Friday's Hope, Saturday's Promise

Fridays are a lot like Christmas: you get excited, but secretly hope that this one is better than the last.
I think the magic of Friday is greater than cessation of work. It is more than "the most painful and miserable 5 days of my life are over". The American working psyche is able to magically wash away Monday thru Friday - POOF! It's Saturday.

Friday is great because of Saturday. Of course, you say, but without Saturday, there is no Promise of something greater. Sunday is the Day of Rest. More disturbingly, it is the day before Monday.

Saturday is the sweet spot in the week. Not working. Not worried about Monday. I can do something useful, creative, and best of all, my decision. Saturday is the banner waved in the face of expected and accepted servitude - the J O B. I have the financial security of Monday coming, while living in the Possibility of Saturday. I can try things, indulge a hobby, go somewhere new.

I can be a human being of promise. The troubling question to me, is why can't we have more Saturdays?

Electricity in Allen, Texas

Some of my friends may be wondering: 'James, you moved from California to Texas. You have opened another electrical business. Is the electricity in Texas different than in California?'

I'm surprised you were able to have your first cup of coffee without having that burning question quenched.

Shockingly enough, the answer is 'yes'. My pseudo smart friends will disagree. The OCD-ites are confounded, while checking for grammatical errors and counting ceiling tiles. The nurturers are affirming: 'I just knew there'd be difference. I just felt it.'

There I was, setting finish in a small apartment remodel. Something was wrong. I had mixed neutrals on the load side of a GFCI. What does that mean to you? Nothing at all. Just keep reading. I reached in to separate to wires. My thumb and forefinger approached the wire in the darkened room. They got closer. And closer. Finally-
HEY, HOWDY! DON'T TOUCH ME! THAT DOG WON'T HUNT! Zap! That's what Texas electrons say to you while they're trying to stop your heart. I yanked my hand back, annoyed and embarrassed. Don't worry. It didn't kill me.

You see in California, the scenario would have played out this way:
I reached in to separate to wires. My thumb and forefinger approached the wire in the darkened room. They got closer. And closer. Finally-
I WILL SUE YOU! I KNOW YOU DON'T HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE, AND I WILL SUE! Zap! California electrons are more reluctant to kill. They don't believe in the death penalty.

There you are. Stay in touch as we explore the vast chasm between Texas and California.

Posted: My Sense of Humor Ran Away!

First of all, I do have a sense of humor. Or did. Until he ran.
If you see him, his name is 'Chuck'. By all means, talk to him, look him straight in the eye, and tell him your favorite rule. He absolutely loves to play with rules. He'll chew 'em, mock 'em and drool on 'em. If he gets his teeth into a particularly ridiculous rule, you'll lose him for a whole day.

Should you see Chuck, throw him a handful of awkward moments. I had to cut him off for a month or so. He was getting as big as a house on those things. He likes the silent ones, where everyone is thinking the outrageous truth, but way too polite to say it. Chuck positively will sing those things out: "No, that is a stupid idea! Everyone in the room is looking for the rock that smacked your head" or "I don't think God knows that you're the center of the universe. You should text Him."

You can generally draw him with the 'What ifs', for instance: What if breakfast cereal wanted to take over the world?
Deep voice narrates: The Smith's breakfast began like any other day...
Little girl peering into her bowl of oatmeal: "Daddy, my oatmeal looks angry. I'm scared."
Confident Dad absently pats her on the head: " Celia, don't be silly. Just put in more brown sugar and hurry."
Celia: "Daddy! It growled! It's moving!"
Pan out to the front of the house with muffled screams. SWAT shows up.
Grizzled police chief: "I've never seen anything like it: vicious attacks across the whole hot breakfast spectrum. Brutal oatmeal, ruthless grits, and the malt o'meal (crosses himself)...we're still cleaning up in Vicksburg".
Chuck does all the voices. He shares with other humors in the room and romps for a while. His favorite to riff on: What if dogs had opposable thumbs?

Why did he run? He just wasn't the center of attention anymore. He accused me of being too serious, too focused on things I couldn't control. I didn't feel like playing anymore...but now I really miss him. Chuck could be in the most serious, nearly fatal situation and pop out "So that's what it's like to be almost dead. We should do this more often" and then flash his big goofy smile.

If you see him, let him know I want him to come home. I'll do my famous Strut Dance to prove it.

