Member when we were kids, and in the run-up to Christmas time just seemed to *drag*?  There were times when I would go to bed on a Tuesday and wake up the next morning and it would actually be the previous Monday, not Wednesday.  The keeper of time, she is a harsh mistress.
  In the fourth grade I discovered math, and before Thanksgiving I had a countdown of the hours and minutes left until Christmas.  That made the time drag more slowly, even.  That is the principle known as "A watched pot never boils."  A watched Christmas never comes...
  As you get older...maybe not *you*...as "we" get older?  Hmmm.
  As I got older, I noticed that the subjectivity began to slide.  The time until Christmas became increasingly shorter, until I was about 20 years old, and the only thing I had to look forward to was an Aqua-Velva gift pack and some socks.  At that point--that was the last time I experienced real time during the holidays.
  Immediately after that, I was married and had a kid--or kids.  From then on, the time between Halloween and Christmas seems to be about a fortnight.  For those of you not on medieval standard time, that's about 2 weeks.
  Much of this--most of this--is because I don't have anything myself to look forward to, but I am responsible for the kids' happiness.  Not enough shopping days?  No, plenty of shopping days.  Not enough paydays between now and then.  I count them on the calendar and cringe.  Where am I going to get the money for this from?  I can only prostitute myself so much, and maybe it's the economy, but I haven't had a lot of takers lately.
  Usually, ultimately, somehow, things at least sort of work out in the end.  We make compromises and do creative things to make the people in our lives happy.  Sacrifice.  That's what it's all about.

  I feel myself again trapped in the swirling vortex that is the countdown to Christmas.  Helplessly I spiral downward, grasping in vain at the straws of extra pay, more time, better deals, or a way out.  I don't see how I can afford to buy something for ANYONE, but I know I have to get something for my two kids, and something for Detroit, and something for her son Alex.
  And what is the protocol for Brandon?  Am I obligated to buy something for the troll who has taken up residency on my couch out of the kindness and decency of my heart (which, let's be VERY clear here:  There is very little of that shit to go around, and he has used all of it) when all he has done is added to my financial burden?  I swear to God, if he makes me a hand-made gift out of macaroni, glue, and glitter--
  Remember the gift exchange in school, back when we could still celebrate Christmas?  The boys drew a boys name, and the girls drew a girls name, and we (meaning our parents) bought a gift for under two dollars (This was the mid-70s.  You could buy real estate for two dollars.)  I'm probably going to get sucked into at least one, if not two, of those, between my two jobs.
 
  Nevertheless I love the Christmas season.  Yes I do, despite my apparent cynicism, not to mention the proof previously offered up on this blog (see my December archives of every year) of how Father Christmas takes a dump on my front porch and lights it on fire.  I love to see kids standing in line and crying, waiting to see Santa.  I love driving in the snow.  I love the crowded throng of people keeping me from my simple errands; I'm not Christmas shopping, I need shoe strings, for Christ's sake.  I love the lights and the pageantry and *everything.*
  Remember the Christmas Program at school?  I know it was different for everyone, but thematically they were the same:  Kids get up and poorly execute Christmas carols while parents sit in the audience trying to maintain an interest.  Now I look back on those memories fondly.  It was returned to me when last year my daughter was in Choir, and they sang on the steps of the courthouse.  The town square was alit with Christmas lights, people sharing the spirit of community, with snow falling, no less.  It could not have been any more Norman Rockwell if I had worn a bow-tie. 
  Sometimes I'm a sentimental, teary-eyed fool.  I'm glad it was snowing and dark, to cover it up.  Sniffles are common in December as well.
  As a conservative, I know I should be upset about the diminishing of Christmas, and the attempt to dismiss it.  I'll fight that fight another day against the godless socialist and secular inhumanist that want to destroy our country and our traditions.  Right now...
  Right now my Christmas spirit is like my faith sometimes:  A tiny, flicking flame on a candle, which I hold my hand up to for cover to protect it from the wind and rain.  I nurture it, hoping it will grow.  I care not about the things that try to defeat it, except to hold them back.  It's my faith; likewise, it's my Christmas spirit, and mine alone. 
  I'm not trying to force it on you--I barely have enough for myself.  Why won't you let me keep this for myself?  Why must you try to put out every light?  It's my light, and it's not in your eyes, and it's not bothering you.  It's not bright enough to keep you from sleeping.  Just let me have my Christmas spirit.
  It's small and quiet, like Tiny Tim.  And sickly, too.  On crutches and with a cough, and probably ADD as well.  But let me have it anyway, please.  It's mine.
  And it's all I have.

