THE SHARK TANK

Imagine working in a shark tank, trying to hold your own, trying to do your job. I’m not tough, it’s really not me. The other teachers exclude themselves from the decision making process. I schedule all the GED Exams, coordinate it with MW. Murders and rapists—and I don’t know them all—try to intimidate me. "What shoe size do you wear?" one will ask, leading me to think he’d off me and have my shoes if I don’t schedule him for testing. I tell him they’re a size 9, "but when I get through with you," I say, "they’ll feel like a size 12." I’ve never lost a pair.

If you slip up, lose your cool, then it’s like a feeding frenzy, the inmates will exploit your weaknesses. Also, never show your soft side. Be tough. Keep control of your area. "You are totally useless, you sit there and yap like a little school girl about total bullshit, nothing’s relevant," I tell an inmate not doing his classroom work, "so shut the hell up, that’s a direct order." And he does. He doesn’t say boo. Sticks his nose in a book and reads for 15 minutes. So I feel bad. Really really bad. I think maybe I’m too harsh. So I go over to him and apologize. "Hey man," I say, "I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings."

Reality check. "Hurt my feelings?" he replies. "F…k, you can’t hurt my feelings. Hurting my feelings is when the judge told me I got to do 12 to 20 years in this shithole."

I still feel bad. Not for him, but for myself. I have at least 15 more years before retirement. Fifteen more years of dealing with people like him. But the shark tank is much bigger than I’d thought. I teach year round, had to renew my teaching certificate by today, June 30, 2006. Submitted the necessary paperwork to the Michigan Department of Education. Still waiting for them to mail my certificate along with a bill for $125. Have to pay the state to work for the state. Received the following memo from personnel. Most teachers don’t receive their certificate until the end of August when the public schools start their new school year. But I’m not a normal teacher, I work for the Department of Corrections. I’ll keep you posted as to my job status.

DOUBLE JEOPARDY

I've had students, full grown men mind you, at the third/fourth grade reading level, tell me they're ready for the GED exam. My usual reaction, which I've perfected over the years, is to let them explain to me in so many words how they prepared, before asking, "Why am I embarrassed for you?"

Most of the time they have difficulty sensing the irony, the sarcasm, in my voice. Sometimes, when the argument gets a little heated, I'll play Alex Trebek. "Here's the answer," I'll say, "kidney stones and gas." I'll get these blank, impassive stares. They don't watch the show, too knowledge based; therefore, they don't understand the format. I'll explain that I'm looking for the question. Still no answer. "What are the two things you will pass in your life time?" I'll say.

The real kicker about teaching in a prison is that the lifers are usually serious about their education, whereas, ninety percent of the short timers could care less. "Why should I attend classes," they'll ask, "when I can pay to take the test out in the real world?" I guess that's why they're called cons--they're confident in their abilities, which are woefully lacking. Once in a while a student will ask for extra time on his test, especially if he's the last one in the room.
"C'mon, no one will know," I hear.

My response: "I'll know." They don't get it. "Look," I explain, "I could go to a Department of Corrections party, get drunk, and tell on myself." Afterall, no one's infallible.

THIS OLD DOG

This old dog hurts internally, choosing to spend his time sleeping on the couch in the damp basement instead of at the foot of the bed. He understands his place in the master bedroom; however, he's been inadvertently kicked one time too many and simply chooses not to make the effort of leaping onto the hard mattress.

The veterinarian says he's in good shape considering his age, says to continue feeding him a steady diet of white rice and egg for his upset stomach and to give him 75 mg of Rimadyl twice a day for his stiff joints. Still, on occasion, his back legs give out from under him, and he throws up, his sad look of apology evident as he tries to disappear from what has happened.

This old dog's loyalty never waivers, or at least it should never be questioned. He eats what is given to him, believing it to be the nourishment he needs. He goes outside when he is told to, even when it's unnecessary. His only one true defiant act may be where he chooses to sleep. I'm afraid that this old dog just might be slipping away.

ANOTHER PITCH

It's been two weeks, has to be, since I emailed my proposal to the Arts Editor at the Metro Times. I explained my pitch in a straightforward manner: "Dear Mrs. Rebecca Mazzei, Arts Editor, I am currently writing a book review of a debut short story collection titled 'The End of the World' by George Dila. Dila appeared in two previous Metro Times fiction issues. His title story and "Teddy and Freddy" appeared in your 2002 and 2001 issues, respectively, and are in his book. I believe a review of his book in tandem with this year's summer fiction issue will show your readership the type of talent your contest draws. Furthermore, my stories have appeared in your weekly. Please let me know if you're interested, and if so, a word limit and deadline."

The very same day I got my response: "Hi James, good idea! Why don't you give me a 500-word review due by next Thursday? I'll take a byline too, explaining when your work appeared, etc."

I'd made my pitch, I'd gotten my response, so I finished the review two days prior to the deadline and did a follow-up email: "Attached is the 500-word review of 'The End of the World' by George Dila, including my byline. Also, I've attached a jpg file of his book cover. I hope it meets the needs of the Metro Times. Let me know."