Crazy Dad

I throw off rules
Laugh at expectations
I dance in front of propriety
So she will be free
No doors closed for her
I love that girl like crazy

I hear his nighttime crying
Uneasy sleep, sweaty dreams
He comes to me
The only rest will be in Daddy’s arms
Safe tonight his mind at ease
I love that boy like crazy

I am crazy about them
I have nothing left to lose
I can gain no more than my fulfilled dreams
Resolve of toil, challenge and pain
I set my eyes hard in their favor
I love them like crazy

I am The Dad,
Watching, waiting, serving
Exploring, testing, teasing, loving
My line is full of wild men
Whose only possible regret
Was having anything left at the end.

God is an extreme Father.
He created for you
He embarrassed you with public affection
He tested and taught you
On one dark day, He even killed for you.
Crazy, scary, radical Father.

Brothers and sisters,
Dad’s not far away,
He’s definitely still crazy about you
Throw down your schemes to remember
Crazy.

Wide World of Eating

Cue theme music - upbeat and techno.

Camera - flashing in and out to scenes of intense competition, replete with grimaces, brilliant wins and crushing losses.

Camera pans to two stout men in dark blue blazers seated next to each other at the commentator's table. Bob, fiftyish, on the right, has an almost unnoticeable hairpiece. Mark, younger with a close-cropped, military haircut has an unmoving, too-white smile.

"Thank you for joining us here at the Wide World of Eating! Mark, I don't know when I've seen a more competitive, driven group of feeders!"

"Too right, Bob. With new training techniques and the use of carbon graphite cutlery, we're seeing performances only dreamed of just five years ago!".

The camera focuses on Bob's intent, jowly face. "The top story in this competition is the use of illegal condiments during the main course qualifiers. Joining us now is Brenda at the Cafetorium. Brenda?"

"Bob, the hall is fairly on fire with talk of Earl Smithton's use of illegal condiments during the roast beef heat."

A new screen pops up with a mechanical bell sound. The subtitle enlightens us - "Earlier today". A monolithic man, head crowned with dark curly hair and enormous sideburns, sits at a table, arms hovering, encircling a platter piled with slabs of steaming meat. His jaws are already grinding, in anticipation of annihilating the foe before him. Eyes dark and unblinking, a single drop of sweat jumps from his brow to its death on the table below. The klaxon sounds and the great man explodes into a blur of motion. The meat vanishes in a rapid, alarming rate into the ravenous eating machine. Suddenly, the tape goes to slow motion, as the giant reaches just under the lip of the plate and shakes an unmarked packet onto his food. The unaided eye would have missed the moment. His shark eyes glance to the right, directly into the camera, and then back to the target.

Brenda's voice over as the scene freezes on the sleight of hand.

"Bob, lab tests confirmed the worst."

"Say it aint so, Brenda!"

"The official statement from the judges' panel identified the mystery substance as...WASABI!"

Collective gasps are heard from Bob, Mark, Brenda and most of America.

Scene goes back to the commentator's table.

Bob and Mark pause, eyes downcast, heads shaking in disapproval.

"Smithton had a bright future ahead of him..."

"Bob, I just don't know what to say..."

Another pause. Suddenly they both turn to the left camera, the moment over, grieving complete.

"Now we go to competition in progress at the Hall of Steak. Tim, this is Mark, can you hear me?"

A whispered voice responds.

"Shhh...Mark, sorry, but this is intense. With me are Raquel and Jim, medalists from last years' table battles. Maybe they can fill you in."

"Mark, this is Raquel and we are witnessing an epic battle at the steak podium. The Brit Gordon Highlander is going toe to toe with the American favorite, Hayes Finkle."

The feeder nearest the camera has long, red hair framing a broad beard. Highlander is nearly as broad as the table is wide. His posture is absolutely perfect. His build screams he has never met a meal he didn't like, but his poise is polished and indifferent. A dancer at the plates.

Another whispered comment.

"Bob, this is Jim. Tell me this isn't deja vu of '78 with Carlson."

Pause.

"Jim, I see what you're saying, but I was thinking Winter Feeding of '82 with Banford."

"You are too right. The polish and the form, but still maintaining that mind-boggling volume. What do you think of Finkle?"

The camera obliges, zooming in on the favored son of the US of A.

The Wisconsin native has a shaved head and large, blue eyes that constantly move back and forth, from the platter to his opponent across the table.

"Jim, what sets this fighter apart is his incredible discipline."