  My Infamous Ex, The Storm, will be--hopefully--closing on her refinance in the next few days or so.  I say "hopefully" because if it's something I want, something that will help me, then chances are it won't go according to plan.  For instance, earlier this year when I refinanced my Home equity line of credit (hereinafter refered to as "refied my heloc,") I had to do quit claim deeds on the two properties.  One for her quitting on mine, and one for me quitting on hers.
  For both of them, I simply made up the docs in Word.  Since I have access to all these documents like this, it was easy for me to copy wording, style, layout, et cetera.  I even had the legal descriptions of the properties available to me, since both the loans originated here.
  The problem, however, was with the property in Troy--our brand-spankin'-new house.  The legal description I used was wrong because it changed.  How can I explain this without boring you with insignificant details?  Hmmm.  Don't think I can, so here goes:  The property we bought was basically two lots, but actually three separate pieces of property.  It was (and still is) over half an acre.  Man, I'm glad I don't have to cut that shit anymore.
  The property is two lots plus a small section in back that is nominally a conservation area that has a creek running through it.  That property was supposed to be deeded to us, with certain provisos.  It was ours, but we couldn't build on it or otherwise develop it.  We did, however, have to maintain it, remove brush, keep the creek running clear and so forth.
  But it was all under development.  Ultimately the builder did redraw it to include that.  The original legal description on our loan when we bought it did not include it, and that's the one I used.  During some sort of discovery phase of her refi, someone found out.  So the new loan has the new legal on it.  And I have to do a new quit claim to correct the old quit.  This is called a Scrivener's Affidavit.
  I talked to Carol, the head of our Title Company here.  She said, "Well, who prepared the original doc?"
  "Oh, that was me."  She seemed amazed.  I'm no lawyer, but I do know how to copy and paste.  She wrote down what I needed to do to fix it, to write a new one.  I made up the new one using the old one I had saved, and had her check it.  Impressed, she was.  Digging, I try to expand my horizons.  "You know, I don't want to scan forever..."
  With the new deed signed and notarized, now I get to bring it up to Lincoln County Friday.  Well, I was going up anyway, and so volunteered.  It's work related, so I get to leave even earlier and get paid for it.  Miranda has her follow up appointment for spraining her knee, so I was leaving at one.  Now I leave at noon.
  As an added bonus, I don't work at Domino's Friday night.  So not only do I have some of Friday off, but I'll have all day Saturday--I won't waste half the day sleeping.  Instead, I'll waste half the day working on the houses.  Wait, I mean--

  This is not good.  Not good at all...
  I took off two days from my day job and made a four-day weekend.  Ostensibly to get some home improvement projects done.  The weather was semi-cooperative, and so I did get done most of what I wanted to accomplish.
  I came back to working expecting (hoping) to find alot of work waiting for me.  And--no such luck.  The mortgage business, she is shaky now, yes?  Much going on, most of which I don't understand and don't want to.  What I do see is that my usefulness here is limited.  Add to the mix:  the consumer department provides half of my work.  One girl moved away to be married, one girl moved to another department--these are the processors.  One of the consumer LOs is moving to a different department after this week--servicing, of all things.  What's left is my friend Kim, a dude named Scott, and Dawn.
  So half the department is gone and most of the work is gone.  Where does that leave me?
  I've tried to make myself more useful around here.  I took on more responsibility, servicing the equipment on this floor.  I'll blow anything if it means keeping my job...
  In less than a month--I hope--I intend to have my HELOC refinanced into a mortgage at the new house.  Until then, I need to keep this job.  After that, I need to keep this job, or
  My options are:  find a new job here, or get another job.  I have a few options, I hope.  Most of them revolve around foodservice.  My friend Kim (Bunny)'s husband Scott, my old boss from the steak restaurant, just got a job as food sales rep.  She said that he said that they are hiring, and looking for people with restaurant management experience, and experience cutting meat.  That would be me.
  At Domino's, the driver Mike's wife Bridget works at a big restaurant, and I could talk to her about an in as manager.  I suppose there are other restaurants as well...And then I'd end up back in food, and end up back to losing my weekends.
  Of course, as a very last resort, I could do full time at Domino's.  God do I hate the idea of that.  They pay for shit, and expect the world out of you.  Any of these other opportunities--hell, I could check out Papa John's or Pizza Hut and I know they pay more.  Because the bottom line is, I'd need ONE restaurant job to pay what I make on two, because I wouldn't have time to work two jobs.

  So we head into winter, the slow time in this already slow business leading the way in this slow economy, and I need to hang on for at least a month.  I need to get on the ball and get this shit done to the houses, I need to get them inspected, I need to get my loan together and get it done, I need to verify that all my credit is fixed.
  And then I need to be ready to get another job.
  Detroit says this happens every year, and I get scared I'm going to lose my job this time of year *EVERY* year.  But this is different.  This time...

  It could happen.

  I have other shit going on right now.  I'm busy with the houses and so forth, plus I had some ideas about a story I was working on.  But then this happened, and I figured it was time.
  Detroit and I went to the grocery store today, to get something for lunch.  One of our semi-regular stores; it's about third or fourth on the list.  We get almost all of the few things we needed, but then had to back track for the bread.  And that's when I saw him.
  Maybe he recognized me, maybe he didn't.  I don't know, and I really don't care.  But this person is on the very short list of no more than half a dozen People I Hate.
  But Bryan, you say, you are so kind and thoughtful and gentle and caring and tender (in a manly way), how is that you, of all people, can possibly hate?
  Back off before I slap you in the eyeballs.  While it is true that I like most people (I even like people that other people hate, like GW, Carrot Top, and your mom), nonetheless there is an elite group of people who fall into the category of people I hate.  Today's program is devoted to the one loathsome fucker I saw today, Dave. 

