Keep it up!

Add Along will roll through the week! It has so much potential!
“Be your own voice.” – Anonymous

‘Fugee

Scroll down a bit, you might’ve missed The Sunday Short…

Rob had a post that inspired me to write.
This is the second time this week that this has happened (Robyn did it first).
Read his post.
Then read mine…

– As a King Soopers employee I can’t let this post pass sans comment. I know this scene quite well, I see it and others like it several times a week.

– Not long ago my co-worker Dan had a buggy forcefully rammed into his back and legs by an irate customer (and he’d offered her a more than reasonable solution to her problem, he’d even have given her some things for free.). The reason this happens at grocery stores? Because there is no ’specific’ clientele, this is not a four star hotel (thought the slime does ooze there at times), it’s not a salon or club, this is the general public. Everyone gets groceries, so the slime has no bounds.

– Also, KS employees are NOT covered by their insurance if they become involved in an altercation with a shoplifter or other criminal. The only employees who have that coverage are the security guards, and even they are cautioned against physical involvement. Some years back a man died after a security guard tackled him (same kind of thing you hear about with the tazers) and his family sued the poo out of the company. The result was that security guards weren’t motivated to tackle very often. This had such an effect on retail security that at Kohls, where I was on what they called the 10-10 Team ( a “10-10 to the Mens department” page would bring a swarm of employees with the hope that mere presence would drive the theif off, and it usually did), the Loss Prevention guys and gal were not allowed to tackle, they were told that they would be fired.

This makes the second comment in a week that I will blog.

The Sunday Short: Volume 1, Issue 15

I know I promised a Helios story, but the one day I did have ‘off’ this week I spent working (but you already knew that didn’t you?) and I really haven’t gotten around to working on it. I am writing a short this week though, so keep the complaints to a minimum eh? (I know, I just asked for complaints by mentioning it didn’t I?) Well, regardless, here goes…

——————————
A word, Two words
- Gabe Thexton
——————–

– The silence was, well, silent. It permeated, invading the smallest spaces and voiding the aspirations of reverberations. A quiet so deep as to be painful, like the ringing of tinnitus. It was also painful to the heart, or rather it’s meaning was. It took all he had to drive his eyes upward from the floor, to make his head follow. It felt as though someone were holding it down, not letting go, it was torturous. He achieved the horizon and looked at her.

- It wasn’t contact though, it was like being deep within the ocean, seeing something far above. Mentally he swam the distance, crossing tides and streams, waves of the ever-present silence buffeting him off course. Tiring, he made last efforts and surfaced. Only to see the cold iron under-side of HMS Rejection.

- Desperately he lunged for some semblance of safety. Grasping her by the shoulder. Pleading, for one more lifeline. And, uttered from a desert dry door, framed with chapped lips…

“Please”
A word.
Breaking silence.
Saying little.
Meaning all.

And then,
The silence returned.
And then,

Meaning all.
Saying little.
Breaking silence.
Two words.
“I can’t”

Even the dumbest person you know knows someone dumber than them.

I’ve been reading the web comic Questionable Content for some time now.
(In fact, several of us have)
Fridays’ strip involved a rather important turn of events for the main characters.

Robyn had this to say: GO DORA!
Erik apparently agreed.
I however felt different.
The following is the comment I left on her post:

Still not sure what I think…

Maybe I’m just jealous because I wear Martens’ shoes rather easily.

And then there’s what comes next, I mean… How’s the guy supposed to respond, and how does this change Fayes’ outlook and Hannelores’ stalking?

And I still want the band to take off and go somewhere, take them through the world of Indie Rock from the inside, that would be really cool.

Hell, for all I know he’s gonna have relationships AND be a rockstar all at once and then I would really feel bad for him.

Now I feel like that Oscar Meyer Weiner song where at first you wish you were one because everyone would love you and then you don’t because they would eat you up. Not sure wether or not I want to be Marten.

Hrm, that’s a long comment, think I’ll blog it.