Now I wait, wondering why the hurry in the first place, paranoid some intern has my book review on the bottom of some "to do" pile, that is, if it were printed out and not accidently deleted. Maybe he'll count 530 words and per the directions of his boss scrap my piece altogether. As I wait, I email the author of the book, filled with false hope, trying to make it a reality. He responds: "James, A review in MT would be fantastic. I'm currently in Iowa attending workshops, having a great time. George." I wish I could say the same.

SUZUKI 50

Last week Governor Jennifer Granholm vetoed a proposed "No Helmet" bill for Michigan, basing her decision not so much on the statistical importance of cracked skulls with or without helmets during accidents but on long-term care costs for closed-head injuries. In other words, if there were sufficient insurance protection (who cares about craniums) she would have allowed the bill to pass. It’s so nice to know that an increase in cracked skulls while helmet-less didn’t factor into the equation.

In this first picture (spring 1974) I’m perched atop a Suzuki 50 decked out in light-burgundy flair-bottom pants, saddle shoes, hoody, and knit cap (no helmet). Unlike my childhood days spent popping wheelies on my bicycle and emulating Evel Knievel (Previous Post: Our Towne Club), I believe my brother and I fashioned helmets during minibiking. Also, I’m positive we didn’t attempt any air-defying stunts; the Suzuki 50 was too heavy. Evel would’ve disapproved, claiming the heavier the better.

The second picture is proof of my folks good parenting skills. As you can see by the blurred trees, I am zipping along quite nicely. My dress shoes have been replaced with durable boots and I’m wearing a half-shell helmet. Sorry, Mr. Jim Rhoades, legislative director of ABATE (American Bikers Aiming Toward Education), I’m all for helmets—even bicycle helmets.



Thirty-two years later, and would you believe my dad still has this Suzuki 50? It’s in mint condition and still runs. Next time I’m at my parents house I’ll have someone take a picture of me sitting on it. And of course, if I decide to go for a ride, I’ll wear a helmet.

TO FLOSS OR NOT TO FLOSS

I’ve got blogger’s burnout, not from the extra writing—heavens no!—but from trying to fix the template of my blog. If you haven’t noticed, and I’m sure you haven’t (because nobody scrolls that far) my profile is now at the end of my postings; sadly, it’s been there all week.

So I leave you with another short story that was inspired from the three main sources listed below:

1) Accusations by two inspectors that an inmate had been stabbed in my classroom.

2) The slang term "flossing" which means "to show off."

3) Shakespeare.

"When Hamlet says, ‘to be or not to be,’ he refers to the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,’ and implies that man is a target and must withstand the brutal assaults of daily existence."
---Lexicon of Literary Terms by Robert Anderson & Ronald Eckard



Here’s the link: (www.metrotimes.com/guides/summerfiction/2000/Floss.htm) If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, what you liked or disliked, or anything else for that matter, then please do.

GOBSTOPPERS & THE MUFFIN MONSTER

Whenever we invite our neighbors over to swim in our pool and cook on the grill, their 5th grade son, Davey, who has a healthy appetite, will immediately ask, "Do you have any Gobstoppers?" I’m not exactly sure which came first in the evolution of Gobstoppers at our house: Davey’s requesting them, or my wife’s purchasing and stocking them in our kitchen.

What I do know is that once in awhile, after Davey’s been over, I’ll have to take a plunger to our toilet. I know it’s not from digesting Gobstoppers that flushing is no longer an option, nor is it from the hamburgers. The huge wads of toilet paper gumming up the hole tell me otherwise. My daddy always said, "Son—its three squares and tear."

Of course, for all practical purposes, it depends on the ply of the paper. The toilet paper where I work is a much lighter ply, thus more squares before the tear. However, clogging up the pipes is much different. Unlike Davey, who doesn’t know any better, the inmates will flush entire bedsheets and clothing down the toilet in an effort to clog up the sewer lines. It’s the oldest inmate trick in the book. I can sympathize with the maintenance crew; They hate dealing with the stinky, hazardous mess. But not anymore. JWC Environmental (http://www.jwce.com/) has the solution: The 300004T Muffin Monster in-line sewage grinder. Whatever is flushed, the company claims, the Muffin Monster will grind into tiny little pieces.

I wonder if they have a much smaller, home version?

BAGGAGE

I always tell my students that the best time to study is first thing in the morning when you don’t have that excess baggage of the day weighing you down. Sometimes I wish I could follow my own advice because when the evening approaches, the clouds start to roll inside my head and cause all sorts of havoc with my ability to write. Yet, I still manage to surprise myself with a few profound statements once in a blue moon.

Tonight I’m not feeling it, the letters moving forward on my terminal forming a slow train of words, forming whole sentences, then paragraphs, only to see the letters evaporating, dismantling the tracks of where they once were, leaving white space and a vertical blinking line.

I try to escape my worries. I try to concentrate. I try to type. Letters. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Then I start to think that the reason I’m not more productive at writing is because of what someone said to me earlier in the day. Baggage. More Baggage.

