If you want to increase your success rate, double your failure rate.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

This Post is Brought to you by the Letter Y

Sometimes things go by so fast.  It seems like only a month ago we started this challenge......oh wait never mind.  Two letters to go.  Don't forget to read my letter Z.  I'll let you in on the secret.  I tasked my father with coming up with an idea for this one.  He has given me his thoughts and now I must translate them into my own words and somehow tie it in to the letter Z.  As if this challenge wasn't hard enough at times.  I'll go out in a blaze of glory or with a wheelbarrow full of useless words and a flat tire.
I feel fortunate enough today to have the letter Y which isn't a hard letter at all.  I did yard work all day yesterday (there's two right there) and after yard work comes beer and BBQ so I'm a little slow this morning.  I'll catch up the blog on my gardening and yard work starting Tuesday.  On a quick note the grocery store had some boneless, skinless chicken thighs on sale and I decided to try them.  Never had them like that.  I simple seasoned them and threw em on the grill last night and slathered them with BBQ sauce.  Man they were good.  Along with that they had the seasons first sweet corn so I char-grilled the sweet corn till almost cooked with a few blackened kernels, cut it off the cob and then sauteed that with fresh red bell pepper, sweet onions and garlic in real butter and then did a cucumber, tomato, onion salad in a balsamic vinaigrette.  Joe and Jessica came over as well.  It was a nice night.  Back to business.

Did I ever tell you the story of my first flat tire?
It was 1992.  I had a Jeep Wrangler with oversize tires and I was also a pain in the ass kid.  My best friend at the time and I decided to go out cruising.  As usual cruising soon became boring.  We headed into a new subdivision on the outskirts of town.  In all I would say there was about 20 new houses in there.  Some finished but not sold and others in the process of construction.  Some had fresh new lawns and landscaping.  I had big tires.
The math is pretty simple here so I won't go into details but some sod may have been damaged.  It was late.  One more job and we were outta there.  As we rounded the bend on the street a house appeared.  The lights were on.  The ultimate score.  I jumped the curb and hammered down as I blew through the fresh sod.  One quick pass, only a foot or two from the road and just as fast as I had hopped on the lawn I was off again.  Except this time I heard a whooofff.

20 yards down the street the Jeep starts lumping.  Oh crap, a flat tire, I had cut it jumping off the curb.
I kept going until I was out of sight of the house and we stopped to survey the damage.  I went to the back of the Jeep to grab the spare tire and found out it had a special locking device on it.  I didn't have the key thing to get it off.  My father did.

This was before cell phones and out of all those houses in that new sub only one had their lights on.  Only one was even occupied.  That house had a phone.  Yep!  I walked straight to that house and knocked on the door.  A panicked man came to the door and he was sure I was out to rob him or steal his children and finally I convinced him to let me use his phone.  He wouldn't let me in but handed me a cordless and I stood on his front stoop calling my Dad to bring me the key thingy.  I thanked the man and he went back in shutting of his porch light in the process which luckily for me only illuminated just a few feet past his sidewalk.
I stepped off the sidewalk and headed towards the street nonchalantly stepping over foot deep tire tacks in HIS.....................
Yard.

Friday, April 27, 2012

This Post Brought to you by the Letter X

The great letter X.  A roadblock in an otherwise average journey.  Stop the car, kids look at that thing!
You don't see it very often but when it's blocking your path it suddenly becomes insurmountable.  This can be considered one of the various forms of writers block.  I don't know the forms but I'm sure if I were to look this would be one.  Having a subject but unable to phoneticize it.  I mean really almost all words that begin with an X have a Z sound.  The only people to successfully alliterate the letter X have been the porn industry with their simple but straightforward XXX.  Not quite, Sally sells sea shells by the sea shore but you get the point much more clearly and there are no questions that follow XXX like, how much are your shells dear Sally?

I'm sure most of us have been on the X page of the various internet sites out there and I have discovered that there are three main links to the letter X.  Yellow, Wood and Dry.  Sounds like an Asian orgy, huh?

There is also a definition of my wife when she comes home from work to a pile of empty beer cans
Xanthippe.  Which is also tied to the above trifecta because my wood often goes dry on those days.
We could probably do a Kevin Bacon study on x words and the trifecta.    However in the interests of your attention span I'll get down to details.

Have I ever told you the story of the day I went to the hardware store for some garden hose repair kits?

It's quick and boring so hang tight, it'll be over soon.

I have a lot of garden hoses.  Right now I have 6.  At the time this story took place I had about ten.  I was watering, chickens, sheep, garden and the flower pots and beds.  I had hoses strung everywhere.  I mowed the grass a lot as well.  I like to mow and I also don't like to get off the mower once on it. Connect the dots and now you see why I was at the hardware store for a hose repair kit.
I picked up a chunk of hose, so I could match it up and get the right size kit, crammed it in my pocket and headed to the hardware.  Once there I pulled the hose from my pocket, found the correct size, and crammed the 8 inch chunk of hose back into my front pocket.  I headed to the checkout and placed my hose kit on the counter.