Yelling Midgets

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead ‘The Fifth’. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don’t kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in ‘too-late’ situations is that they’re rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it’s imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn’t there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn’t look…

-So I shut my eyes. (Blue.) It was shortly after I crashed that I began to feel the philosophical section of my psyche awaken and growl. Well, I thought, the mail slot is blue, the Volvo is blue, the sky…my knees are wobbling and knocking now. They soon will be blue. The postal worker noticed my spread eagle, contemplative position on the lawn. She let her eyes wander over me without appearing to be examining me at all. Maybe she noticed the azure socks I was wearing. Probably not. By this time my arms felt more comfortable under my head so I rested them there. My ankles were feeling stiff, so I crossed them. The neighbor’s blue healer began to sniff at my socks. The postal worker walked away, her blue pants creased at the knees. Not that I could see her knees, she was walking away–I noticed this more clearly when she was kneeling and looking at me with her deep cobalt eyes, which weren’t really looking at me at all. She was just rechecking the house number. Really. I feel I’m losing my point. The philosophy. So here it comes. The hill, six blue houses lined it. The bike, blue spangled handlebars (okay, so my sister pranked me and I haven’t gotten around to defangling the sparklers). The mailbox, well, postal blue. Her eyes, ah yes, her eyes. They too. Mesmerizing. Tantalizing. But they weren’t looking at me. Just philosophizing the house number, really. My socks, well said. The dog’s collar, sapphire-studded, but I wasn’t looking at the blue healer. I was for the duration gazing at the sky. Which needless to say, is the entire reason–not the girl, forget the girl–for my accident. And for my depth of thought. And perhaps for all of the meaning in my very, very, simple life.

-You thought I was done! Aha! But here is the most winsome part of all. It is the part when four of my comrades emerge from blue house # 5 and begin a straight-forward but reminiscent conversion of textile (movable, philosophical) grammarian terminology with me…

-The conversation went way over my head. Most of what they said was no more then gibberish. As they proceded through the conversation I stared at them blankly. These were not my friends. My friends never spoke this way. They were staring at me as I remained quiet during the entire conversation. After a moment of silence I shared with them my philosophical view of the color blue. And I pointed out all the blue items around. Now it was my friends who stared blankly. Then they revealed that the houses were in fact green and that my socks were mismatching shades of orange and maroon. I was about to ask them why I saw everything as blue when I remembered that I was colorblind.

-As my friends laughed at my realization, the door to the house whose lawn I had been occupying opened and out walked a fat bald midget with a pair of socks over his ears. He looked at me and then at my friends. Back to me and then at the red mountain bike sticking out of the side of his blue Volvo. His high pitched voice began screaming in French as the socks on his ears flopped up and down. My friends began laughing uncontrollably…

"Mind The Gap"

Ok here we are the moment youve all been waiting for. well mostly the moment eric has been waiting for. Karina has joined the group (Jane Eyre) . Give her a warm Q&T welcome.

The Conversion of Blue

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead ‘The Fifth’. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don’t kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in ‘too-late’ situations is that they’re rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it’s imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn’t there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn’t look…

So I shut my eyes. (Blue.) It was shortly after I crashed that I began to feel the philosophical section of my psyche awaken and growl. Well, I thought, the mail slot is blue, the Volvo is blue, the sky…my knees are wobbinging and knocking now. They soon will be blue. The postal worker noticed my spread eagle, contemplative position on the lawn. She let her eyes wander over me without appearing to be examining me at all. Maybe she noticed the azure socks I was wearing. Probably not. By this time my arms felt more comfortable under my head so I rested them there. My ankles were feeling stiff, so I crossed them. The neighbor’s blue healer began to sniff at my socks. The postal worker walked away, her blue pants creased at the knees. Not that I could see her knees, she was walking away–I noticed this more clearly when she was kneeling and looking at me with her deep cobalt eyes, which weren’t really looking at me at all. She was just rechecking the house number. Really. I feel I’m losing my point. The philosophy. So here it comes. The hill, six blue houses lined it. The bike, blue spangled handlebars (okay, so my sister pranked me and I haven’t gotten around to defanging the sparklers). The mailbox, well, postal blue. Her eyes, ah yes, her eyes. They too. Mesmerizing. Tantalizing. But they weren’t looking at me. Just philosophizing the house number, really. My socks, well said. The dog’s collar, sapphire-studded, but I wasn’t looking at the blue healer. I was for the duration gazing at the sky. Which needless to say, is the entire reason–not the girl, forget the girl–for my accident. And for my depth of thought. And perhaps for all of the meaning in my very, very, simple life.
You thought I was done! Aha! But here is the most winsome part of all. It is the part when four of my comrades emerge from blue house # 5 and begin a straight-forward but reminiscent conversion of textile (movable, philosophical) grammarian terminology with me…