  Back in the late 80s when I worked for Domino's, the rigid structuring of the MIT program meant we were evaluated on a 4-week basis for advancement and promotion.  The trick was, once you were ready for advancement or promotion but the bosses didn't want to give it to you yet, you got moved to another store.
  I got moved alot.  But, probably no more than anyone else.  One move placed me in Bridgeton.  Bill was the manager, and Dave was the "lead" assistant, and I was low-man.  Bill was a good buy, but Dave rode me mercilessly.  He found a funny way of changing my well-known nickname into something completely inconsiderate, and from then on, that was how he addressed me.  And no, I'm not telling you what it was.  Of course, he spread it around, and got others to call me that also.  Let me tell you, being called names when you're an adult...
  Hurts as much as when you are a child, and I was reliving it.
  In addition to that, he heaped other mental abuse on me daily.  He is a sadistic mother fucker.  I choose not to relive this all for you, so that I don't break my keyboard.  I don't know how long I was there, maybe a month or two.  I got transfered around again, and it was good to be in a different shithole.
  As luck would have it, after a being in a few different stores, I would up back in Bridgeton.  This time, Dave was the manager.  He scheduled me for six days, which was unnecessary.  Also, on Friday I got to work a "split."  That's where you come in for lunch, about 1030 to 1230, then you get to leave, then you get to come back in at four and close.  He made sure he scheduled me for the shitiest of shifts, too.
  I closed Monday, and ran a perfect shift.  No lates, good numbers.  I came in Tuesday, and he was there to nitpick the little things I had not done.  And I mean little.  Things like, I didn't wipe down the towel dispenser in the bathroom.  What kind of shit is that?  If it needs to be done every night, you wouldn't notice one night missed.  If it hadn't been done in a while (it hadn't) then why did I suddenly get dinged for it?  The rest of his list was like that.  Oh, yeah, the fucker had a list.  I closed again that night.  Wednesday, when I came in, he had a similar list.
  But Tuesday night, I talked to my dad.  Wednesday during the day, I went to see his boss, who happened to be my old boss, Bill Henry.  Sure, he'd hire me--pending a drug test, of course.  I told this part before--I was clean, and I knew it.  I took the drug test Friday, and the results would be back on Tuesday, and I could start Tuesday on second shift.
  So when he threw his list in my face Wednesday, I was non-chalant about it.  "Okay, whatever."  Then of course I closed Thursday, then the split on Friday.  I had to close Saturday, and then my one day off was Sunday.  I saw the new schedule posted and smiled.  It was the exact same thing.
  Since I was loaned to another store on Saturday, I worked it--otherwise I would have not gone in.  But I knew Monday--Monday I was not working.  I just waited for them to call me, because everyone likes surprises.
  I was happy to be rid of him.
 
  Fast forward maybe ten years later, and my good friend Bunny is managing Bridgeton, and the fucker Dave is still around, as a driver.  He is helpful to her, and friendly, so they are friends.  For her sake I try to get along with him, and he is civil--she may have had a word with him about it.
  Later I find that all Dave wants to do is get in her pants.  He's an older guy, and married, and so is she.  And she feels betrayed by the facade that was there friendship.  Meanwhile he keeps pushing, practically stalking her, before she has to get really angry and up in his face about it.
  Finally, I was free to hate him again.  Hate him extra, too, for hurting my friend.
  I didn't go into an extensive psychological profile on the asshole, because at this point, I don't care.  He can live or die or grow mushrooms out of his ass.  Bunny did tell me about some of the trauma and problems in his life that she became privy, things to which I thought, "Good."  He is a bully, plain and simple.
  And when I write about the other people on the short list of People I Hate, that's what they have in common:  they are all bullies.  
  Maybe you were expecting more of a rant here...well, to tell you the truth, so was I.  Time does heal a bit, I suppose.  It has been 20 years since I first had to deal with him.  I've wished so many things upon him:  death, dismemberment, AIDS, a plague of locusts.  Today what I wanted to do was knock the old fucker down in the grocery store, and step on his face.  Now, I just wish for him to be unhappy.  Knowing what I know about the psychology of bullies...
  I think I've gotten my wish for a long time.
 

Let me tell you a joke real quick.

So this guy is driving along, and as he passes a Mental Hospital, his car breaks down.  He gets out and sees that a wheel has fallen off.  The lug nuts are gone, the tire just came off.
Behind the gate at the mental hospital is a man standing there watching him. Seeing what is going on, the man in the mental hospital gate tells the traveler:  "Why don't you take a lug nut off of each wheel and put it on the missing one?  That will hold well enough until you get back into town.
The traveler said "Hey, that's a great idea!  Thanks!"  Then he says, "You know, I have to say I never expected someone where you are to have a good idea."
The man replied, "I'm in here because I'm crazy, not because I'm stupid."

So, just replace "Mental hospital" with "Domino's Pizza."

  I always wondered why my blog isn't more widely read.  I think there are a number of issues, marketing being one of them.  I'm going to deal with that at some point, but unlike MSNBC and their ratings, I decided to also take a look at my content.
  There are a few websites that I like to read, and just now I realized that maybe I should look at what attracts me to them.  One thing that does is the fact that the writing is fairly consistent--and on topic.  Now, I cover a wide range of topics, from foodservice to politics to sociopathology to prehistoric tool-making. 
  I think that part is fine--diversity.  Consider my blog a variety show, like Jack Parr or Laugh-in, or Sonny and Cher.  Or Sixty Minutes--that show is a riot.
  What I did notice, however, is that within one blog entry--one article, if you will--I would often diverge wildly off-topic, sometimes not even sticking to the topic category.  Now, that's just sloppy.  ADD or not, I have to st--
  Shit, what was I talking about?  Oh, yeah--staying on topic.  Generally when I have a story to tell, I have *A* story to tell.  If I have several, I need to separate them out.  And sometimes, all I have is short, anecdotal snippets of conversation, thought, and occurrences.  If you noticed of late, I've had more entries, many on the same day.  That's going to be my theme, I think.
  So, to recap:

  Shorter articles, on topic.
  That may mean more articles, if necessary, and even multiples on the same day.
  Other types of articles filled with short anecdotes will be easily identifiable.  Perhaps I'll even add that category:  Anecdotes.
 
  Notice how this article and the last one both managed to stay on topic?  And they were short.  That may not be a coincidence.