At the checkout was this new girl.  Perhaps a college student working hard to save for next years tuition and with her very attractive looks she could have made bigger money elsewhere.  It certainly would draw me back to the hardware store repetitive times this summer. (Stalker) I gave her my best smile, what can I say I'm a guy?  She smiled back, gave me a little head nod and looks at my shorts and says.........................
"Is that a xyloid in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

(she actually said something else but damn people x is tough cut a guy some slack)

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Today's Post is Brought to You by the Letter W

I'm sitting here thinking what the hell can I post about that begins with a W.  I mean I already posted twice about T and then had to sneak off terminal at work so I could correct it by dumping in some lame ass word that begins with V instead of T.  I apologize for that.  The end is near and my creative coccyx is bruised pretty bad. It's getting harder and harder to sit here and fill your head with a bunch of crap.  I will say that it is all true.  Every last bit of it.  Even that one post that I threw in there to mess things up.
So I visited one of my favorite blogs tonight to see what the heck Penwasser's Place was posting about and that old codger gave me a brilliant idea for W.  (Maybe not brilliant but after 3 beers it sure seems that way.)  Little does he know, well he will know but that is in the future and not right now.  So this post is dedicated to the word wabblecrucix.

Have I ever told you the story of the time I was a forest fire fighter?  (Damn why didn't I use that for F)

It was senior skip weekend and we had planned a weekend trip up north ( we Michiganders call it up north) a few hours drive to a friends, Aunt's, sister's property to camp.  Go ahead, read it again I'll wait.  
We arrived on a Friday evening.  I think it was the month of May.  I believe there were 20 seniors in all and one non senior.  I think he was in 13th grade.  We had lots of beer.  Canned beer, bottled beer and even a keg.  We were a harmless bunch and could party all night and never cause any problems.  It was the daytime that turned out to be the nemesis.  
The next morning we all awoke and were laying around relaxing.  No piggy yelling for the conch, no wild pigs just a bunch of slightly hungover seniors and one 13th grader.  The time was 10 am.  I was laying in a hammock with about 6 other people.  One would fall out and another would take his place.  The trees were bent slightly.
I heard a loud whistle and a pop.  What the hell?  Who's lighting off bottle rockets.  We scrambled out of the hammock (much to the relief of the trees) and began surveying the area.  Bottles and cans littered the ground.  Blue solo cups with an inch of warm, fly swimming cups sat upon every available stump.  My friends were all on their feet as well looking for the source of the fireworks.  Another whistle and pop, this one landed quite close and we followed the smoke trail.  It was the 13th grader.  Of course.  Who the heck even invited him.  (in the end we discovered no one did he just followed)
Someone yelled out for him to knock it off.  Then another person and then another whistle and pop.  This one landed in a brush pile. ( the fat lady began singing here but we never heard her)
Before anyone could even blink we had an instant bonfire.  The wind, as if on cue, picked up suddenly and it began to rage.  Quickly we raced to the shore of the little lake and began filling every bucket and pail and even the garbage can that held the keg.  For the next 2 minutes we struggled valiantly to quell the fire.  There are a couple things that remain entrenched in my memory.
#1.  Kids filling beer cans with water and running to dump it on the fire.
#2.  Once kids knew it was hopeless they began running all the empty beer cans to the lake, wading knee deep and filling them with water in order to sink them so they wouldn't get in trouble for drinking.
#3.  3 kids trying to hide a keg in the woods so we could still have beer after the fire.
#4.  Me trying to put out the fire in nothing but shorts and my old man's shoes which I had swiped out of the         house prior to leaving.
#5 Being scared shitless

Try as we might we were powerless to control the fire and before we knew it about 15 acres were crisped.  That was when the fire department showed up.  Man they showed up in force.  They had bulldozers and some ripper machines that dug trenches, mini jeeps that could cruise through the woods, chainsaws and an army of men.  They even recruited some of us to take these little indian packs down to the lake and fill them up and then run back into the smoldering woods to put out any little flames.  The indian packs were worn on your back and held about 5 gallons of water.  You pumped the handle and water squirted out the nozzle.

Within a few hours the fire was under control and had only consumed about 30-40 acres I think.  It was a black, putrid, mess.  Smoldering logs lay everywhere.  The ground was ripped to shreds by bulldozers and 3 foot deep trenches gouged the once pristine wilderness floor.  Trees had no foliage and their bark was as black as night.  I approached a still burning log and began to spray it with my indian pack when I heard a noise.
20 feet above me a tree was still burning.  A limb had burned through enough to let loose and the 4 inch diameter branch came cascading down and clipped the bill of my hat, sending it into the smoking log I was trying to put out.  One more step and I may have been a goner.

I had forgotten all about that day until now.  It reminds me never to light fireworks when your............
Wasted


(you didn't really look up wabblecrucix did you?)

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Today's Post is brought to You by the Letter V

I believe there is only one thing I could blog about today for the letter V.
All my life I have been in love with books and writing.  Short stories, poems, journals and I even would turn my essays and papers in high school into little story clips.  The teachers loved it and by my senior year I had dropped out of every class except those dealing with literature, writing, mythology and history.  Of course I was a band geek but band geeks do not think of themselves as band geeks.  I challenge you non band geeks to pick up an instrument and make it sound good.  Not an easy task.
I decided I wanted to play an instrument way back in about 5th grade.  I chose the saxophone and I believe my Grandfather took me out and bought me one.  I can't remember exactly but anyways I didn't take any lessons and barely had any practice.  I just grabbed the case and headed to school.  Of course I could hardly even assemble the thing let alone play it and no one in the class knew this but me.  Not even the teacher.

