It’s That Time of Year Again

Yes, tis the season for unending Christmas carols played over and over again. At first I don’t mind. I’m even heard singing along with a couple of songs. But, by the end of December I am sick of endless versions of “White Christmas,” “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” “Jingle Bells,” and “Rudolph the Red nosed Rein Deer.” 

I do have my favorites of course, though with the exception of one or two, are spiritual in nature and spirit, such as “Oh Holy Night,” “Silent Night,” and Handel’s “Messiah.” They are songs that truly are timeless and truly makes me proud to be a Christian. 

“My favorite is “Little Drummer Boy.” Ever since I was a little boy and saw that animated Christmas show of the same name. I choked up and cried upon hearing that song with the choral group singing and the little boy drumming to honor baby Jesus. It hits my heart every time because how the lyrics ring that “I’m a poor boy too,” seems to include everyone not born with a silver spoon. 

I still get emotional hearing that song played on the radio or whatever it is that is streaming into our casino. I prefer songs that tug at my heart strings rather than letting it snow or dreaming of a white Christmas, or a dancing snowman with a stove top hat. Those songs I tire of rather quickly. They don’t really describe the true meaning of Christmas. 

Songs like “Let it Snow” and “Jingle Bells,” don’t even have anything to do with Christmas but the winter season, which is three or four months long. Why even bother playing these songs at this time of year?  

Anyway, with the exception of my favorites, I’ll have to suffer through this season of endless noise where I work. Oh, did I mention one of our local radio stations plays Christmas music 24/7? Joy. 

Why I’m Thankful

Last year it was about Bob and his moment. As you all know, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I celebrated twenty three years of sobriety on November 21st. That was the day I drank my last alcoholic beverage, smoked or took any drugs.  

I’m thankful to be alive to live and be at peace with myself. The stroke I suffered in 2002 was a wake-up call I don’t want repeating. It’s what eventually inspired me to get back into writing, hoping that maybe one day I would be financially secure. 

In the meantime, I adjusted and overcame. I relearned to do my writing one handed and not my naturally born dominant hand. I used to be left handed before my stroke, now I do most everything right handed.  

I found love with a woman that I later married. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out for us, but if nothing else she pointed me in the right direction, morally and spiritually. I met her children and am thankful for that too. 

I live and survived my lowest point. In recovery counselors will tell the alcoholics and addicts that grace their presence that there are three choices we all make: death, jail, prison or psychological institutions, or recovery.  

There is no middle ground. That was my first mistake after my first stint in county jail. I had this belief in immortality, and was proved wrong in 2002, almost dead wrong. 

I’ll always be in recovery. I can’t ever fall off the wagon unless I make that choice to just go and die. But, why would I do something when life and living life is so much more meaningful and fulfilling? My moral compass is pointed in the right direction now. My beliefs in who I am and what I stand for are solid as a concrete pedestal. My passion for my friends and family are unwavering. 

I’m thankful for everything under the sun, the moon and the universe and thank God I’m alive to write this to my loyal readers. 

It’s A Gas

I filled my tank today at the local self-service station near the casino that I work at. As I filled the tank I noticed warning signs telling us morons how to safely fill a fuel can. 

On my car there are similar instructions and was amazed that what my car instructed was in complete and total opposition to how this precaution on fuel islands. On my car it clearly shows that I am supposed to leave the fuel can inside the car’s trunk, a filling hose connected to the filler cap is supposed to connect to the portable fuel tank, and then you can begin filling said can. 

On the caution sign this fuel island the exact opposite ids expected. They want the filling can taken out from the vehicle, set upon the filling island, and then begin filling said can. 

My concern is how could these instructions be so contrary? I mean, who is right here? And, who made up these instructions? 

I know that back when I was a teenager, I always filled gas cans on the fuel island. It seemed to make sense to all of us. There were even films in drivers’ ed about the dangers fueling gas cans in trunks of car trunks. The fumes would cause an explosion from any nearby spark. Plus the islands were grounded, whereas cars were not. 

Later on, after cellphones became a thing, we couldn’t fill our cars while using a mobile phone. The fear was the same, whether founded or bunk is anyone’s guess.  

So, my question remains who made this rule up and why is this so contrary to one and not the other? Safety warnings should be consistent and universal. One can’t contradict the other especially regarding a dangerous gas like petroleum. 

In the future I will fill my portable cans the way I was taught, on the fuel islands and not inside my new car that I admire too much to risk losing by something as careless as gassing cans in the trunk. 

11-11-11

The eleventh hours of the eleventh day of the eleventh month Private Doug Clark wasted away in an endless trench on the Western Front; a wasteland of craters, mud and tree trunks splintered by bombs and howitzer shells.  He shivered in damp and cold air.  His coat that everyone assured him would keep him warm, was wet and useless.  There was word of a truce about to begin, but the general would have none of it.  He wanted to carry the fight to the city of Berlin. 