  Don't you think?
  The liberals won the election, and are still bitter.  By and large, liberals are bitter people.  Not the conservatives that they claim are clinging bitterly to their guns and religion.  I'm not bitter.  If anything, I watch with wry anticipation the fascism that will precede the coming Obamaggeddon.
  For instance, it's not enough that Obama won, but the liberals want us to admit defeat, admit our ideas our wrong, admit that they are better.  Sorry, can't do it.  Not gonna cry uncle.  You won the election.  Now fix the country, bitches.
  They call the country free and democratic when they win an election--but in 00 and 04 the election was fixed.  And here is a very telling dichotomy:  Prop 8, which passed fair and square in California.  It's not good enough that it passed.  The people that opposed it can't accept it.  They don't believe in democracy, they believe in having things their way, no matter what.
  Do I care about Prop 8?  Not in the least bit.  I'm not gay, and thankfully, I don't live in California.  Protesting because they lost a fair election sounds alot like they are crybaby bitches.  Trying to shut down and destroy anyone that disagrees with their position sounds alot like fascism.
  Obama won, and that's democracy.  Their pet project didn't, and that's a travesty.
  Do you see conservatives rallying, rioting, and protesting because Obama won?  No? 
  The liberals were right about one thing:  It is about class.  We have it.  They don't.

  I may change my mind again, as I sit here bitterly clinging to my guns and my religion, but for now I don't really want to go down the political dirty back road.
  Maybe if something happens that really affects me, or just really irks me--but other than that, this blog is about me.  It's my diary, my journal.  My heart's deepest layer of bullshit.  Occasionally politics does bubble to the top, but that's not me.  At least, that is not me *in my entirety.*  I have many interests.  I am multi-layered, multi-faceted.  I'm multi-personalitied, even.
  But politics is an interest of mine, a hobby.  I follow it.  I think what I may be more interested in is not politics in general, but the media's reaction and bias to politics.  I watch it, I track it.
  Although I am a Republican, and a conservative, I don't begrudge Obama his win.  He almost won it fair and square. 
  I don't want to turn into a political blog, for a few reasons.  One, the comments you get are just nasty and brutal.  It's not the kind of thing that people do in a polite society, and sadly, we not, any longer.  The comments are also not the kind of thing the commentors would say in person, to my face.  How do I know this?  Because most of them are thin, pale, weak little bitches that are cocky as hell with a keyboard in their laps.  If they met me in person, they would cry and wet themselves a little.  I would make sure of it.  If you read this, you know me.  You know how I am.  I am exactly this way in person, as well.  I'm not putting on a facade.
  Also-- I have enough knowledge for short, brief commentary, and I'm smart enough to know that I don't know as much as I'd like to know.  Plus, political commentarians--is that a word?--generally start with their conclusion and work backwards to support it, discarding any facts that contradict their thesis.  As a scientist, that is dishonest.  Yes, bitches, I am a scientist.  It's more in the attitude than the knowledge.  My training as an engineer and my desire to seek knowledge make me a scientist.
  Thinking back on some previous posts--and I shan't delete them--I see where my emotions may or may not have gotten the better of me.  I do, however, feel that the conclusion is correct:  Fascism in this country will not come from the government, it will come from the media and the people, and the government will see it as a way to increase power and control, and seize that opportunity.  While they may not be able to completely stifle dissent, they can certainly discredit it, as well as intimidate it.
  It is frightening and amazing to me how many people want things to be a certain way "for my own good."  Demonizing any view that is askew from theirs in subtle (and not so subtle) ways in order to present for the public the propaganda that only their point of view is valid and "enlightened."  Yes, but will it work?  Doesn't matter, it's enlightened.  It's also frightening the support that socialism has, either outright, or clandestine.  Clandestine meaning people are supporting various socialist beliefs and policies without knowing and calling them socialists.  It will lead them down that road where they will eventually pick up the banner and say, "Workers of the World, Unite!" and not even question why when they are asked to spy on their neighbors.
  We may not be heading for a Baracolypse.  But we might be headed for an Obamaggeddon.

You can't pop the collar up on a wife-beater.

  I got a call Thursday from The Storm--my Baby Momma.  Miranda got hurt at school.  She left work and took her to the doctor, and the doctor wanted to send her to an orthopedic specialists.
  She explains to me about all of her driving around, blah-blah-blah, the orthopedic was back over by where she works (actually closer to me), couldn't afford the gas because I haven't paid this month's child support yet.  Whatever--it's the 6th.  I always get it to her in the first half of the month.  She wants to know if I would take her.  I said sure.
  Sure, I would leave my day job early, drive the 40 miles up to get her, then drive back this way another 45 miles.  Take her to the doctor.  Then drive her the 45 miles back home, and then drive another 40 some-odd miles back this way to go to my night job at Domino's, which I am going to be late for.
  It's a lot of driving, but it's also a legitimate reason to play hookie, so I'm in, without alot of thought.  Plus, of course, I get to see my daughter.  I was supposed to see her this last weekend, but the truck was down and I had to deal with that.
  Off I go.  As I drive, I call Detroit and fill her in.  She said something about "As long as SHE isn't there and planning on going with you--"  I'm not sure what that means.  Some thinly veiled jealousy?  I think we recently mentioned in passing some things from the past that made her think of this stuff...except I have no claim to any knowledge about how a woman's mind works.  It could just be that she didn't want me to waste my time, money, and gas on something that my ex could more easily do herself, or a third as-yet unnamed reason I haven't thought of that is completely obvious to her.
  As for the jealousy--
  I get that.  But not only do I not have any--what would you call it?--romantic?  Sexual?  Not only do I not have any of those feelings at all about my ex, I see her more as an obstacle to my happiness...much as she was during our marriage.  I cringe when she calls, I avoid talking to her whenever I can, and the sooner she is out of my credit history the better.
  ~~ANYWAY~~
  I also call Dina at Domino's and let her know.  By my estimate, it will be close to 6pm by the time I get there, which means it will be closer to seven, I'm sure.  She mumbled something about this day just getting better and better--
  I go pick up my daughter, drive back into St Louis and finally get to the doctor's office, which looks oddly familiar.  I'm trying to remember who I've had to bring here before.  We fill out the forms and wait.  But let me say something about the forms.
  It's insidious the way all these doctor's offices do this, and maybe their excuse is "Oh, we're just using old forms."  But they ask for personal information that they just don't need.  For instance, my insurance card no longer uses my social security number as my ID--smart, and I might add "finally."  Like your driver's license, they realize the need for personal security, and if they don't need that number, they don't use it.  Hell, I remember having my social printed on my checks.
  I remember checks...
  But the doctor's office does not need your social security number, and there is a spot for it on all forms.  I leave it blank.  You should too.  ALL of you should leave that line blank.  If they dare to come to you to ask for it, I imagine most people cave.  Don't do it.  Make them explain why they need it, and their answer had better be better than "we need it to complete the file."  Maybe they want it to track you better for medical collections--that's their problem, not mine, and I don't like being accused before the fact of not paying my bill.
  In general, I leave anything blank that I don't understand, don't care about, or think is too personal.  If they really need to know, they will come and ask me.
  They rarely do.
 