So here I sit, along with three other sax players and the teacher says ok lets tune up.  Sure thing, no problem.  (What the hell does that mean?)  Then he points at another student and they play a note and he tells them flat, sharp or good.  He moves back and forth down the line and up the rows and everyone plays and adjusts accordingly and then he points at me.  Holy fiddlefuckingfreakazoid batman.  (of course I didn't say that because I didn't like the word batman)  So I grabbed a big lungful of air and blew as hard as I could into the mouth piece.  Spittle flew from the side of my cheeks and the sound was like that of a hundred drunk geese that were also on meth.  A eruption of laughter followed and as my cheeks reddened he asked me what note I had just played and of course I didn't even know what a note was so I simply shrugged.  It didn't take him long to figure it out but with a little coaching and the girl next to me (Bridgette) I was able to play the note.  The first note I ever played.  A simple C.  A bit more coaching and the sound was like drunk geese that had finally come off the meth.
That was my first attempt at music.  My first attempt at writing was a bit more tragic.  We were asked to write a paper and I can't remember the whole parameters but I decided I would write about the Vietnam war.  A story about the life and hardships of a grunt.  It was good I thought but then again I was a huge Stephen King fan and of course there was some blood and gore and maybe some language but I figured I would write from the heart.  It didn't have to be true so I let 'er fly.  Little did I know that all the papers were turned into a group and the group was to decide which one they liked best.  This was done without the teacher even looking at them.  The winner, if you want to call it that, was then charged with reading his or her paper in front of the class.  Guess who won? (or lost)  Me!  So I proceeded to tell my story and the graphic details that encompassed my imaginary tour in  the 'Nam complete with the sexual encounters of native prostitutes, smoking the best weed around and of course the killing of hundreds of enemy soldiers complete with flies, maggots and the occasional cutting off of a ding dong or two.  Most of my research came from the big screen so what would you expect.  The teacher was..........well I don't know the word for it but the grade wasn't that well and I believe the comment written in red ink was something like " A bit graphic for a high school creative writing class don't you think?"  I never gave up though as you can tell I still write terrible stuff and once or twice a year can spit out something half ass worth reading but in the end it really comes down to my love for writing.

I played that saxophone.  It took awhile but I made it.  Including a stint in the jazz band on a tenor sax, I played the alto sax in symphony and also the baritone and alto in marching band.
I wrote many stories and poems.  I love every one of them.  Good or bad and if you were to ask me how I feel about it I would say given my lack of education on either one I would say.....................
Vindicated.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

This post brought to you by the letter U

I have begun the countdown.  6 letters to go and it starts with U.
These next few should be pretty challenging.  I have a special post that I have saved for the last one.  I have no idea how I'm going to tie it into X yet but therein lies the challenge.

Have I ever told you the story of the first time I played bingo?  Real bingo?  With old ladies and everything?
Yeah I thought so too.
How about the time I answered the hotel room in my underwear and it was the room service girl?
No?  OK here goes.

The year was 2006.  It was the end of the major league baseball season and if your from Michigan or Missouri than you know that it was the very end and it was in fact the world series.  Detroit vs St. Louis.  I was there with my brother.  We had tickets to game one and two.

We spent the entire evening before opening game day hanging with old friends and drinking lots of barley pops.
Around 2:30 in the morning we finally made it back to the hotel room and crashed out pretty hard.  Him in the bedroom and me on the hide-a-bed couch thingy.  8am that morning there comes a knock on the door.  Startled awake I holler back to him if he was expecting company.  He said he had called in a morning coffee service.  So I was like sweet we have coffee and got up to answer the door.  Of course I was still a wee bit under the wobble and answered the door in my boxer briefs and only my boxer briefs.  The room service girl took one look at me and immediately dropped her head and stared at the floor.  She mumbled something and I thought maybe I had to pay her.  She mumbled something else but with her head down I couldn't make it out.  I took a cursory glance at my drawers just to make sure they weren't stained or something had popped out and all was in place and I took the coffee and she quickly departed the room.  Very strange acting lady I thought to myself and hollered back to my bro about the encounter.  He chuckled and laughed it off.  I passed it off as being in my underwear.  So anyways I had my coffee and around 10 am I decided to get in the shower and then we would head for downtown Detroit.  It was then, when I walked in the bathroom and stared at the mirror that I understood the behavior of the coffee lady.  Stenciled across my forehead in black marker was the word BALLS.  Big letters.  My brother had been a little creative during the night and with all the refreshments I slept right through it.  I've been lying in wait for him to exact my.........
Ultion 

Monday, April 23, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the letter T

Well here we are on the last few posts of the challenge.  I've enjoyed it for the most part except those days where I don't have any time and still have to get a post out.  Would I change the way I posted next challenge?  Probably not.  I'm more of a spontaneous writer.  I like it that way.  It comes from the heart.
Stay tuned for a special post I have planned before the end of this little shindig.  Now what to post about today.

Have I ever told you the story of my salsa business?  Well it wasn't a huge business but it did make money and I was noted as having the best salsa around.
It started about 10 years ago.  We had just moved from an apartment to a little house within the city limits.  It was a quaint little 3 bedroom house with a fenced in yard for the dog we didn't have.  I used the kids instead because you can't have a fence without containing something.
With all the space I had (compared to the apartment) I decided to put in a garden.  This was the seed that sowed my love of gardening forever.  My neighbor (and Uncle in law) had a beat up old rototiller and offered it up for service.
After an hour of sweat, blood and tears I finally had the.....tiller started...........and began dry humping the soil.  Sounds crude I know but have you ever watched someone break virgin soil with a front tine rototiller?  If you have then you understand my description.  I think the garden was about 14 feet wide and around 25 feet long.
Not real big but she was my first.
The only experience I had with gardening was watching my father.  We didn't have a lot of gardens but I do remember some of them.  So what to plant was my biggest dilemma.  I love salsa so I figured I would grow vegetables that could make salsa.  Off to the store I went and came home with an assortment of veggies.