"Exactly, Raquel. His form is perfect: a flawless 3 centimer cube cut from a slab of filet mignon. Now watch that chewing motion. Poetry."

"I'm getting misty, myself."

Mark narrates, as the camera continues to admire the blue-eyed beast consume steak like a sculptor.

"Everyone knows the odds this young man overcame to get here."

"Do you mean the tsunami that killed all the cattle in Wisconsin last year?"

"The very same Raquel. That tragedy nearly snuffed out this young man's bright dreams. Amazingly, the kindness of strangers brought him through."

"A heart-warming story, to be sure, Mark. California cows rejoiced to have a part in this year's competition after disaster struck their northern cousins." The picture flashes to an orderly line of apparently happy cows, with the flag shaved into the fur on their flanks.

"Later reports told us that thousands of volunteer cows were turned away."

"What an outpouring of love, don't you think Bob?"

"Well-"

Tim breaks in.

"Excuse me, Bob, but this contest has just taken a dramatic turn! Wait! - wait! What is he doing? No! He can't be!"

"Tim, I don't believe my eyes, but Finkle has just completed his consumption of the steak with a perfect double-triple cut and chew while drinking his beverage!"

"No, he didn't!"

The professorial Bob is now screaming.

"Yes - he did! Ladies and gentlemen, you saw it first, here on the Wide World of Eating!"

Highlander slams his ham fists on the table, platter and meat jumping a good four inches from the dark wood. The crowd draws back, knowing they are now too close if something bad happens. He stalks around the table to where Finkle is standing, dancing with his fans. He stops abruptly and faces his nemesis. Their bellies of gravitas are nearly touching, as their eyes narrow, menacing. The hall is silent. The crowd gives the behemoths space. The labored breathing of the broad flanked competitors becomes the music of anxiety.

"Raquel, I don't like the look of this. In '95, this kind of throw down seriously injured 35 and nearly destroyed the Dessert Wing in London." Tim's gulp is audible.

Suddenly, Highlander lets out a baritone whoop, and seizes Finkle in a friendly bear hug. All is well. Thunderous applause washes away the recent memory of near death. The spectators mob the champions like ants swarming two large trees.

The crowd is dancing, chanting. The camera man is apparently also enchanted, as the picture is bobbing in time with the chant.

"Fi-in-kle i-i-s the ma-a-an!"

Another camera shows the scene of thousands gathered aroung the Hall of Steak, candles in the dark dancing, people chanting, arm in arm.

Bob and Mark reappear.

"Mark, as usual, it has indeed been an honor to watch history being made on the Wide World of Eating".

"Bob, all I can say, is that I feel blessed to have witnessed today's events with my own eyes!"

"From both Mark and myself, America, have a great evening! God bless. Join us tomorrow as we watch a fascinating new sport called the Condiment Revolution!"

The credits roll.

Hunters in Overalls - The Shame

Hunters of the world, Unite!

Briefly. Then they'll be distracted by a rustling in the shrubs, leap in and run off in hot pursuit. It doesn't matter really what it is. Simply that it runs and they haven't run after it before. A constant, electric hum of energy pulses through them. They need to move, even if it's only tapping their foot as they are restrained in their cubicle. Move forward. Keep moving. Move through, move around, just keep moving. Acquire a new target. No target? Create one. No conquest? Start a war, pick a fight. No obstacle? Imagine one and beat the garbage out of it.
Hunters are great people. You just don't want them building watches or running day care centers.

In addition to this kinetic group (hunters, warriors, fighters), God created farmers. Good folk. Salt of the earth. Solid. Dull.

You see, farmers do the same thing every day, week, month and year. They are linear and consistent. They frolic in minutiae and drink details and numbers like coffee (doubtless with creamer). Risk is not an option. Spontaneity? It should be treated by prescription medication.
Farmers look for order and if it's not found, create it. A farmer won't start a fight, unless you drive across his freshly plowed field or put back his files without regard to the alphabet. Then he will brow beat you efficiently.

I know we need farmers. I just don't like it. There's so many straight lines, crisp edges, and metered steps - it makes my head hurt. It's like being trapped in a coffin stuffed with wet cotton balls.
After all, won't sick people heal themselves? Do broken things need to be fixed? Can't the young, feeble and elderly just catch up later? Food should be caught not grown. Dirt is to be walked on, not played with. Numbers and the alphabet are more suggestions and accessories.

If you want something done, give it to a hunter. If you want it finished, give it to a farmer.