Doug didn’t immerse himself in the politics of generals and such; his concern was warmth and survival.  He heard of a flare that would signal the truce to commence, but didn’t remember what the color of that flare was.  When the platoon sergeant, a kindly looking older man with a gray mustache and fat, jovial face, told them moments ago, a mortar landed and exploded.  The blast muted whatever he said in regards to the flare’s color. 

I’m too cold to care at this point, Doug the doughboy stated miserably to himself.  The color could be the colors of the rainbow for all I care.  He had a four day growth of beard on his nineteen year old face.  It made him look more manly, he thought.  At least back home in Philly I won’t be called kid anymore, when I get back.  He wasn’t a big man, but he wasn’t small either.  I’m just an average guy trying to do the right thing, he kept convincing himself. 

It was quiet now, only an occasional cannon shot could be heard from behind them.  Then they could hear the low pitch whistle as the shell flew past them and then the ear-piercing explosion over there on the other side of the line. 

This place was a beautiful forest, the Ardennes, before the war, seemingly an eternity ago.  Now, Doug only saw a muddy zone of absolute devastation wherever he looked. 

There was no flare that shot up though, instead a whistle sounded that ordered everyone to pull themselves from the trenches and attack their trench 500 yards away.  A no-mans land of barbwire and mines, machine gun nests and pillboxes that had seen its share of conflict since America went over here back in 1917.  What is going on, Doug asked himself as he followed the orders of the platoon sergeant and platoon leader, screaming at them at the top of their lungs.   They ran through the wire, all shredded from the last cannonade that erupted moments ago.  They pushed them to their trench and Doug could see the scared faces of the German soldiers someone hastily tried to create a makeshift white flag from a towel, or something.  They all seemed more puzzled by this than anything, as if the general wanted that last 500 yards for himself.  The Kaiser’s Krieger threw down their Gewehr 98 rifles to the ground and raised their hands in the sign of surrender. 

Doug reached them at the same time as the platoon sergeant and began ordering them in German who was in charge.  A corporal pointed at an officer who also dropped his personal weapon and his sword to the ground and raised his hands.  The platoon sergeant held his Browning BAR level to the Captain and asked him in German, “Are you prepared to surrender at this time?” 

“I will only talk to your commander,” he replied with contempt to the NCO. 

“LT, he will only talk to your kind,” the Sergeant pointed out with sarcasm in his voice. 

The lieutenant came up to the German captain and said, “I don’t speak German.” 

The officer looked at both men in confusion and frustration as he realized he had no choice as to whom he talked to and stated to the platoon sergeant, “Yes, my men are prepared to surrender.” 

Doug guarded a group of German privates who spoke quietly among themselves and asked him a question in German.  Doug, being from Philadelphia, recognized some of the words, but had a hard time figuring out what he asked.  “I’m sorry, my German isn’t that good,” he replied in a halting German that all laughed at. 

Finally, another German soldier in the group asked in English, “Now that you have successfully invaded our land, what do you plan to do with us?  The war is over, American.” 

“Sir, is that true?” he asked his platoon leader, a clean cut butter bar from West Point.  

“I supposed it might be true,” he stated as a green flare shot up into the sky and a loud whoop of joy erupted from everyone up and down the front. 

I’M BROKEN

Back in my younger days when I was a functionally dysfunctional alcoholic, going to my outpatient treatment to avoid jail time at the court’s discretion, our counselor always asked us how we were. 

Each and everyone of us always told that counselor, “we’re okay.” Or, actually, “I’m okay. It was of course a lie that I’m sure that counselor probably knew all too well. The truth for all of us would have meant jail time and having to start this program all over again.  

It was a joke because none of us believed we had a problem. We had our friends sign our forms that we attended AA meetings, mostly at our favorite watering holes. I’m sure now isn’t any different. We get arrested opt for deferred prosecution and go through the two year program gambling that no one would notice. 

I got away with it the first time around. The last time, not so much when I was arrested in 97 for DUI and told everyone I was being framed by the cops, went to court and a jury found me guilty. I spent a month in jail, and still I didn’t really learn my lesson. If I had to actually go to another counseling, which the judge did order me to perform along with AA meetings, I’m sure I would have told everyone that I was okay, lying about how sober I was and enjoying my life immensely. 

The stroke I suffered in 2002 was the wakeup call I needed to put my entire life into clearer focus. I wasn’t okay. I was broken and it took a young man wearing a hoodie at the casino I work at that had that message clearly inscribed boldly on that sweatshirt to see for myself how far I’ve come since that first day I went to my first counseling session over thirty years ago. 

Latest Release Live

My loyal readers, my new publisher, Prominent Edge Books, just released my latest edition of A Man’s Passion. 

It’s available through Amazon, though the marketing agent assured me the book will be distributed worldwide. 

Please, please, buy and read this newer and improved version of A Man’s Passion, and let me know how you like it. 