I worked my butt off in that garden.  Weeding and watering.  I put a rickety, chicken wire fence to keep our imaginary dog out and more importantly the neighborhood rabbits.  My efforts were rewarded come late that summer as I plucked beautiful vegetables from my first garden.  Now I just needed to learn how to make salsa.

After much research, taste testing and a very messy kitchen I completed my first batch and filled up 6 pints with mild, medium and hot salsa.  Of course I couldn't sit still without having a taste test so off to the local Eagle's Club (hang out at that time) I went accompanied by my 6 pint jars and 2 bags of chips.
Now I don't know if it was all the beer talking or the salsa was just that good but soon the 6 jars were empty and people were asking me how much I charged for it.  It was like I was Mr. Ortega, Chi Chis, Old El Paso or something.  They wanted it and it was obvious by the price that they didn't care how much it cost.
This was pure fresh salsa.  No seasoning packets or kits involved.  90% of the ingredients were harvested from that little yard.
I sold many jars that year and I sold them at $5 a pint and requested the jars back, and they gave them back.  I think the thing I liked most of all about my salsa business was the feeling I got when I was told that it was the best salsa ever.  My garden boomed and since that day there was only one year I didn't have a garden and that was last year because we moved.  I no longer sell it but the romance is still there.

So in my growing infatuation with vegetables and gardening I increased the size and number of plants.  Added sweet corn and cucumbers along with zucchini and squash but if you stood back and looked, the predominant vegetable was the shiny red one.  Hanging from its stem, plum, ripe and ready to be turned into something delicious.  At one time I had as many as 40 plants growing.  Last canning season I had I put up 40 quarts.  This post is dedicated to my love affair with the........................
Tomato

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Today's post is brought to you by the letter S

He watched solemnly as the rain pelted the window.  The drops, gathering and sliding.  Sliding down, always down because hope is never a substitute for gravity.

He was alone and this was his usual state.  This was what he had grown accustomed to.  Any other day it wouldn't have bothered him but today he was sad.  Sad because he had let himself slip again.  It had been a long time since he had slipped and he knew it was coming but powerless to do anything about it.  Hope is no substitute for fate.  The tears came surprisingly fast, he thought he was stronger.  The rage followed shortly afterwards because alcohol is never a substitute for hope.

He remembered the days of his youth, the malice in her eyes, the sting of the belt.  It only took a small amount and the memories poured forth, black and sticky like an ink well knocked over on burnt skin.
Deep into his state of cogitation he could smell the smoke and the spilled liquor.  He could hear the creaks of the drug house bed springs masquerading as payment.  The sweet stench of the smoke.  The slap of the hand reddened his face even now and his tears glowed upon them as they made their journey down his cheeks.

This time it was stronger than before and he couldn't make it stop.  A choked off cry poured forth and it all came loose because in the end control is never a substitute for hope.  Hoping is what had led him here again against all his efforts to stop it.  he clenched his fists, digging fingernails deep into his palms, leaving scarlet crescent shapes.  The physical pain did nothing to stop it.  He was gone again.

He would come around again, sooner or later and he would pray for it to leave him alone.  To stop the torment but alas prayer is no substitute for reality.  It would be clear again if only for a little while.  A much needed respite was in order from himself.  He should have been better.  It was always his fault and he knew it and in the end he was always............
Sorry

Friday, April 20, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter R

This post is biased.  Read at your own risk.  If it falls in your lap and burns you then you are stupid.

I have a dog who is in the top two dogs on the earth.  (In case your wondering I own the other one as well.)

He found me shortly after the loss of Isabella and has since then stole my heart and become my spoiled rotten youngest child.  Here he is when I first saw him.
and he here is taking a nap.

Here he is taking another nap with his papa.

Here he is on his first birthday
Here he is begging for a ride in the tractor cart
Another adorable puppy pic
His first goose retrieve.  ( I was so proud)

He has been a great dog friend.  I love this little creature like you wouldn't believe.  So this post is all about..............
Remmi
Don't worry, I got your back little buddy!

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter Q


So it begins.  The letters of doom.  I have wracked my brain all day trying to come up with a Q story.  I almost said to heck with it and Quit.  There was the girl in high school that just couldn't Queef Quietly and the story about my first duck hunt without a call where I Quacked all morning using my vocal cords I ended up losing my voice.
I finished up dinner rather Quickly so I could sit and here and come up with this post.
Nothing is happening.
There is the time I went to Quebec on a caribou hunt.  The time I Quietly snuck out the window to ring doorbells all night throughout the neighborhood.  Of course I could tell you about one of my favorite cartoon characters Quagmire form Quahog or about an old highschool friend who passed from cancer Mike Quinn.

Would you take a bet if I told you I could shove a Q-tip all the way up my nose without sneezing?
Watching Quail run around in the woods with their little head feathers bobbing comically.

I just can't settle on one particular story.  My mind is a mess and in the end I would just as soon let this letter ride as it is.  Thanks for reading about my........
Quandary.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter P

Some of my favorite words begin with P.
I won't go into details bu there is peer and peanuts, prunting, prishing, pramping and my all time favorite.......oh that's right I said I wouldn't go into details.

