The sound of a fog horn announces your arrival. You finish the last of your drink as you converse with friends on what sites you want to see first. You make your way below decks to gather your cash and your sunglasses. The main deck is buzzing as patrons stand in line, awaiting departure. The ship has moored and the gang plank secured. You scan your cruise ship I.D. and make your way down to one of the tour vans, anxious to see what this strange new land and its people have to offer.
The tour guide is a professional. He hits all the hot spots of his native land, proudly providing you and your friends with a brief history on sites along the tour route, and all the time you wish to purchase trinkets and mementos from the stands that line the streets. The van comes to a halt in front of a few ramshackle tables where more merchants are hawking their wares in front of a ‘famous’ landmark. You don’t see anything at this stop that interests you, so you opt to stay in the van and relax. You lean left then right as folks climb across and around you to exit to the street. With an air of excitement, bartering begins. Money is exchanged for goods and there are smiles all around.
Then something goes terribly wrong.
From the shadows, three masked men materialize and begin demanding money, watches, and jewelry. What the hell? Is this a joke? Is this some pantomime that the locals play for the enjoyment of every tour group that happens this way?
One of the men shows a gun, the others flash the cold steel of knives.
Jesus, it all looks real from where you are sitting.
The merchants back away quickly, the worried looks on their faces giving credence to the reality of the situation. The man with the gun and his cronies grow more agitated by the second. The timber of the gunman's voice rises as the muscles around his neck tighten. He places the gun against the temple of a female tourist. He is nearly dancing in place as his head whips in one direction and then another. Money, he wants in now!
What would you do?
What if you were over 70 years old?
Although I have taken some creative license with the story, the core facts remain intact. This did in fact happen in Costa Rica to a tour group from Carnival Cruise Lines. Below is taken from one news source (Associated Press). If you wish, I am sure you can search out more articles on this incident.
February 23, 2007
SAN JOSE, Costa Rica (AP) -- An American woman, exploring Costa Rica with a group from a cruise ship, says she thought it was a joke when three men armed with knives and a gun tried to hold them up.
But then, one of the masked attackers held a gun to her head. Clova Adams says that's when another of the tourists -- a U-S military veteran in his 70s who was trained in self defense -- came to the rescue.
Police say he jumped out of the van the Americans were using, and put the gunman in a headlock. They say the American struggled with the robber, eventually breaking his collarbone and killing him. The other two men fled.
Adams, speaking from the Carnival Liberty cruise ship, says she thought she was going to die, until her fellow passenger came to the rescue.
The U.S. Embassy confirms what happened, but it isn't identifying the American who rescued the group.
Costa Rican officials say they won't charge him with a crime, because he acted in self-defense.
I just wanted to tip my hat to this gentleman, whoever he may be. He is a hero in my book, and the world could use more people with his spirit. I think at 70, running was less of an option. Placing his life, and the members of his group, in the hands of ghouls was not an option at all.
Talk to ya soon.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
It's...It's...Alive!
The Southern Literary Syndicate (sLs) has now officially launched. You will find the links on my sidebar under a separate heading. Go on over and take a look. You won’t be disappointed.
Talk to ya soon.
Talk to ya soon.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Bueller...Bueller...
No, I have not been arrested, deported, kidnapped, or gotten high on mushroom tea and run off to join a nudist colony. What I have done, is join the My Space community. You nailed it; bringing down the quality of the blogosphere was not enough to sate my maniacal plan of brainwashing my fellows and starting a beer drinking cult of misfits. I have targeted My Space to aid in the spread my virtual fungus. No use spraying your screen with jock-itch-be-gone as I have built up an immunity to these types of assaults.
I am proud to announce that I have been invited to join a writer’s circle of fellow southerners whose literary talent far exceeds my own; the name of which is to be “The Southern Literary Syndicate”. Within this circle you will find published authors (I am sure my friend, Dave Bean, will be among the published members when his book is completed), other wordsmiths of the highest caliber, and me. Below you will find an announcement, sent out to My Space friends, by none other than Mr. Liam Jackson as to the upcoming launch:
The Southern Literary Syndicate (sLs) Launches Feb. 23rd!
And what, you may ask, is the Southern Literary Syndicate?
The Syndicate is the collaborative effort Liam Jackson, Dave Bean, Nitemareseraph, Perks, Guy Scott, and Alan Deal. Our purpose is to provide you, gentle reader, with essays and humor pieces that, each time, leave you with a personal glimpse of the Deep South. We offer pictures through our words. Sometimes you'll get a polaroid. Other times, you leave with an entire tapestry. But you'll never, ever leave empty of soul or spirit.