  As it turns out, my daughter only sprained her knee.  Nothing broken, nothing torn.  They put her in a knee brace, give her a note for school, and sent us on our merry way.  I drive her back home, and then head back again, towards Domino's.  It's six o'clock now, and it's a 45 minute drive.
  After I get there, I find out what the deal is.  Mike worked dayshift to be off that night, for his wife's birthday.  His brother Steve was going to work that night.  Steve was sick, and Mike had to stay.  He was screwed--he got his.
  The new guy, Derek, had car trouble and couldn't come in.  Mike definitely had to stay, so he was still screwed.  Plus, this gave Dina just two drivers on a Thursday.  She was screwed now--she got hers.
  And then I had my thing going on, leaving her to fend for herself during a busy dinner rush.  She was screwed some more.  I get there at the tail-end of the rush, and Dina leaves, and I get Mike out of there.  Me and Paro.  The place died, like the audience at an Al Franken event.  In the very last of the evening, we had about an hour and a half of no calls whatsoever.
  We close at midnight, and we have everything done.  The floor is even mopped, and most things are put away.  We are just waiting for the fat lady to sing so I can count the money and get out of there.  About a quarter till, we get a call.
  Shit.
  Then, when I go up front to make them, a bunch of young chicks come in and want to order.  Fuck.  After they order, I get another call.  It's now 11:52.  Son of a bitch.  Two minutes later, another call.  Fuck me.  It's now 5 till close, and I have about 8 pizzas and some other miscellaneous other shit to make.  This was going to add an hour onto the time it takes form me to get home.  So me and Paro, we got ours.
  The conversation with the last caller went a little like this:
  "Domino's Pizza."
  "Yeah, you guys still open?"
  "Barely."
  Taken aback by my honesty, he asks, "Can I still place an order?"
  Heavy sigh.  "I suppose so."  I could tell from his tone that he wanted to call me out.  Give me some line about "Customer service" or some similar bullshit, about how I should care.  Or that he could complain and get me fired, and then where would I be?  I should show the proper respect!
  But in the same way I sensed that in his voice, I guess he sensed in mine.  I'm guessing he sensed that, for a handful of mixed change and pocket lint, I would walk out.  If he wanted a pizza, he needed to keep his pie hole shut.
  Or else he would get his.

If you give a man a fish, you create an entitlement system and an oppressive bureaucracy to support it.
If you teach him to fish, you create an evil capitalist who will ship jobs overseas and destroy the environment.
It would be best just to let him starve.

  For my father's sake, I'm glad he's no longer with us.  My dad was a lifelong Democrat.  A Teamster, too.  Pro-union as all get-out.  Decided he was a liberal when the Democratic party became more and more liberal.  Called himself a progressive, without really knowing what it was.
  He passed away before Obama was really a contender in the election--just one of a handful of faces, and not really a standout.  But during this election, he would have had to--
  You know, I don't know what my dad would have done.  He's a Democrat, sure.  But he's also an old school racist.  Would he vote for Obama?  Would he vote for McCain for his self-respect but hope Obama wins?  Or vice versa?  Although I would much rather that he still be here, this is the one bright side I can look at.