Which brings me to the story of.......wait a minute....have I told you the story of the free puppies?  No? This is one of my older brother's favorites.  Hang on and grab the waste basket.
A long, long, time ago in a galaxy small rural county there was three boys who were on their way to a birthday party in a neighboring community.  This party was for a girl who happened to be the daughter of these three boys boss, so attendance was mandatory even though said girl was enough years younger to absolve the three boys of any interest.
The party was lame (as if)  and soon the boys became restless.  (if you hadn't gathered by now this usually means trouble)  After a weak congratulations and best birthday wishes were granted the three boys sprinted out the door headed for their car.  It was decided that they should take the back roads home in an attempt to kill time before the "real" stuff of the evening began.  It was this decision that led the boys to the free puppies.

It was a dirt road they were driving on, of which we had many, when the headlights just glanced over a sign that read "FREE PUPPIES".  Thinking nothing of it (common occurrence) the boys continued on.  That is until about a half mile later when they came across an entire family of Possums that had been killed in the road.
I believe it was my brother who screamed,"STOP THE CAR".
I slammed on the brakes and gave him an inquisitive look.  His eyes twinkled and he explained his plan.

Within minutes the car was turned around and our plan was in action.  We returned to the house with the free puppies and promptly stole their sign.  Returning to the scene of the possum carnage we exited the car and began gathering rocks from the side of the road and once we had enough, propped the "Free Puppies" sign up in the middle of the road among the dead and smashed possums.  This is the story of.......................
Possum Puppies.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter O


This is a re-post.  One of my favorites of all time.  Hope you don't mind!  It is a continuation of a deer camp post from 2 yrs ago.  It is Joe's first trip to deer camp and holds memories I will treasure forever.


Dad's deer hanging from a very nice buck pole.





Poor Joe just couldn't help himself and had to text all his girl "friends" back home.  He seems to have a new one every couple weeks and then returns to the first one.  Some sort of maddening circle.  He'll learn eventually.  One is more than enough!!  Unfortunately he couldn't always get a signal in camp and at his weakest moment I got a picture of him desperately seeking signal.  Pun intended!

Yes it's a ladder and he's at the top with phone in hand.

We teased him all week about his phone and girls and not seeing deer because his eyes were in his lap while he texted.  It was good fun.  Joe says he can't wait for his sister to make the trip so he won't be the greenhorn anymore.  I would bet that his sister would probably shoot a deer leaving him to once again fill the rookie vacancy.  It's just Murphy's law.  It is what it is.
Shall we move on to fried chicken night?
Dad's little fry station

I brought two whole chickens cut up and they gave us all livers and only one gizzard.
We ate them anyways.  We had french fries with this as well but not long after the chicken was removed from the fryer it disappeared.  We stood right there and ate at the fry station.
Joe almost put his phone down to eat.  Almost!



Dear Girlfriends,  I am at deer camp and my step grandpa just fed me fried chicken livers.  Despite the fact that I am ravenous and near the brink of starvation I ate them anyways.  They were good.  I would never eat these at home.  I miss you and I will talk to you later on top of the ladder.  Love Joe Joe!!
Well before we went out for the evening hunt Dad and I prepared the chimney log by stuffing it full of dead pine boughs.  We packed them into the chimney with the splitting maul.  I cut air holes in the log so it would burn better.  Here see for yourself.

It is upside down in the above picture.  I had to scrape all the wet rotten wood from the center as well.

Stuffed

On fire!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Add a little used fry oil for cause and effect!!





This baby was hot.  Blue flames and it ate poplar logs like candy.

Oh yeah I almost forgot bath day!!!!  It's a good thing I control this blog because you won't see my pictures.

Dear Girlfriends,  I am at deer camp taking a bath in an ice cold creek.  Apparently I am so dirty that I need to subject myself to 34 degree water in order to look good for you when I return.  My phone is hidden in the chair so the guys up there don't have any idea what I'm doing.  I am so sneaky.  PS.  Due to almost freezing water my willy has retreated so far that I will have to pee sitting down for the next 24 hours.
Love, Joe Joe

Dear girlfriends,  These are NOT the same boxers I have had on for 3 days.  Do not listen to those guys!
Love, Joe Joe.

I must say it was amazingly refreshing once the feeling came back into your numb, red body.  Well worth the sacrifice of sitting down to go pee!

Dear Girlfriends,  Just got done recharging my batteries.  I am so cold.  I don't know how these guys can stand there in just shirts and jeans.  Crazy fat guys!  Maybe I'm still cold from my bath.  It's hard to text when my face is covered so bye for now.
Love Joe Joe.

I had a couple partridge(ruffed grouse) walk by my blind one day.  Hard to get the camera to focus on them.
We had such a great time.  I miss it already.  I need to modify a few things for next year but all in all a great time.  I'm having a hard time getting back into the hunting down here now.

