accomplishments posted in the display case at school.

Mason was nominated for this honor because he does an exemplary job of following Stilwell's 3 Cornerstones (do your best, do the right thing, and treat others the way you want to be treated).  He is very polite and respectful to all students and staff, turns in his work on time, tries his hardest at all times and much more.  Mason is a positive role model here at Stilwell.

We are very proud of Mason for receiving this recognition; it is greatly deserved.  We hope the experiences he has at Silwell continue to be positive ones.

Sincerely,

The E Team

Now that is a good letter to get regarding your kid.  I hope to see a bunch more like that.

Boo

Let's talk about haunted houses. Do you like them? I do not. Why you may ask? Well, I don't like to have the crap startled out of me. I won't say that I don't like to be scared, because I don't think Haunted houses are scary, they just try to startle you. And that, they are good at. It doesn't take much to startle me. In fact, I sometimes jump, and perhaps let out a little squeal, if I turn around too fast, only to find my wife standing there. Of course, I can't prove that she didn't just appear there, which would make my heart rate increase justifiable. I didn't hear her walk in, but then again, after years of concerts, most with a close proximity to speakers the size of townhomes, I don't have the best hearing anyway. I can remember the first haunted house I ever went too. I was living in Springfield, VA, and the haunted house was set up in a building with a lot of rooms down a hallway. Each door was set up too look like a jail cell door. As I came around a corner, I saw the jail cells and thought I would be smart and hug the back wall, away from the arms reaching out through the bars. As I slid my back against the opposite wall, I felt a hand grad my back and a scream. I'd like to think that the scream was from the now visible prisoner, but we all know that scream came from my 10 year old mouth. What I soon realized was, that the jail cell and prisoner I had tried so hard to avoid, was actually a mirrored reflection of the same prisoner that now had ahold of me. That was a dirty trick, one I would never forget. That gauntlet of reaching arms from 6 or 7 jail cells, emptied into a room with an assortment of bowls that you could put your hand in so you could feel what eyeballs, intestines and brains felt like. I later learned that the "eyeballs" were peeled grapes and God knows what the other two were. That trip made an impression on me. As I got older, I no longer feared the people in the houses, but I knew their ultimate goal was to make a grown man cry. I've also realized that I don't function well in the dark. I don't like to be in pitch black, that is why I pay my electric bill on time, every time. I'll go without water, I can pee in my backyard, but I will not go into my basement at night without lights, it's not natural. The last, and I do mean last, haunted house I was in was probably 20 years ago. I went with a group of friends, who for some unknown reason liked haunted houses, at a local grocery store that was known for their yearly scary basement. The trip started pretty well, I was on the lookout for the upcoming predictable jumping from behind the curtain, or arm grabbing me from behind a wall, but there were new obstacles that I hadn't encountered before. The first was, in that pitch black room I mentioned before, a room that seemed to have no exit. After a few minutes of feeling around the walls, and suddenly realizing that my friends were now all gone, I began to panic. Where had they gone? Did someone take them? Good, those assholes are the ones that brought me here and I don't want to be here anymore. As I contemplated balling up in the fetal position and whimpering myself to sleep, I heard one of those so called friends say "Mark, crawl." I yelled back, "That's what I was going to do." Well, I didn't want her to know that I almost gave up on life itself, merely because I was left alone in the dark for about 30 seconds. Now, on my hands and knees, I began to feel the wall at knee high, until I found the next portal to hell that my friends had all ready passed through. I found it, but soon realized that the crawl space was made for someone who is 4 foot 2 inches when standing, which I am not. I am 6 foot 4 inches, and crawling with that height, still makes me taller than whoever built this thing. So now I'm half crawling, half slithering in the dark, to the next section that I want nothing to do with. I keep moving, following the laughter of my friends who are obviously drunk or mentally unstable, for what seems like a mile. I hear my friends voices getting closer, so I know it's just a matter of time until I punch one of them in the face and claim it was an accident, in the dark. I finally bump into one of them, but something weird has happened. Apparently, the crawl space was only a few feet, but I continued to slither not knowing that I could stand up. As I smash into the calves of my friend, she says, "You can stand up now." Well isn't that helpful, thanks for the info. Now on this trip, I had been leading the line, not by choice, but by default, because I was the only guy. If they knew how nervous I was, I think I would have been stripped of my guy title and banished to the end of the line, which is the second worst place to be. After all, some of the scare people wait for the line to past, jump out in the back to scare you forward faster into the next trap. I was trampled many times because of this tactic. Since I'm now at the back of the line, I have a decision to make, do I stay back there, or do I whine my way back to the front. It's a lose, lose, situation, but I opt for the leader of the death march and work my way forward. We are in a hallway that is barely wide enough for one person, but a man determined can collapse his skeleton like a rat and get into spaces 1/4 his size. Now as the leader, I plug on, praying that we will soon be in a group of people complaining at how short this haunted house was for the money we paid. I'd be right there with them, vowing to NEVER come back to this waste of money, when in reality I would pay double if they would turn on the lights and come get me. It's still dark as night, and I have all ready smashed into so many walls trying to find my way through that I can barely see through my glasses that are now bent and smudged, partly from wayward fingers from other wall gropers and partly from the sweat that is forming on my fear riddled face. I'm moving along well, when my hand goes into a wall crevasse, and I feel a face. At this point, I'm not sure what to do. Do I acknowledge that I know he/she is there and possibly beg him/her not to scream at me, or do I just move on, knowing he will jump out at the end of the line, thereby causing my friends to rush forward pushing me right into the next scare position that will cause me to squeal like a girl, again. I go with the acknowledgement that I knew they were there, in hopes that they will just let us pass and wait for the next group. Yeah, that didn't happen. As soon as I revealed their hiding place, which apparently infuriated them, they screamed, scared the shit out of me and my friends STILL rushed forward, but instead of us getting away from this new scare person, now I'm in the arms of said person. This is no time to be romantic. I wiggle my way free and head off to the next section. The next section had what I would call a low beam. The 4 foot 2 inch person who built this death trap might think that it's just a low ceiling, but to a 6 foot 4 inch person, this is a head buster. I whacked my head on the padded beam nearly knocking myself out, but most certainly knocked myself backwards into the crowd of people that had formed behind me. I regained my footing, lowered my head and plowed forward, only to step on a soft squishy part of the path that caused me to tumble forward and fall to the ground, only to have the now panicked crowd trample me on their way out the exit into the night air. I'm alone, in the dark, in the haunted house, with scary people near me, but I don't know where. To say that I got the hell out of there, would be an under statement. I burst through the door, leaving the hellions behind, probably laughing at the big doofus who was battered nearly to death by his friends, and wonder why it smells a bit like urine on the squishy park of the trail. So as the ads start popping up in the newspaper, on the TV or on the radio, tempting you to plunk down your hard earned money to wander around in a haunted house, remember this. That place is flooded with urine and tears from people like me, and you my friend, just paid to walk in it.