  Look, I'm not a political maven by any means.  But I read, I watch, and I pay attention.  These are some of my conclusions:
  FACT:  The media is liberally biased.  The only way you cannot understand this is if you are like Keith Olbermann, or The Dude--my friend Karl.  In each case, they are so far to the left that not only is EVERYTHING, even liberals, too right-wing for them, but they are going to fall off one day and come back around on the other side, like Pac Man.  This is a fact.  If you disagree, you are wrong, and stupid, and brainwashed.  What, you don't want to believe it, so it isn't true?  Even though the actual facts have proven it?  Independent studies, facts. opinion polls, plus just plain observation mean nothing to your firmly held "beliefs"?
  A corollary to this is that FOX news actually *IS* fair and balanced.  They have both conservative and liberal commentators, and they show both sides.  The fact that all the rest of the media--that is biased to the left--called FOX biased to the right should be a telling indicator to anyone with half a brain.  That is, anyone who is not a liberal.  Go ahead and scream.  Or mock me because you *know* you are right.  Whatever.  Since you can't show me any proof to the contrary, all you have is your angry diatribe.  Shouldn't that go away now that you have won?
  Oh, I get it.  It's not enough for you to win.  You also want to change my mind.  You want me to believe as you do, because it's more comforting that way.  Sorry.  I have independent thought.
Oh, by the way...
  Obama outspent McCain 600 million to 86 million, going back on his promise not to take public money.  Plus, he appeared on over 50 magazine covers, including Time six times.  When was the last cover McCain was on?  The one where the "artist" intentionally lit him poorly to make him look evil.  The late night talk shows made fun of McCain/Palin over Obama/Biden 7 to 1.  Seven to one, people.  All of that, and he won the popular vote by...a margin that would be considered close if McCain had won.  I'm just proud that Obama didn't win Missoura.  Fat lot of good it did me.
  FACT:  Neither party, and neither candidate, are as evil as they are made out to be.  Listen, assholes:  The standard tack of the liberals is to demonize any conservative as Stupid or Liberal.  Reagan was stupid.  Cheney is evil.  Bush is stupid.  Palin is stupid.  These are out-right lies.  
  The vicious attacks on Palin while Obama (and Biden) got a complete pass from the media was not lost on everyone.  Some people are finally starting to notice, even though it may be too late.
  Of course, neither of them (the parties) are as perfect as the believers would believe them to be.  My friend Karl calls this evil, and corrupt, and "a conspiracy."  I call it the way of the world.  You can't please everyone.  Based on some of the whacked out beliefs that most people have, that is for the best. 
  There are going to be some hardcore whacked out left wing commie pinko fag junkie socialists retards who are going to call Obama a sell-out when he doesn't exactly harken to their agenda.  I hope, anyway.  These are the ones who are too stupid and self-absorbed to realize that:
  A)  what they think and what they want are both wrong and stupid
  B)  right-thinking, lucid people have a better understanding of how the world works and don't feel the way they (the nutjobs) do
  C)  in the real world, compromises have to be made; you can't just run off and throw a fit, Al Franken.
  D)  the utopia you envision won't happen, because SOMEONE has to work
  FACT:  What Obama really wants, what he believes in, is socialism.  Marxism.  In his actions, his speeches, his teachings, his associations, and the books he has written all support this. [And Christ in a Bolshevik sidecar:  WHO writes their autobiography in their twenties?  Is he one of the Olsen twins?  Who is that conceited?]
  I can't believe how many people out there are *for* socialism.  Idealistic morons who have never had a job.  If you don't understand how the world really works, and how people really are, then you will never understand why socialism will never work.  Here it is, in a nutshell.
  Basically, you want me to work so you can sit on your ass.  If I see this happening, I'm going to start shooting some fucking socialists.  Sitting targets are easy.

Barak-alypse...
  My friend The Dude is a liberal, and I'm sure he's gloating.  Plus, waiting for the freebies and handouts that Obama has promised him.  He laughed at me.  But before the election I said, "Dude, for me it's a win-win."
  "How's that?"
  "Well, if McCain wins, the Republicans have the white house, thank God, instead of a socialist.  If Obama wins, when civilization is destroyed I can say 'nyah-nyah--told you so.'  So either way, I win."
  Kids, we're in for some tough times ahead.  Of course, all the bad things that happen will be blamed on Bush for a long, long time.  More than that though, the same people who were bashing Bush, McCain, Palin, and any other Republican with unprecedented harshness and glee while standing behind the 1st amendment will now [and I'm not kidding here] defend Obama's every move and try to silence every critic *for the good of the country.*
  It won't be the government doing it, but the fanatic supporters, and the media will squelch with loudness, fear, intimidation, and even violence anyone who deigns to disagree with the Great One.  It won't be the Obama administration, but they will be complicit.  They will silently support it.  That's how it starts.
  Welcome to your new fascist state.

  I told a guy I work with at the bank that on Election Day I worked the poll.
  He said, "Really?  Did you make alot of money?"
  "Uh...no, not really.  Some, I suppose.  What--?"
  "It was all in ones anyway, right?"
  I said, "I don't understand.  I worked in the election polling place."
  "Oh.  I thought you meant you worked the stripper poll."

  Five in the AM is pretty fucking early.  It's early even when you normally get up at six.  Fifteen.  On Election Day I got up at 4 AM.  I had to be at the poll by five, because they open at six.
  We were expecting to be busy all day, and therefore warned to pack a lunch, snacks, and drinks.  I took a shower and padded around, packing my bag up.  I finally walked out the door about twenty till.  I headed to the newly reopened White Castle for breakfast, and sat in the drive thru for quite some time.  Finally, I get my food and it's about five till.  What the fuck?  The black girls working the drive thru were giving me a hint of the Shape of Things to Come.
  I show up and immediately get to work, helping to set up the voting booths.  We have two kinds:  four of the new-fangled touch screen, and ten of the old-school Opti-scan, the paper ballot.  Many people chose the paper ballot because they don't trust anyone, especially the machine people, and want to make sure their vote gets counted.  Of course, it's an optical scan, so their vote gets read by a machine, but they don't concern themselves with the esoteric.
  We had to declare what party we were with, because each poll has a equal number of Republicans, Democrats, and Communists--oh, wait, those last two are the same.  Republicans and Democrats.  We Republicans were out-numbered, however--I think the score was ...
  Hold on.  Steve, Republican.  Joe, the old black guy, Democrat.  Lloyd, the middle-aged black guy, Democrat.  Me, Republican.  Dorothy, the old black woman, Democrat (I mean, honestly--what else would they be?).  The old white woman--I forget her name--Republican.  John, the old white guy, Republican.  Miriam, the black lady my age, Democrat.  A white chick my age who may have had the hots for me--Democrat.  How many is that?  Four Republicans, and five democrats, plus our high school teen helper, a cute young black chick.  Obviously a democrat.
  Once the polls opened, I learned quickly.  After three people, I had it down.  Each lucky contestant comes in and goes to the front.  They show ID, write their name on a card.  The card has name, location, ballot style, ballot number, voting style (the two choices, touch or paper), and a place for a representative from each party to initial. 
  Yes, everything is done in a bipartisan manner.  Every ballot marker and every paper ballot was initialed by both a Dem and a normal person.  Since we were low on normal people (as evidenced by the campaign), I did alot of initialing.  I began to feel important.
  Then, the hapless voter would slide down to one of us that had the roll books.  We would take their card and their ID again, and look it up.  We write the ballot number in the book, make an x for them to sign, and put our initials in the book.  Then we write the ballot style on marker and initial it in the spot of our party, if it hasn't already been done.  Dorothy sat next to me, and had to slide all of hers to me for me to initial, which is what tells me that the chick who had the hots for me was a Democrat, because they all had her initials on them in the DEM spot. 
  Having passed all the trials, they now proceed to vote, either down the line to the paper, or to the middle of the floor where Steve was wrangling the touch screens.
  Dorothy and I had a good time.  We talked and got along.  She did say to me, "If your fiance saw how you was flirtin with all these women up in here, she'd kick you but."
  I laughed.  "She knows how I am.  Trust me, she knows."
  Every single woman--and by that I mean each and every one, not just the ones who were unmarried--that came to my table and showed me ID, I told them, "What a lovely picture!"  And I was sincere, and I meant it.  Even the fat ones, even the ugly ones.  All of them.  Towards the end of the evening, a cute--in a trailer-trash kind of way--redhead showed me her ID, and her picture was stunning.  Beautiful.  I gave her the line and she smiled, showing me that most of her teeth were missing.  Kids, don't do meth.
  Towards the end of the day, I would say, "Even though I have said this to every woman who has passed through my line, please accept this with the spirit in which it was intended:  What a lovely photo."  The line between sincerity and sarcasm had started to blur.