One more thing;

Dear Wife,
What have I got myself into.  Jeff wasn't very honest about this trip.  He said there was clear water and a sandy shore all I see is this freezing creek and the sand has rocks in it.  Can you believe it?  That would never fly in Florida,  rocks in the sand.  He makes me climb these huge hills and haul wood.  Wakes me up at 4 am every morning and tries to get me to drink boiling hot coffee.  I truly believe he is trying to clog my arteries with these 5 egg omelets and fried potatoes.  Eat, Eat ,Eat, I swear he pushes food down us like there's no tomorrow.  Might have to buy an extra seat for the flight home. Also we have to drink our beer out of cans.  What I wouldn't give for a glass.    Not sure how much more of this I can take.
Hopefully him and Joe don't see me texting. 
Love William.
You may wonder what this has to do with the letter O.............................
Once in a lifetime.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter N


Have I ever told you the story about how I tried to write my initials in concrete?  Didn't think so.

Stationed on the banks of the Rifle River in North East Michigan is a quaint little canoe livery.  It's main season is mid-summer when throngs of people flood the banks of the river to enjoy a lazy float downstream accompanied by the tastiest of waterproofed cooler goodies.  A vast array of adult beverages is also a suitable companion.
Many summer outings have been enjoyed at this campground both when I was young and with my parents and when I was older with children of my own.  We camped at several different campgrounds and the one in this particular tale is that of Mr. Joe Nagy.  His brother Lou Nagy also owned a canoe livery and this shall be the only mention of Lou in this story.  Surprisingly enough both campgrounds were connected by a 50 foot trail through the pucker brush and poison ivy.  It is said that one could sneak down the trail into Lou's, or for that matter Joe's and raid sleeping camper's coolers relieving them of a few beers or wine coolers each without too much fuss.  As a matter of fact I believe I said that but that's a different story and came along years after this particular one.  Enough of the Nagys' and on to the story.
If I think hard enough (without setting the smoke alarm off) I would guess my age at approxiamtley 8.  It was our annual family outing with all the family and neighbors and we usually had quite a showing, relieving the owner of many campsites and assisting him in the depositing of many hundreds of dollars in his bank account.

Our big thing was to pack giant inner tubes and once at camp inflate them and float down the river.  We had big tubes, they came from our Refuse business and were big enough to fit a garbage truck tire.  The daily routine was the adults sat around and the kids played in the river.  We would hike upstream and float back to camp.  Usually once a trip the adults would join and we would drive the cars up stream a few miles and then have a nice long float back to camp which lasted several hours.
This particular year Mr. Nagy was building a new store at the campground.  Once finished it would carry all the necessary sundries that us campers needed, namely beer, ice, bug spray, sunblock and for us kids candy and lots of it.  During this year's trip the store was just having it's foundation poured and being kids we had to gawk at the construction and if we hung out long enough maybe, just maybe, we could write our initials in the concrete and forever be linked to the world of slow rivers, banged up aluminum canoes and ever so pricey candy.  One could only hold his breath in anticipation of the long awaited nod from a worker.  It was this infatuation with wet concrete that set the events in motion for this particular event.  Not wanting to be left out or unnoticed I crept ever so slowly towards the wet concrete.

Inching closer and closer and just when I thought I would get the nod it happened.  Eyes on the prize I wasn't watching my step and stepped on 2x4 used to build the forms for the concrete footers.  In this dastardly piece of wood resided a 4 inch sinker.  A spike, a giant steel pointed thing most commonly referred to as a nail.  Not only was the nail living peacefully in the wood it had apparently bent as if growing towards the sun like a shad stricken plant would.  In an effort to describe what this looked like, take your index finger and hold the middle knuckle flat and then bend just the tip of the finger. This is what the nail looked like although much sharper and rustier than your finger.

Now imagine if you will the way a foot moves when it takes a step.  Heel to toe.  Now imagine my heel planted firmly on the ground and as my foot rolls forward it makes contact with the nail.  The nail punctures my foot and because of the angle of my step proceeds all the way in.  Had I walked flatfooted I would have stepped on the top of the bent nail and not into it the way I did.

All thoughts of wet concrete and initials immediately left my mind and as my eyes widened in terror the smallest of squeaks must have left my lips because that is when the worker finally looked up.  Not for the nod but in a slight state of annoyance or confusion.  The look on my face must have told the tale and he stopped his work to investigate.  He was a large, black man not unlike the pictures you see of John Henry or the guy from the movie Green Mile, John Coffee.  Even though that movie came on scene long after this incident that is what my mind's eye remembers.  I thought for sure he was gonna either kill me or beat me on top of the head with the shovel he had been using moments prior.

As he closed the gap a giant smile crossed his face and he swept me up in one arm (I was no skinny 8 yr old) complete with the 2x4 stuck to the bottom of my foot.  His exact words were,"don't worry lil fella I'll help you out".
That was when all hell broke loose.  Well at least that is what I felt because Mr. John Coffee grabbed that nasty old 2x4 and began twisting it back and forth in a circular motion to get it out of my foot.  Unbeknownst to him that the nail was inside my foot and bent over.  For a big giant of a man that he was even he grunted as he twisted and ripped the nail from my foot.  Everything else was forgotten.  Literally, either I blocked it out or the adrenaline rush kicked in and I don't remember him setting me down or limping back to camp.
My next vivid memory is of our grown up neighbor looking at me and asking what happened and if it hurt.  I told him I stepped on a nail and yes it hurt like heck and he immediately punched me in the arm so hard that it went numb and said there that will take the pain away from your foot for awhile and went back to his Miller High Life.  I refused any sort of treatment such as going to the hospital for a probably much needed stitch and a tetanus shot and after a good cleaning put my shoe back on and limped upstream with the other kids to go for one more tube ride for the day.  That is my story of.........................
Nagy's Nail.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter M

There is only one thing I think of when it comes to the letter M.  I'm sure for many of you it would be Mother or Mom but not for me.  Far from it actually.  It's another blast from the past but I have developed a theme sort of and keeping true to what is working so far.......................
Have I told you the story of how I committed my first felony?  Didn't think so.  A re-post would be too easy.