I tell myself: It’s just words. Spoken words. Once they’re said, they’re gone. Evaporated. Except for what they generate in our minds. Except for what they make us do. Except for what I might write. That’s what I’m afraid of. What I might write. That’s why I’m holding back. Written words have more permanence, even when you travel alone.

PREYED UPON

Some people are craftier than others. They know how to pitch their wares; They know how to grab your attention, and they're not even around. It's called point of purchase. Go into any major grocery store and you'll see mammoth displays near the entrance. The closer to the shopping cart corral, the more likely their product will be placed in the basket, burried and forgotten about, under the items you really do need, and at the end of your journey, you'll unload your cart not even paying attention to the conveyor belt pulling everything toward the scanner. It's a done deal. You'll swipe your card and sign.

A month ago one of my students brought in a preying mantis like the one pictured above. He knew I was fascinated with bugs. He knew how I'd react. "Where'd you get that, it's so cool!" I said.

"The Bug Man," he replied.

Before I knew it, I was filling out a disbursement form to buy two more of these preying mantises. I'm too embarassed to tell you what I paid for them; afterall, they're made out of paperclips, cardboard, paper, glue, and paint. The Bug Man set me up. He's probably buying himself some Right Guard from the prison store as we speak.

RATS & BUTTER LOVER'S POPCORN

"The only good rat," my dad claimed, "is the one on the end of a pitchfork."

You had to forgive him, all those years growing up on a farm made him that way. In fact, I'd never seen him so squeamish.

"Rats are more social, more friendlier, than gerbils, hamsters, or guinea pigs," I said, justifying why I'd spend $200 on a 5-tier rat cage for my living room.

"They're still rodents."

You couldn't change his mind no more than you could change how the sun comes up in the morning. You couldn't get him to sit on the right side of my couch either, with those beady-eyed rodents looking down on him.

"And they carry all kinds of diseases."

What living, breathing thing doesn't have that kind of potential? "We all can carry diseases, Dad."

"They're more susceptible."

I could've brought up the gerbils my brother and I had as kids. After interbreeding three or four times too many, they started eating the tails off of one another. Cannibalistic gerbils. Not pretty. And they'd bite. Mean little bastards. Rats are friendly. There was no point in changing his mind, and even though he was in my house, I agreed not to get them out when he was visiting.

When my wife and I would sit down to watch a movie, Kiwi, the rat pictured here, would cling to the side of her cage, nose poking through the wire, trying to catch a whiff of the Butter Lover's popcorn I'd usually make. She never got any because, as my wife explained it: "It's bad for them."

Now wait a minute, I often thought, then why the hell am I eating it? My wife would often leave the room to get something from the kitchen, and I'd usually slip a few popped kernel's into the cage. Kiwi's bunkie, Daisy, loved popcorn. Unfortunately, she had developed a rather large ugly tumor, and while I was away at the catfish tournament, my wife decided to have the neighbor put her down.

If my dad had said rats were more susceptible to tumors, instead of diseases, I probably would've agreed. Has anyone done a study to figure out the long term side effects of eating Butter Lover's popcorn? Studies have shown . . .

OLD MAN ADAMS

I remember Old Man Adams looking forward to the outdated National Geographics I stocked in my GED classroom. He had lived a hard life of drinking, smoking, and whoring around, and as he explained it, his twenty some years as a truck driver afforded him that luxury. His brain seemed pickled, but for the most part I thought he could earn his GED in a relatively short time. I explained to him the procedures for qualifying: "First, you take a series of half-tests to prove you can pass. After each half-test, you take the actual GED exam for that subject."

"Why am I doing this?" he’d ask.

"So you can get your GED," I’d remind him.

Then he’d cuss me out. "All my life," he said, "I’ve worked hard. Now I get to go to school but you want me out. @!####!!% And #%%**!#!" Followed by, "You can make me take the tests but you can’t make me pass them!"

For some reason Old Man Adams wanted to show me that he was capable of doing well, so he set out to prove that he could pass each half-test. But he also reminded me that he’d get as dumb as a bag of rocks when it came time for GED exams.

So I began to confuse him.

"Now what test am I taking?" he’d ask.

"Your Social Studies half-test," I’d reply.

"Didn’t I just take that?" he’d ask.

"No," I’d lie, thinking he was on to me. Here’s how it worked: Some of the tests put in front of him were not half-tests like he’d thought; they were GED exams.

I had tricked Old Man Adams into finishing school. But the story doesn’t end there. Each student was allowed two visitors for the graduation ceremony. Old Man Adams refused to fill-out the necessary paperwork. Turns out, he had a daughter who hadn’t seen him in years and he didn’t want her to know that he was in prison. At first his counselor threatened to make the phone call, but for some reason, Old Man Adams gave in.

I’ll never forget that graduation ceremony—witnessing two people reunite as they did. Old Man Adams’s toothless smile. His daughter’s tears of joy. She had traveled all the way from Kentucky to watch her father receive his diploma.