  Oh, the lines!  The throng of people!  Oh, the huddled masses!
  Starting at six am, there were lots of people waiting to get in.  It was kind of like...ever seen a zombie movie with lots of dead people banging on the doors of the mall trying to get in?  Yeah, it was like that.  The only choices we had were to shoot them in the head or let them vote.
  Since it was Election Day, I was outvoted.  But any other--
  If it had been Arbor day, or Yom Kippur. we would have shot them all.  The unwashed masses approached and thusly voted.  We were really busy until about 930 or 10am.  Then it tapered off.  It was slow, but steady.  We were expecting a big rush again in the evening, after three.  Okay, after four.  Hmmm....Okay, well definitely after five.  By six, my thought was that everyone who wanted to vote had voted, perhaps twice.  Looking through my book I estimated an 85-90% turnout.  And then...it was over.  The last few stragglers voted and unceremoniously ushered out.
  We of course had heard the horror stories of lines around the block at other places, and people waiting for hours.  Not here.  Everyone got in, got out.  As I told one voter/fan, "It's all due to my long experience as a restaurant manager.  I know how to handle a rush.  I get people in, get people out."
  "I have a question."
  "Get out."
  If I'm going to take the blame for a few mistakes I made, I damn sure am going to accept all the praise when things go right.
  We packed the shit up.  Most of it stays behind, to be picked up in a few days.  The results were packed into bags that were sealed and locked, to be delivered to the central office.  Only if the election is close--a 3% margin or less--or contested are the individual ballots audited and checked.
  Throughout the course of the day I met some people that I knew.  Now, this was the location I would have voted in, so it was in my neighborhood.  I met a lot of neighbors and so forth.  I saw Darryl and his wife, a couple from church.  He is my age, and we were in the same groups.  I always liked Darryl.  Then I saw Jim, the guy with whom I had worked at Domino's, and then he got me a job at Papa John's.  I got his phone number--I should call him some day.  I also saw the mayor or our town.  I didn't know he lived near me.  He looked...what's the word?  Smarmy.  I mean, likable, yet slimy.  He looked like a cartoon of a politician who is on the take from the mob in Chicago in the 30s.  A cross between that and the gopher from Caddyshack.
  I also saw my neighbor down the street whose daughter Miranda plays with.  And during the middle of the day, a guy named Tony Columbo came in.  TC is on a talk radio station I listen to.  He brought us some water with the station logo on it, and then decided to go ahead and vote--he lives in the neighborhood.  I chatted with him briefly, and helped him out.
  Speaking of voting...
  Looking through my book, M-R, I happened up a page in the N section.  A guy who used to live in my house.  He's the one my parents bought it from, 14 years ago.  I look over, and wonder of wonders!--he is registered to vote still at that address.  Which, if you aren't paying attention, is my address.  Hmmm.  But that's not all.  What made it stand out is this:  In the middle it was preprinted so we didn't miss it--this guy had already voted absentee.
  Curiouser and curiouser...
  If I hadn't been working the poll, I never would have known.  He's been doing this for 14 years.  I'm going to do something about it.  It comes to an end.  Now.

  So I called my dear one to come and pick me up, and I bid adieu to my co-workers and compatriots, and went home.  Detroit cooked dinner, and she made whatever the hell it was she made specifically to piss me off.  Then I went to the freezer to look for something else to eat, a backup plan.  But it was gone.  Now I was more pissed.  I went to bed.  Without knowing the results or caring, I went to bed.  I figured it'll be a bright shiny day tomorrow regardless.

  A belated Happy Halloweeny.
  Meanwhile, I had waited for the end of October to get that extra payday, the one that comes twice a year when you get paid bi-weekly.  You see, I haven't paid the sales tax yet--or thusly licensed--my brand new ten year old car.  You have thirty days.  I bought it in June.
  I figured this extra pay check would more than cover it.  Besides, being extra, it's not going to have medical insurance deducted from it.  I would still have money left over, right?  Right.
  Wrong.
  I had a flat in the Mercedes on Tuesday, ruining the tire.  I took it in to get one--and only one--tire, plus get the new inspections.  After deducting that from the total I was playing The Price Is Right:  I came within three dollars without going over...
  Fuck.  Going to have to put this off for another day.  Especially since the truck broke down the other day.  Wednesday Detroit and the Boy stopped at the grocery store, and Fred would not start again.
  I went through the five stages of car repair--Denial, bargaining, anger, acceptance, and going to the auto parts store.  Symptoms seems to indicate a fuel system problem; I was going to start with the basic--and cheapest--repair:  the fuel filter.  I also picked up the book on the truck.  I've had one of these for most cars I have owned.  In fact, when I was in the garage the other day (which I will get to in a minute) I saw two or three of the books for cars I had previously owned.
  The guy at the parts counter convinced me that it would more likely be the fuel pump than a simple thing like the filter, even though the filter was the original one, and the truck had about 170 thousand miles.  So I didn't buy the book, or the filter.  This was Thursday.  Fred was still sitting in grocery store parking lot.