It was a cold January day, my friends and I were out on the frozen waters of Lake Orion for a pick up hockey game.  Of course boys will be boys and soon we were having more hockey fights (for fun) than playing actual hockey.  In case you didn't know ice is slippery and skates are sharp and well I ended up slicing a boys throat when I fell on him and he ended up dying.  I was charged with negligent homicide and sent to a juvenile detention center for 55 years.  Oh wait a minute that was last nights episode of Law and Order.  What happened to me was I was picked up in the air and dumped back on the ice and landed square on my shoulder.  I spent the next couple of weeks in a sling.  Although the first rendition has a bit more drama it didn't happen.  This story gets better just hang on.
So unable to do the things a normal teen would do in the winter months like hockey, skiing, ice fishing,snowmobiling, hunting, you get the point, I was bored out of my gourd and all I could do was drive.
So two nights before the Giants defeated the Bills in Superbowl XXV and also two nights before my father held a great big Superbowl party I headed out to pick up a couple friends to go cruising.

Cruising soon became boring and we put our three heads together and came up with something new to do.  After picking up the necessary supplies we headed out for the gravel roads far into the country.
Approaching speeds of 35 mph friend #1 leaned out the window and "WHACK".
Deep into the night the decimation continued and no road was left untouched, no subdivision, not even my own road.  We were out to set a record.  It was on my road that the last of the Mohicans met its demise and friend #2 declared himself the winner and wanted to stop and pick up his trophy.  As he bent over to claim his prize headlights popped over the hill behind us.  I hollered for him to get back in the jeep and as he was scrambling in the door, still clutching his trophy, I stomped on the accelerator.
The headlights were closing rapidly and as I approached speeds of 55 mph I knew we were being chased.  I crept closer to 60mph and still the headlights drew even nearer.  70 then 80 and now the vehicle was a mere 30 yards behind us.  In a last ditch attempt to thwart our adversary friend #1 tossed friend #2s trophy from the window and as it bounced harmlessly off his front bumper he crept closer.  I eventually reached speeds of 90 MPH which was what the speedometer topped out at and at one point, peaking a hill on the road, I felt the jeep go airborne.  We eventually lost the tail in a FoodTown parking lot, or so we thought, and headed home.  Swearing we would never do that again. Also elated with the fact that we got away with it.

"So that's it?" you ask.  "End of story?"
No not quite.  It gets even better.
"Better than the time you chased a deer through the woods with only the barrel of your muzzle-loader?"  Pretty close I say.

Two days later just as Whitney Houston is finishing up singing the Star Spangled Banner and my Father's house is packed with guests for the big game there comes a knock at the door.  Two men in blue.  With shiny gold badges pinned to their chest.  Yep!  I will leave the rest up to your imagination and I can't remember all the things that went through my head that night but it was one crazy night.  Turns out the pursuer of my jeep that night only needed to get close enough to get the plate number.  DUH
Of course it was registered to my Father and even the cops with donut jelly dripping down the front of their uniform can figure that one out.
In the end we came to an agreement with the cops that because we were so young no charges would be filed as long as we replaced every thing we destroyed.  Which by our count was probably around 500.  Luckily their count was only on my road and it added up to around 20.
We went door to door and explained to every homeowner that we were the ones that destroyed their property and we were here to correct our wrongdoings and replace everything.
The comical thing was no one really cared.  We got a lot of oh don't worry it will just get destroyed again and because I was still in a sling they wanted to know if I hurt myself destroying their property and they were sorry if I did.  In the end it cost us about $40 each and a giant dose of embarrassment.  Especially to our parents.  I'm really thankful they didn't nail us for all of them because I think I would still, to this day, be installing...................
Mailboxes.


(to all those affected by my doings 20 some years ago I apologize and for those of you who have reinforced mailboxes, bite me!)

Friday, April 13, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter L

LLiving la vida loca.  I know that is a cop out!  Would be perfect for an L post though.  I don't even come close to living a crazy life.  However I have been accused of being crazy, unstable, whacko and plain just not right.
That is different than living the crazy life.  More like a crazy living life so that one is non applicable.  The big N/A.
So now what?
Have I ever told you the story of my home town?  No?
I was born in 1974.  More precisely I was making my way down the birth canal as Richard Nixon announced his resignation. The country stood by watching the government dishevel itself as I slipped in the back door unnoticed.  A tiny package delivered unto a world that has never seen the like since.
My father was the local garbage man, my mother was just beginning the battle with her demons.  My brother a sprite 2 years old already.
I knew no shame, no remorse and no sadness.  I was a happy baby.  Still am for the most part. (but we all have our black spots don't we?)
Green appliance and shag carpet were the hot trends.  8 mile was still just a road and thriving at that. The energy crisis was in full swing and daylight savings time was bumped a full 4 months to save energy. The Alaska oil pipeline was commencing and the Vietnam conflict was in the pre-stages of a memory and Ford was announcing amnesty for draft dodgers.
The great film The Exorcist makes it's debut and the hot sounds of the day were the likes of ABBA, David Bowie, Van Morrison and The Velvet Underground.
Gas prices were 55 cents a gallon and the average price for a house was $34,900.