I don’t know if she ever came to visit him again. He was immediately removed from school. Approximately three months after the graduation, I saw an inmate pushing Old Man Adams around in a wheel chair. He had emphysema. That was the last time we talked. He thanked me. He, actually, thanked me. I knew it had nothing to do with school. Not too long after that, I had heard he died.
_______________________________________________________________________
Happy Father’s Day (Past and Present).



The picture:

I wish my father were still 47—that would make me younger too. I’d even keep the same brush-cut. Unfortunately, my wife hates brush-cuts.

Reason: Butch-wax.
Explanation: Leaves grease on the pillow.

Message: "Hi, Pop, y'old dust mop."
Short story: "Charles" by Shirley Jackson

KENNY'S GOT A TOAD!

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

BRIDGING THE GAP

When I had first agreed to a pond, my wife bought one of those plastic pre-formed peanut-shaped things. Not only did I have to dig a hole for it, I also had to have an electrical outlet nearby. Needless to say, I wasn’t too happy when my wife pointed to a spot 90 feet from the house. This involved digging a 90-foot trench from the house to the pond and running electrical wiring through a steel pipe. After drilling a hole through mortar, I refused to go any further. Let someone else hook-up the electrical wiring to the conjunction box in our basement.

I’ve never had good luck with electricity. Once, when my father-in-law was alive and suffering from Parkinson’s, we decided to take a trip up to our cabin for some much needed R & R. Unfortunately, I had to install a new heating element to the water tank. I turned off the correct circuit breaker, and by the time I found my Phillips flat head screwdriver my father-in-law switched it back on. As soon as I put screwdriver to metal I couldn’t let go fast enough. I wanted to cuss him out but knew, in one of his brief moments of lucidity, that he realized what he had done. Another time I was installing fluorescent lights in our basement from an aluminum ladder. This time it was my fault, I switched off the wrong circuit breaker. The least I could’ve done was used a wooden ladder.

My wife tried to get an electrician to our house on several occasions for the pond hook-up. No one would come. Our neighbor across the street volunteered. At first he thought this involved digging the trench, installing the electrical outlets, and so on. But when he found out it was a simple connection he said, "Hell, I can do that." When we were in the basement I told him I’d turn off the main and he said not to bother. "Just pull me off the box if something happens." I stood back and watched. It wasn’t until later that I found out that he wasn’t even an electrician.

All of that was four years ago. Since then, we’ve gone bigger. Here’s the latest update with the bridge. Our other neighbor, Ken, constructed it. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to see the waterfall from my kitchen window, but the bridge is at just the right angle and has a low enough arc not to obstruct my view. Stepping outside onto my back deck, the sound of water pounding on rock greets me. The only problem I’m having is that the pump may be too large for the pond. I could always make the waterfall higher since I have all that electricity running the pump. Or I could start over, dig a larger pond.

REJECTION ISN'T NECESSARILY BAD

This isn't Manny (see May 15, 2006, post). I found this little guy or woman, for I'm not an expert at gender identification of insects and I don't have my Peterson's Field Guide handy, in my wife's flower bed on the east side of the house. Manny is in an aquarium on my back deck. He's brown, this one's obviously green. If I were to hook them up one would surely kill the other. Manny would probably be the victim. He's smaller--a real eating machine though. I fed him four flies the other day. My neighbors still see me running around outside with a butterfly net. Where there's dog shit, there's flies.

And where there's a story of mine, there's usually disappointment. I received a rejection e-mail from Jennifer Pieroni of Quick Fiction today. They specialize in Flash Fiction, Sudden Fiction, and Short-Shorts. Cool little literary mag. I cannot let rejection get in the way of my passion.

This post reminds me of Don Shea's flash fiction story "True Love," about a man and a woman finding each other at an entomology conference. They have dinner together and go to her hotel room afterward. In the bedroom scene the apprehensive man (both are naked at this point) tells her about the female praying mantis's mating habits. Her response is classic and worth quoting verbatim: "The female empid fly also has a nasty habit of eating the male when he approaches her during mating season. To divert her from this purpose, the male typically finds a morsel of food and wraps it elaborately in a silk balloon formed by his glandular secretions. The time it takes the female to unwrap his gift is often long enough for him to copulate successfully and escape unscathed. But in one empid species, whether through cleverness, laziness, or just bad faith, the male fails to put any food inside the balloon. The female is hoodwinked into copulation with an empty promise."

I need to rethink my plan for my short story. Do I send it out again, rework it, or shelve it for now? I say rework it, put more food into it.

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

Yesterday my gut hurt so bad like someone poked a knife under my rib cage, and as they say in prison, ran the gears on me. Serves me right messing with Squirrel Piss, the name my fellow fishermen used for the plastic container of moonshine they passed around. I complained about the taste and was politely told that you drink it for the effect. Hurt me all the way through Monday.

After work I had to attend a Utica School Board Meeting to acknowledge the Elementary Schools that did well in Science Olympiad. I didn’t want to go on account of the Squirrel Piss but I did. The superintendent (the building is named after her; they couldn’t wait posthumously or at least until she retires) mentioned that Utica Schools captured 6 of the top 7 spots in the overall competition of 80 schools. Whoopee! I’m sick and tired of educators with their elitist attitudes. Just recognize the kids for their achievements, none of this "we’re better than everyone else." No wonder I have to deal with the failures of the public schools. What they need is a few more trailer parks, some public housing, and a few crack houses sprinkled into their school district. Embrace those parents and their kids and teach them why don’tcha!