  Friday night I worked at Domino's, and it is the busiest night of the year.  In fact, we set a record that day.  I know I worked MY ass off.  I just want to say that during dinner, me and Stan are on the line, and I'm doing dough.  This was the arrangement between Dina and I.  She wanted to keep Stan away from the computers, because he would stand there trying to control everything, and lock up, and be unable to return to the line to actually help, because he can only do one thing at a time. 
  So Dina was on phones and ovens, and I was on dough because I'm fastest, and Stan itemized.  Stan didn't like how I was doing whatever the hell it was that I was doing, and recommended some changes to my system.  As politely as I could (meaning I didn't say, "Listen, asshole--I've been doing this for over twenty years.  I know what the fuck I'm doing.  Piss off.") I explained that I don't think his suggestions would be applicable in my circumstance, and interface would be difficult at this time--and when we're busy as shit is not the time to try something new.
  For all of Stan's mellow, laid-back attitude, he is remarkably unyielding.  He is completely unable to do things a different way from how he wished to do them.  In that I see an arrogance that his way is the best way, and nothing else should be considered.  But, even though I didn't say, "Listen, asshole--I've been doing this for over twenty years.  I know what the fuck I'm doing.  Piss off."--I may as well have for the way he took it.  Besides--I have been doing this for a fucking long time, and I do what the fuck I'm doing.  I do know that I can still learn a thing or two, but I also know that Stan's remarkable inefficiency is not what I want to learn.
  He gave me the silent treatment.  He pursed his lips, kept them buttoned, and communicated very little, only when absolutely necessary.  He also slammed things around a little at first, putting on this petty little act--
  Like I give a shit.  Does he really think he can out-passive-aggressive me?  I was married for 19 years.  I scoff.  I fart in your general direction.
  My usual tack in a situation like that is to talk to him *more*, smile and be cheerful and annoy him, draw him out--and eventually make him cry, quit, or stomp off.  I do this because I'm a giver.  But we were busy and I didn't have time.  After about half an hour he was over his mad.  I'm sure he still feels he was right--and even he may well have been; however, his reaction was both stupid and inappropriate.

  Saturday morning I was beat.  In fact, I woke about 1pm.  I awoke in a lurch.  "Oh, shit!"  The only thing worse that waking up and not knowing where you are is waking up and *knowing* where you are.  I needed to be up a few hours ago, taking care of things.
  Eventually on Saturday I accomplished the task of getting the truck towed home.  In fact over to my dad's house, which will eventually be home, I guess.  But the garage is there, tools and light is there, and the cherry picker is there.  After talking with a few people, I discovered the best way to get to the fuel pump was to lift up the bed of the truck.  There would be the gas tank, and on top of it would be the fuel pump.  I was starting to develop a plan.
  I was going to not necessarily clean up the garage, but rearrange it and move stuff around, giving me more room to work.  Sunday I would get up early...
  You know, except I didn't.  I got up about 9am.  Then lazed around the house, then watched a movie.  Long about noonish, The Boy, The Woman, and I trundled over to the garage.  I had an idea where to start, and hoped that after that it would come naturally to me.  It worked.  We worked in the garage for not more than two hours, mostly restacking our stuff that was in storage there, eliminating some trash, and moving shit around and freeing up the cherry picker. 
  Then I brought them home, and went to auto parts store once again.  For you see, I had a Revelation.
  Wednesday the truck broke down.  It would not start back up.  Thursday, I went again, and it would not start still.  Friday we left it alone.  Saturday I had it towed.  I almost tried to start it, but at this point--with the tow truck here--I just did not want to know.  Sunday we cleared out the garage and prepared to push the truck in.  Alex got behind the wheel and said, "Let's see if--"
  It starts.  Following the ancient Eastern meditation techniques, I slowly bang my head on the hood.  Good news:  it's not the fuel pump.  Bad news:  what the hell was wrong?
  Cousin Joe to the rescue.  He had a neighbor who could work on it cheap, who he was trying to get me to use for the work.  I was trying to do it myself, because it was going to be expensive just for the part.  However, I did talk to the guy--and his name is Stan also.  He talked me through a few things on the phone. 
  The fact that it did start after several days indicated a couple of things:  probably not the fuel pump, because once it's out, it's out.  But a severally clogged fuel filter could cause a backlash of pressure build-up, that might night clear right away, but would after several days.  Add to that the fact that this summer when gas was high, Detroit was putting the bare minimum in--no more than four gallons in at a time, and always running close to empty.  Add to that the fact that this is the original filter, and you have what seems to be the solution.
  So--I changed the filter without much hassle, and bought the book on the truck.  It's going to come in handy--there are a couple of things I need to do to it.  The truck seems to run a little...peppier now.  Just from a fuel filter?  It must have been bad.  Of course, the truck still runs rough, and I have a couple of ideas on what I need to do.  Later, later. 
  The whole point was, we need to truck to start effecting this move, and that's exactly when the bastard breaks down.  I've had him for six years, and this is the first time he's broken down on me. 
  But it was good to be in the garage.  Dad's garage.
  My garage.  Mine.  I just felt like Dad wanted me to have it.  Whenever--
  After Dad died, that' where we could "feel" him the most.  In the garage.  In the last year, it's been fairly well abandoned.  I'm going to bring it back to life.