We are a factory that produces apple pies for whales.

So yeah, I’m working on a post, I just felt like getting a placeholder up right now, because, well, just because.

UPDATE!: The post bombed. Nothing to see here. Move along folks. Nothing to see.

July 4, 2099: Stupid Hicks!

The kid just stood there staring at Katsuro, a geeky grin on his face.

“This isn’t a circus, kid, and I’m not a clown. Stop smilin’ and buy something, or better yet, get out!”

The kid’s smile faltered slightly, he glanced at Rachel and back to Katsuro. “You own your own tea shop, you must be a wise sensei.”

Katsuro rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. He hated the self-proclaimed otakus. A minor subculture turned pop-culture at the beginning of the century. Anyone could join this culture by obsessing in anime, manga, or anything Japanese. Katsuro had managed to avoid them for the most part, even after moving to the States. And he had nothing against anime or manga, he just hated people who obsessed over it.

“Get out of my store.” Katsuro pointed toward the door, and the boy’s parents walked in.

“Mom, dad, a real live sensei!”

“Do you even know what that word means?” Katsuro was fuming, to his surprise.

“It means ‘teacher’, sensei.” The kid bowed.

“Yeah, and I’m not a teacher.”

The mother of the boy smiled kindly. “Just indulge him a little. This is our first time to the city, and he has never had a chance to see anyone of your race.”

“I won’t indulge ignorance-”

“There will be nice tip in it for you,” the father said, pulling out a $100 bill.

“Get out of my store or I’ll have the police drag you out for disturbing my other customers.”

The man with the blackberry who always sat in the corner by the door laughed to himself. Katsuro glared at him and then turned his attention back to his irritation. “Do you want to know what your problem is? You spoil your kid! You don’t tell him that he’s wrong because you don’t want to hurt his feelings. Well, guess what! Your son is an idiot! He knows absolutely nothing about anything remotely Japanese, and because you would rather allow him to live in your little hick bubble, you probably won’t ever let him actually learn about what it means to BE Japanese.”

The three stood there for a good ten minutes, allowing Katsuro to vent his anger. Meanwhile, Rachel called the police and had them send over an officer to escort the visitors to safety.

Unless you’re wearing pajamas, ’cause then it’s not funny.

- Thursday, my day off, and I’m working. On A+ certification, and helping a friend find a computer. I am busier now than I’ve been in a long time (read: since FL) and I have hopes that this will be the line of effort that works. I have only two career goals: 1) Make enough to go back to school. & 2) Make enough to support a family (incl. retirement & the works). A+ = Ability to obtain job that fulfills goal 1, which then provides job that fulfills goal 2. Writing doesn’t figure into the picture as much as I might want it to. Dinner must be served and that comes first.

– If, somehow, I am able to make some kind of income off of writing, that would be dessert. It would allow me to quote Frost with reckless abandon and run around shouting at the world and it’s brother “My object in living is to unite my avocation and my vocation” and then they’d stare, and then I’d repeat myself “My object in living is to unite my avocation and my vocation” And they might get it, and those who knew Frost might smile. But those kindred spirits, those who landscape for the eye of the beholder, who teach to see the gleam of understanding, those who practice medicine to see a child run or to hear of an old mans’ good rest, those who fling colours onto canvass to share emotion, they would join in shouting. For they and only they can know that joy. I pray that I may one day join them.