It’s funny that I’d criticize the very same educators that I envisioned myself being. I never wanted to be like my high school U.S. Presidency teacher, Mr. Sullivan (the short man pictured above). He never varied from the direct teaching approach. Lectern up front, desks and chairs in neat rows with masking tape running down the floor to make sure order was maintained. He’d start his class by taking attendance the good old fashion way: calling your name from a roster he never looked up from. (We had a seating chart for crying out loud; it couldn’t have been that hard for him to see who was missing if he’d only look up!) After his slow process of attendance, he’d say the same thing, "All right, get out your notes." Next, he’d start writing facts on the board. Grover Cleveland served two nonconsecutive terms. Abraham Lincoln wanted to preserve the Union at all cost. Harry Truman … and on and on and on.

His direct teaching approach led to all kinds of horseplay. No one cared about the executive branch of government, or the legislative branch, or the judicial branch (unless it had a direct impact on one of the many burn-outs caught with pot). I’ll confess: I lost interest more than once myself. Mr. Sullivan had the same response when students started talking. He’d say, "All right"—I believe everything he said started out this way—"All right, I’m not standing here trying to grow." Usually this would elicit verbal bantering between him and a burn-out from the back of the classroom. His ultimate response: "All right, there’s three things I don’t like," and with his index fingers touching he’d begin his counting, "number one—warm beer, number two—wet toilet paper, and number three (he’d pause to make sure everyone heard his main point of emphasis)—a smart ass."

Mr. Sullivan may not have been the best teacher, however, he certainly was a memorable character. He died a few years after I graduated from high school; they found his expired body in his apartment above the local watering hole in town when he failed to show up for work. At least that’s how I heard it. Not like my high school gym teacher who left a note in his pickup truck before jumping off the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron. I read about that one in the Detroit News.

As for Squirrel Piss, or moonshine—stay away from it, it can cause all kinds of problems. As for education, teachers are human too and they cope the best way they know how. As for men in general, those beer commercials about "real men of genius" speak volumes. As for women in general, how about some "real women of genius" commercials? It’s an imperfect world full of imperfect people and I’m one of them and so are you. Care to comment?

President tossing here: http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm. If he gets stuck drag him out with your mouse.

ANOTHER TOURNAMENT ENDS

Due to safety concerns (ex-felons are opportunists), I have been living my life in advance; I wouldn't want someone to break into my house, or worse. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that my last two blogs were prepackaged drafts and my wife had the important duty of posting them while I attended this year's catfish tournament. Please accept my deepest apologies. I keep trying to tell myself that responsible blogging is just as important as honest blogging.

As for catfishing, I never catch a cat heavier than six pounds. This year's winner was on the light side (ten pounds, eleven ounces) due to rough water on Wild Fowl Bay. In fact, Friday most of the fishermen decided to stay in the marina. I did catch some large mouth bass; the largest was 18.75" in length. Also, I got to try out my Uncle John's fishing rods which were given to me over a year ago after he died of throat cancer. Now I have lots of fishing goodies.

Our event coordinator, Billy Joe, mentioned his good buddy and fishing partner Marty (Mark Adkins Sr., 41 yrs. old) who lost his life two months ago on these very same waters. Marty used to share the responsibility of organizing this annual event. Attendance was down from last year too. Some people didn't feel right about the tournament with Marty gone. Billy Joe said Marty would want everyone to keep fishing. I agree.

This year's winner, Bill Podeski, took first place by one ounce. That's a medium sized sinker. Not that I'm implying that Bill would pull a fast one where we'd need to take a lead detector to his cat or open up his cat's stomach. No. Bill won fair and square. As for me, there's always next year (if I make it).

LET THERE BE WATER

The hole in the ground is now officially a pond--four thousand gallons of water, seven goldfish, snails, water lettuce, and other aquatic plants. I am still waiting on my neighbor's bridge. If you'll recall from the last post, woodworking is not my speciality.

There's something about a waterfall that calms the inner soul. I plan on spending late evenings relaxing by the water with my journal. Hopefully I'll generate some fresh ideas for short stories. At least I have a tranquil setting. Wish me luck with the mosquitoes and yellow jackets.

JOE, IN BLACK & WHITE

I used to be an artist, not formerly known as Prince, but the kind that does sketches and paints, until my father put a stop to such nonsense. My family moved the year I started 9th grade, the last year I had an art class. This didn't traumatize me too much, except for the first week when the counselor placed me in Woodshop. I met the so-called "burn-outs" in there, and I was terrified of using the table saw, among other power tools. I believe our first project was to make some bookshelves. Not me, no way! I had the counselor switch me to a typing class.