I grew up in a small town.  It started life back in 1828 when a settler arrived and started damming up the local creeks and flooded out what is now a 440 acre lake.  This powered his sawmill and wheat grinder.
The town grew as a popular vacation spot in the 1900s and finally received its first post office delivering mail to around 300 cottages around the lake.  My grandfather began his career delivering fruits and vegetables to the local vacationers in the 40s and 50s and soon began his own trash removal service.  My father took over the business and that was our life until the 1990s when it was sold due to the monopolizing giants like Waste Management and BFI and their corporate drowning of the little guys.
I have since moved away from that town as almost the entire family has but the town will always have a place in my heart.  From Marco's Pizza and cruising on the lake with friends to family BBQs and riding on the back of a garbage truck.  You are a special place to me.........
LAKE ORION

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter K

The worst part about the letter K is all I can see in my minds eye (small as it be ) are all the words that technically begin with a C but some wise ass decided to throw a K at it instead.  Ice cream joints are notoriously bad for this.  Does it help sell more ice cream if we eat it out of a kone instead of a cone?  Or that pesky donut joint.  Krispy Kreme.  So now when I think of a letter K it always should be a C.  So I've decided I'll post about  my first Kar.  (Shut up spell check)  It was a 1989 Jeep Wrangler Sahara Edition.  It was a sweet ride for a high schooler let me tell you.  I had it all through high school and ended of selling it for my first work truck which was a 1995 Ford F250 with a snowplow attached but not before I ended up shooting a hole in the side of it.  Oh I haven't told you that story?  Well be patient it's a long month.  Fine, I'll throw a K at you just to make things legal.  Don't want to get Kicked off the challenge you Know.  Good enough?
Julie Taylor, 9th grade, in the hallway of the junior high school, halfway between the gym and the cafeteria.
I guess they are right you never forget your first kiss!  24 years ago and I still remember it like yesterday.
So Julie wherever you are thanks for the memory and go buy yourself and ice kreme kone in memory of the......KISS


Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter J

In keeping with my mischievous childhood you might think and aptly titled post such as JAIL would be appropriate, I won’t say that I’ve been or haven’t been.
 I’ll leave that up to your imagination or your investigational skills. 
I’ve struggled with the letter J.  I have a cat named Jiminy but he is a cat and as cats go, he is on par with most, (Not doing much of anything at all) so a post about him would be a rather futile attempt at any type of entertainment.
There was the great and beautiful Jarra but that is water under the bridge.  Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt? 
Nope, never knew the man.  So I’ll do what comes naturally and just keep typing until something makes a bit of sense and if it doesn’t, then it fits this blog anyways.
I once had a best friend whose name was Jason.  We did everything together. 
Once we rode our bikes up to Nick’s Country Store, which was a small party store in our rural neighborhood. 
Not sure what we were after but we parked the bikes and headed for the door passing a rusted old Ford pickup truck that had a mess of raccoon tails hanging from the rearview mirror. 
This was our initial attention getter, as would any body part from a dead animal be for two teenage boys.
As our eyes shifted from the two tone fur hanging from the chipped mirror, they settled upon the pack of Marlboro cowboy killers resting on the dusty dashboard.  As our widened eyes met and our smiles beamed my hand slid through the window snatching the coffin nails from their place on the cracked, red vinyl. Whatever was in the store was quickly forgotten as we pedaled furiously for the 200 acres of public forest land and the covertness of the giant trees and their sheltering shade.
We smoked what was left in the pack and giggled and swooned as the nicotine raced into our brains giving us the illusion of being drunk.  (Drunk was a state which we had not acquired yet)
It was only then, on the last cigarette that I said to Jason. “I wonder if I could blow smoke out of my ears.”  Being a recent graduate of the PADI dive course at the local strip mall I was an ear equalizing specialist and was set to try and introduce those skills to the world of cigarette smoking.
A big inhale and plugging my nose I forced air out, just as I would underwater, and that is when I felt one
of the worst pains in my life.  That day I discovered that you could pump your lungs up full of smoke but under no circumstance should you blow it out your ears.  I was a first class……………………

JACKASS.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Today's Post is brought to you by the Letter I




Today's posts is a double re-post.  Words are so very hard to come by on this letter.  C was bad enough.  The second post was about a month after.



FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9, 2009


My Little Isabella

My little Isabella was bornWednesday.  She was only 16 weeks old however and did not survive.  I wonder what God's plans are.  Why would this happen?  I do not know.  I do know that this is very hard.  I know that her big brother Corwin will now have her in heaven where they can be together.   I know that every tear I cry waters the meadows where they play.  I know that their parents loved them so much and never even got to hold them.  Oh Isabella and Corwin how I wish you were here now.  


You two love each other and when God says its time I will see you again.  I love you both so much.


Dad

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 2009


Remembering Isabella













All is quiet now.
Most have forgotten.
Time forever moves in it's endless destination
Unknown


A month has passed
And still I cry
When shall my heart
Stop it's long sigh


Hurting on the inside
Yet I hide it so well
If only I could forget
And relinquish this hell


To forget is freedom
From the aches in my heart
To remember tortures my soul
With what should have been.


Nonstop we travel 
Through life everyday.
If we stop and think
The pain won't go away.


Please don't be upset
If I don't think of you everyday
It's just too hard
Getting through that way


I promise I will love you
Through the rest of my years
Daddy's little girl
remembered with tears