Yes I'm back, you can all relax now.

Back by popular demand, or perhaps just a couple people inquiring about something completely unrelated, I have decided to try and start writing again. It has also been requested of me to post on my Facebook page when I do write, so they know when to come take a gander. That being said, let me put out a disclaimer for those of you that are visiting this site for the first time, drawn by my titillating Facebook post.


Disclaimer:
1. I am not a professional writer. I am a horrible speller and thank God everyday for the person who invented spell checker. I was not an English major is college, because I didn't go to college. Well, that isn't totally true, I took a college course for about 3 days when it hit me, I don't like school and I'm borderline retarded.

2. You will find slightly less than accurate grammar, punctuation and information on this blog. Please do not use this blog for your Masters Theses, you will fail and be banned from your school campus and website.

3. This blog has "colorful" language at times and isn't recommended for anyone over the age of 2 years old. If you are older than 2 years old, and still reading this, you're on your own. The writer of this blog and the whole Blogspot family, will not be held responsible for your hurt feelings or your offended nature, from something you read on this blog. Get over it, they're just words and you should take no offense to anything I say. I'm some random dude in the middle of America with 6 readers and no political aspirations, so this should never be a "skeleton" in my closet. I sometimes say "politically incorrect" things, see the word retarded in #1, so if you are sensitive to words, then read no further.

4. I do not feel that I'm better than anyone, so if you say to yourself, "This ass thinks he better than me," then you should stop reading my blog. You have missed the point. This is purely entertainment, mainly for me, but hopefully you get a laugh or two from something I have written, even if it's about you. I WILL point out my dumbass moves, as I will point out yours as well, if I see it. I will change the name to protect you so you don't get a visit from the FBI, CIA or any other letters. If your name was, say, Kevin, and I was telling a story about you, I would change your name to Kevine. That way, you stay anonymous and your feelings don't get hurt.

I'll leave it at that, see if I get any comments on the disclaimer, update if necessary, and publish the final draft. You will all be asked to sign a release, stating that you have read the disclaimer and will abide by its rules. Then I will have my lawyer draft up a contract and certify mail it to you. You will then need to get a notary to witness you signing the form and mail it back to me. I will then compile a list of "authorized" readers and post that as well. You then will be allowed to view, read and comment on all posts. Anything you say, can and will be used against you on a future post. Just kidding. Not really.

Now lets get started. Since my last post, I have gotten two years older, and no years wiser. I still do the same stupid things I did two years ago. I still drink too much Coke, although it is less. I still have a diet that should have killed me years ago, and see no chance that will change until they either pronounce me dead or tell me that if I eat one more cupcake, my head will explode. Even that might not remove cupcakes from the menu. I hate to admit it, but I had two cupcakes for breakfast the other day, and it was neither the first nor last time that has/will happen. Not proud of it, but if I'm anything, I'm honest about my poor choices. Now if you are friends with me on Facebook, then you know I saw a guy shit in the bushes the other day. I have written about it, spoke about it and even acted it out, up until the final act, I skipped that. You might be asking yourself, "What is the fascination with a grown man, dropping his pants in clear view of a major road, backing near a bush, and making dookie?" I'm glad you asked, because there is a very good reason for that. OK, maybe not a good reason, but a explainable reason. Really, not even an explainable reason, just a reason. That reason is, people fascinate me. Pure and simple, people amaze me at what they will say or do, right in front of other people, and think nothing of it. That is one thing I really like to write about, so be prepared for that. If you are a person that likes to say and do things that amaze people around you, be prepared for your name to show up here, Kevine.


It has been suggested of me that I should write a book. My take on that is, the only people who would read a book that I had written, would be my brothers and sisters and my other two avid readers. The problem with that is, since I would give all of my brothers and sisters signed, complimentary copies, that would leave my sales potential at 2 books. I'm pretty sure the money I would have to pay someone to correct my grammar, punctuation and just incoherent sentences, would be way higher than the amount of money I would make on sales of two books. I'll stick with the blog and see if I can get my readership up to five, then we will checkout the book writing potential and I can dream of ways to spend my new fortune of $.37.

Well my lunch is over, so I'm getting back to work. Here is a teaser on my next post. Haunted houses. Love them or hate then, they are coming on line now for the Halloween season and I've been to a few. Until next time....