I already knew how to type. I pretended to follow along with the typing teacher's drills and qualified for the school's typing team. Being the only boy on the team and the best typer had its advantages. I met plenty of girls. Unfortunately, this did not increase my popularity like I thought it would, so I focused my energy on my art.

The above picture is titled, "Joe." That was the name of our dog back then. Ten years later he would suffer a stroke and my father would have to put him down. I enjoyed working with scratch-art, where you brush ink over a canvas then scratch away at it to form different textures of light. On the back of the canvas was my letter grade in red ink: -A. Also, at the community art show, I received a second place ribbon in this medium.

TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN!

My first writing award came in fifth-grade at Disco Elementary School (no kidding on the name). I had earned the privilege of attending a Young Authors Conference at Malow Junior High. I can’t recall much about the conference other than it was on a Saturday and I had missed my usual line-up of cartoons and television shows: Speed Racer, Kimba the White Lion, and Land of the Lost, to name a few. I can’t remember what story I had written either, although I’m sure it was a blockbuster compared to the other fifth-graders; What could they possibly have known about plot, characters, point of view, and setting? What I do remember is feeling a sense of accomplishment, a sense of pride. I had created something, a so-called story that stood out amongst my peers, at least in the eyes of Mrs. Johnson, the contest judge and our fifth-grade teacher who forced us to enter the contest when she assigned it as homework.

Fast-forward a couple of decades.

I would never again win a writing award until the young age of thirty-five. Winning, as you can see, is a rarity for me. I very seldom win anything. (One time I hit four numbers on the Michigan Lotto and the Lottery Commission held a press conference to say they had a bumper crop of pay outs for four numbers. Soon the prize money changed to a fixed amount.) You can only win if you buy a ticket, someone had once told me, and sure enough, Mrs. Johnson was no longer around to make me write, so how the hell could I win at anything? Bottom line: I had lacked motivation. However, this time I wanted to meet Michael Moore of "Roger & Me" fame. I had this idea about a documentary on the Michigan Department of Corrections and I knew he was the man to hear my proposal. I saw opportunity: a contest where the winner could meet Michael Moore. I paid my contest entry fee and submitted my story.

A month later, when I came home from a camping excursion, there was one message on my answering machine. I had won. I contacted the editor the very next day. He congratulated me on my story and then explained that the award was given to a poet instead because I didn’t call back immediately. How’s that Hee-Haw song go?—the one where Buck Owens and the Hee-Haw gang stick out their tongues and make big wet farting noises, "If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all …" The editor assured me that my story would be published in their magazine. Hee Haw!

Fast-forward one year.

If you don’t at first succeed, try try again. I submitted a story to the Wayne Literary Review (Wayne State University) and won $200. They decided not to publish the story. I guess it was a bumperless-crop of talent that year. As soon as I got the check I hurried to the bank determined that if they had made a mistake—too damned bad!

I leave you with the following website where another story of mine can be read free of charge. Of course, if you really really want to, you could send me some cash. Let’s at least discuss my terms. Click here: http://www.pebblelakereview.com/archives/Spring%202005/fiction/Thumbprints.htm

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER

Today’s post was planned in advanced (I had mentioned my wife’s sudden fascination with IKEA and wrote a lengthy description about her shopping habits and her pet peeves) but for some reason I decided not to use the material. For one, after all her talk about wanting to go to Canton, she decided against it. I’m not sure I know why. I thought for sure it was a done deal, that writing about her trip to IKEA in advanced, even if she didn’t go and I said she did, would be no worse than Mitch Albom’s claim that two ex-Michigan State basketball players attended a Final Four game when in all actuality they were somewhere else. If Mitch’s credibility survived scrutiny (his employer, the Detroit Free Press, swept it nicely under the rug) then why shouldn’t I survive scrutiny? Why not post what I had already written?

I’m the type of person that will over analyze a situation until I’m perfectly comfortable with the outcome. Further justification of associating my wife with a trip to IKEA would have to be James Frey’s memoir, A Million Little Pieces. Even though parts of it were fabricated, it hasn’t hurt the sales of his second book, My Friend Leonard. People have embraced his writing and understand that his second book is fiction (It is ... isn’t it?). In my case, wouldn’t people appreciate (or not) my words regardless of the truth? Afterall, what control do I have over how other people feel? I can only control how I feel.

So why did I have such a change of heart? It didn’t really strike me until I examined the above photograph one last time. I wondered: How well does one person know another person? It doesn’t matter whether that person is your wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, sister, brother, mom, or dad. How well do you know them? How close can you really get to another person? How well do you know your self? I leave you with these questions, not to depress you, but to make you value the relationships you have. Lastly, the person behind the three balloons is in fact my wife, and we’ve been together for approximately eighteen years. I am proud to say that I am still getting to know her.

AM MY WAY

Don’t you dare scroll downward until I’ve had my say! Today is 6-6-6, the sign of the devil. The sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of the twenty-first century. In the words of Michelle Brooks: "EVIL." In the words of George W. Bush: "EVIL DOERS." Remember, both are Texans—so beware!