Thanks to all of you who enjoyed reading my stories and hopefully this latest effort will be successful too. 

Stupid is as Stupid Does

I don’t know about you, my loyal readers, but doesn’t it seem a bit asinine that we see all these recent robberies at jewelry stores? 

After all, I’m amazed that these owners are even allowed to display high end jewels in glass display cases. 

The latest, the brazen attempt in Paris, France at the Louvre Museum this past weekend. The time has finally come to be smarter than the thieves who commit these crimes. 

I’m one of those few liberal leaning democrats that believes in upholding laws that protects property. I’m also a firm believer in lower insurance rates. I don’t believe jewelry owners or insurance companies benefit with the present policy of displaying precious gems to the public to admire and ogle over. 

I’m afraid those days have past. We have a new generation of thieves and outlaws who use every advantage at their disposal to rob these stores of thousands, if not millions of dollars in product. These advantages include using computer generated AI to create scenarios on the best strategies and tactics to break and get out quickly and in their cases profitably. 

What I propose is so simple, I’m amazed no one else including the insurance industry hasn’t made this happen. Why not display costume jewelry in these display cases? The actual jewels would be stored in a confidential location, and the customer and jeweler would be the only ones privy to where this would be. 

Another option is doing Amazon-like ordering over the internet, though many customers do appreciate the one-on-one personal intimacy of going to a jewelry store. All I know is how expensive everything has gotten lately including property insurance. I’m certain these high-end smashes and grabbed robberies have much to do with that. It’s time for a commonsense approach here.

Oh Deer!

I’m watching Master Jerry eat his morning breakfast: toast, oatmeal, and coffee. I’m a cat I don’t care for any of that stuff. Why doesn’t he eat what I like? You know chicken flavored kibbles and canned tuna straight out of the can, which is quite tasty, though a bit boring. That’s why I like to hunt mice, flies, birds, and anything else I can pounce on and sink my highly sharpened claws. 

Oh, forgive my rudeness, I’m Tommy. The bird isn’t paying me any attention, so I can do this while he’s not looking. I’m now ten months old and something of a young adult, though I still feel more like a kitten than an adult cat. I guess in time I will settle down and act my age, though that doesn’t sound like much fun. I still enjoy taking naps though. I do miss Cato. I learned a lot from him and his hunting prowess.  

Speaking of hunting, the other adults that live on our property, the man named Nic, and the female human named Emely came home the other day just as Master Jerry did from his job. I still don’t understand what that word even means but he’s gone most of the day is all I know. 

Anyway, back to this story because it is very fascinating to say the least. They came home and opened the garage door. He went inside moving things around and she moved this contraption; he called it a cherry picker. It’s wheeled and on a horizontal stand, with a vertical arm and some mechanism that makes it move up and down. She then moves this cherry picker contraption to the back the pickup truck that I Like to sleep on top of the hood during the heat of day.  

Master Jerry busies himself with filling the trailer’s water tank, and doesn’t seem all that interested, but I am. I smell meat! So I decide to watch these two humans. He gets on the back of the truck and removes a tarp and throws it on the ground. The smell is stronger now. 

She has gone and brought a hose back, with a nozzle that she attached to the hose, sprays once and appeared satisfied. 

“What are you looking at?” Master Jerry asked me while he turns on another water faucet. I ignored his question. I’m now fully engrossed in this activity going on in front of me. I’m smelling fresh meat and he’s asking me a stupid question! 

Those two humans have attached a pair of legs to this cherry picker and pulled the whole dead and wonderful smelling creature out the truck’s bed. My mouth salivated when this creature came out in its full, dead glory! What is that? I’m standing nearly vertically on my hind legs as I watch them move this dead creature into the garage.  

“That’s a deer,” Master Jerry pointed out to me. A deer? How can they get a deer? And why haven’t you gone out and brought one of those home too? The unfairness of it all! It is big that’s for sure. He’s more than I could handle. I have heard that I have a couple cousins who are big enough to take one like that down. 

Maybe Master Jerry is too old to go and get one of those deer. That must be it! That and the fact he doesn’t walk well, and his left hand isn’t working well either probably requires more strength than he can handle. 

I’ll just go inside and eat my kibbles and dream of having one of those deer for dinner one day. 

Another Interview

As many of you my loyal readers know I have been using all media to market my books to garner interest and sales. Today, another is going to occur in the form of an interview with Zach Feldman. 

The interview starts in two hours and I’m a bit nervous about how I come off. Apparently Mr. Feldman likes candid unscripted interviews. Me, I’d like to be prepared. As evidenced by my performance from Logan Crawford, I thought I messed up because I had issues being spontaneous with Mr. Crawford’s questions. I was hoping this interview would be more scripted so that I’d feel in better control. 

I supposed that practice makes perfect. We’ll find out in two hours. You will see the result next week when the interview goes live.