Unfortunately, this isn’t stopping my neighbors. Both husband and wife are tied to the automobile industry. DuPont to be exact. Jobs are being eliminated in Michigan. Fortunately, they can relocate where the economy is doing much better, where the cost of living is cheaper, more affordable. China you ask? Nope. Mexico? You're getting warmer. Good Old U.S. of A. Houston, Texas, Ma’am. "PURE EVIL." Yeah, I'm mimicking Michelle.

I could’ve deceived you with a pyramid scheme selling Amway soap and helped old man Devos become a wealthier man. And perhaps I'll vote for his son who is running for governor of Michigan. We could call him Soapy-the-Second. (I don't exactly know whether the original Soapy Michigan Governor was any good or not.) Now for my campaign: I’m here to sell my soul for a few more hits, taking my one man act to foreign territory, wearing a pseudo-Speedo. Frank said it best: "I did it my way." Please scroll downward at the count of three.

One.

Two.

Three.

Now!



Okay, so it's not a Speedo. Would you like an apology? In the words of The Deuce (not Deuce Bigalow silly--the automotive guy, Henry Ford II): "Never complain, never explain."

POND UPDATE

The pond is coming along just fine and, sorry to say, no Jimmy Hoffa. It would have been easier and less expensive for the FBI to install my pond instead of having to tear down a horse barn only to rebuild it later. I suspect the FBI has helped boost Michigan’s economy, at least in Milford anyway, and I too have helped by purchasing my pond liner from Firestone Tire, a major auto supplier.


In today’s photo, I’ve included a two-tiered shelving system for plants. My wife, a master gardener, provided the specs as far as the water’s depth for various aquatic plants. We plan on having a two-tiered waterfall and a bridge also. She’s already sweet-talking our neighbor into designing and building the bridge. All I need to do is supply the wood and hardware.

In my next pond update (probably sometime next week), I should have approximately 4,000 gallons of water in it. And fish. And frogs. And toads. And snails. And plants of course.

Tomorrow’s post will be more exciting. I promise. Why? Because I will be discussing politics while wearing a Speedo. Tell all your friends to click on my blog and leave a comment if they’d like. I’m sure, with my strict exercise program, that most comments will be favorable.

THE BLOODY JOKE

Two days ago I participated in the Relay for Life fund raiser at the Blossom Heath Park in St. Clair Shores. My mother-in-law and I do the survivor walk every year; it’s become tradition. In past years I didn’t mind doing this walk, except I refused to wear the sash; Something about being observed walking around like a beauty pageant contestant with a majority of breast cancer survivors didn’t set well with me (I know: men can get it too.) This year I decided to wear the sash but they no longer have them; survivors get medals instead.

When I first heard of my cancer the doctor scared the hell out of me. He said I had melanoma and that I needed to go to Ann Arbor, that I needed to have surgery a.s.a.p. Supposedly "going to Ann Arbor" meant getting the best health care treatment available, which meant, at least to me, that it was serious, so serious that I had to be dying. My mother-in-law experienced "Ann Arbor" some twenty years ago as part of a test study for breast cancer, and at the age of eighty-two, she’s doing quite well. But that was her and THIS IS ME. I knew without a doubt, because my luck is usually bad, that yep, death was right around the corner. I asked him what needed to be done and he drew a line with a felt tip marker parallel down the top of my forearm. He said they needed to cut away at the melanoma to make sure it doesn’t burrow down to the bone. "And if it’s in the bone?" I asked. "Then you have six months to a year," he replied. After a brief moment of silence, he said I was entitled to a second opinion and that he’d send my medical file to one of his colleagues if I’d like. So I scheduled an appointment with his colleague.

For my next appointment, I brought my wife along. The doctor examined my forearm and my medical file, and joked around in broken English with my wife about the cost of malpractice insurance. My wife’s cousin is a doctor, so naturally, she struck up a conversation quite easily. Personally, I believe he was willing to do the surgery right in his office all along and wanted to see if we were comfortable with that. He drew a line perpendicular on my forearm. Puzzled, I informed him that the other doctor drew it parallel. His reply, "If I cut, it heal much quicker, no pull on stitches." Then he pinched my forearm one way, then the other way, to demonstrate my skin’s elasticity. "See." It made sense. I nodded in compliance. "I do here," he said as a matter of fact.

As I turned to look away from the arm in question, he continued to joke around with my wife while making the incision. "Oh my, I think I hit blood vessel," he said to her, " get me sutures there on desk." He was a real joker. After he finished sewing me up, he showed me a grub-sized piece of meat. "That’s it?" I asked. "Yes, you go now. We do follow-up, make sure no more cancer."

On the ride home I noticed blood on my nice Christian Dior shirt. "What the hell is this?" I asked my wife, who was concentrating on her driving. "He hit a blood vessel," she answered. "I thought he was joking," I said. "He was," she replied.

I’ve been cancer free for seven years now and go for check-ups every six months. Wearing the sash was probably my way of paying tribute to the second doctor who took care of my cancer before my anxieties killed me. In life we don't always get what we plan for, I wanted my sash, but that doesn't mean I can't still joke about the outcome.

SYNERGY

I should be ashamed of myself. Here’s pitiful me, two blogs in a row without a shirt, trying to get more attention (do the math: attention = links = hits), trying to continue, as Erik D. France would point out, the SYNERGISM. Man, I feel like a bag of meat selling myself like this. Where’s my pride? My reputation? My soul?



First, on Michellespells (blog site), I intercepted Wichita Lineman’s question regarding punk band names. Hey, my June 2nd blog was already written, honestly—CANNED ahead of time. Great punk band name don’t you think? Liquid Ham. I’m sure Wichita Lineman would agree. Also, MW is a reliable source and can back me up regarding yesterday's blog.

Not to get sidetracked, but I will anyway—always do—as you can see in the photo, I’m no Wolfman Jack(or Wolfman Tim, nice story Wichita Lineman). I think it’s the Polish bloodline from my mother’s side. No chest hairs here. You could try enlarging the photo at least a thousand times to see the few wayward strands poking out across my nipple line (CPR term, not sexual, in fact, very clinical).

Again, Liquid Ham is a such a cooool name. Unless you go to the link someone sent me the other day on my blog regarding cannibalism. Some guy served up his wife at his Michigan eatery. Body parts boiling in pans. (Think Liquid Ham.) Severed head in a box on the storage shelf. The latest rumor, this man is at the correctional facility where I’m employed. Synergy at work.

Not to get sidetracked again, but did you see the new issue of Orchid, A Literary Review? The photographs by Mollie Edgar show only legs: legs protuding from a storage chest, legs fallen away from a toilet, legs on the floor sticking out of an elevator or on the hallway floor or on a bed coming out of a blanket. What happened? Something sinister's going on.

So how desperate am I? JW recommended that I link up with festeringass.com. I'm not that desperate ... yet. Interesting site though. MW calls it the "blistering bum". If I really want all that attention maybe I should seek employment at Danny's, maybe they'd open on Mondays and women would accidently show up (I thought of this from Cheri's blog). Alright, I promise, three days in a row without a shirt would be way way way too much. I'm thinking of posing in a sash like they do in all those beauty pageants. Perhaps tomorrow. What do you think?

LIQUID HAM

I don’t know if this picture symbolizes a rite of passage—I didn’t get the photo album from my mother until after my parents moved—but once I peeled away the laminate covering and pulled the picture out, I read the following on the back: Jim’s first beer. I was the ripe old age of eight.

I can’t recall how many more beers I’ve had over my life time (I can assure you that Towne Club was my favorite as a child; see previous post) nor can I tell you how many more beers I’ll have in the future. You’d think I’d wisen up by now.

Six years ago I was tested for allergies. The doctor told me I was allergic to hops and tomato. In layman’s terms he meant: "beer and pizza." My initial reaction—denial—this can’t be. Moderation then, he said, and for chrissake, don’t have it on rainy days due to higher mold counts.

I still partake in these two luxury items; however, I’ve had to be extremely careful. Sometimes I develop severe migraines from my over indulgences; then I wonder if beer is an acquired taste? I know meat is an acquired taste. Show me a kid who loves chewing meat the first time it’s placed in front of him and I’ll show you a kid that spits it up—even if it’s a McDonald’s hamburger. Coincidentally, I’m drinking Hamm’s in the photo. How ironic.

MY DOG BEAR

When we closed on our house in 1992 I agreed not to live there for eight months. Instead, I agreed to stay in the basement of my future in-laws’ 1940’s style bungalow. This may sound peculiar, but my fiancee convinced me that since I didn’t have any furniture it would be best if she occupied our dwelling first. So I helped her move out, or in, depending on which perspective you take.

Next came the dog—a British Black Labrador named Bear—she rescued him from an employee at a Detroit car wash who was moving into an apartment downriver. Basically, she talked him into letting her have the dog for free. She explained to me that since she was living by herself it was absolutely necessary she have a guard dog. Being an animal lover myself, I accepted her decision. "Besides," she said, "he comes with pedigree documentation."

These so-called papers, which were delivered at a later date due to promised visitation rights, came in an over-sized official looking envelope, and I suspect the previous owner left out the history of Bear’s lineage because my fiancee didn’t fork over any cash, three hundred bucks to be exact. The only papers I saw were from a veterinarian documenting the standard canine shots and an emergency surgery to remove a nail from his rectum. Apparently he ate a nail when he was a pup and it wound its way through his colon before puncturing the lining where the sun does shine.

For better or for worse, Bear became our guard dog. However, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that all you needed was a garden hose to shoo him away. During our honeymoon and thereafter (you have to give Bear credit for his determination) I would repeatedly kick his seventy-five pound frame off the foot of our bed. Not anymore. He is approaching sixteen, his hips are shot, and we have to buy prescription dog food for him to eat. In other words, he is now the king of the castle and can do as he damn well pleases.

Today’s picture is of my dog Bear. Lastly, I’d like to recommend Bonnie Jo Campbell’s short story "My Dog Roscoe" which first appeared in the Animals in America issue of Witness magazine. The story is easily accessible at the Ludington Writers Website under the Michigan Writers Link.