The contents of the various essays are well seasoned with Southern flavor to be sure. However, I'm betting that regardless of your home state, region or country of origin, you'll find some common denominators that span the Mason-Dixon, wreck old barriers, and establish new insights into Life, in general.
Music reviews of Southern indy groups, movie and book reviews, essays and humor, and perhaps an interview or two with people of note. You'll be able to find it all within the blogs of our charter members.
For a sample of the fare we intended to offer, I recommend you visit the blogs of our Charter members. Perhaps begin with David Bean and his continuing saga of "Moose."
More on the upcoming launch as the week progresses.
I will not be abandoning my home here, just in case any of you were being hopefully optimistic. For now, I intend to keep My Space nonpolitical in content. I will continue to rant and rave here on those particular subjects that boil the blood and beg for release.
At launch date, you will find the blogs of the charter members, for sLs under a separate heading on my side bar for future reference.
So with those hallowed words that preamble many an interesting southern occurrence, “Hey ya’ll, watch this!”
I am proud to announce that I have been invited to join a writer’s circle of fellow southerners whose literary talent far exceeds my own; the name of which is to be “The Southern Literary Syndicate”. Within this circle you will find published authors (I am sure my friend, Dave Bean, will be among the published members when his book is completed), other wordsmiths of the highest caliber, and me. Below you will find an announcement, sent out to My Space friends, by none other than Mr. Liam Jackson as to the upcoming launch:
The Southern Literary Syndicate (sLs) Launches Feb. 23rd!
And what, you may ask, is the Southern Literary Syndicate?
The Syndicate is the collaborative effort Liam Jackson, Dave Bean, Nitemareseraph, Perks, Guy Scott, and Alan Deal. Our purpose is to provide you, gentle reader, with essays and humor pieces that, each time, leave you with a personal glimpse of the Deep South. We offer pictures through our words. Sometimes you'll get a polaroid. Other times, you leave with an entire tapestry. But you'll never, ever leave empty of soul or spirit.
The contents of the various essays are well seasoned with Southern flavor to be sure. However, I'm betting that regardless of your home state, region or country of origin, you'll find some common denominators that span the Mason-Dixon, wreck old barriers, and establish new insights into Life, in general.
Music reviews of Southern indy groups, movie and book reviews, essays and humor, and perhaps an interview or two with people of note. You'll be able to find it all within the blogs of our charter members.
For a sample of the fare we intended to offer, I recommend you visit the blogs of our Charter members. Perhaps begin with David Bean and his continuing saga of "Moose."
More on the upcoming launch as the week progresses.
I will not be abandoning my home here, just in case any of you were being hopefully optimistic. For now, I intend to keep My Space nonpolitical in content. I will continue to rant and rave here on those particular subjects that boil the blood and beg for release.
At launch date, you will find the blogs of the charter members, for sLs under a separate heading on my side bar for future reference.
So with those hallowed words that preamble many an interesting southern occurrence, “Hey ya’ll, watch this!”
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Bubbly
I wanted to give you an update to let you know that I was pleasantly surprised when I popped the top off one of my little brown gems of cider. Carbonated hell, it started foaming at the mouth like a mad dog. In fact, I think it is a little over carbonated and I will need to reduce the priming sugar in my next batch.
The Mrs. likes it, but has requested that the next round be sweeter.
“Sweeter? Sweeter! Woman this is a drink for rugged men. Men don’t drink sweet cider; we drink it…why we drink it just like this here that I made. A man’s drink, you hear me? Oh, while I have your attention Miss ‘sweeter’, do these pants make me look fat?”
Talk to ya soon.
The Mrs. likes it, but has requested that the next round be sweeter.
“Sweeter? Sweeter! Woman this is a drink for rugged men. Men don’t drink sweet cider; we drink it…why we drink it just like this here that I made. A man’s drink, you hear me? Oh, while I have your attention Miss ‘sweeter’, do these pants make me look fat?”
Talk to ya soon.
Friday, February 09, 2007
I remember
My grandmother died from cancer two years ago. We called her Nanny, this title given to her by the eldest of the grandchildren. I have many fond recollections of her as I grew. I wanted to relate a particularly interesting story that I can recall as if it happened yesterday.
I was around 10 years old at the time and happened to be at my aunt’s house. My mother is one of 4 children and they are all very close. Close not only in relationship, but in living proximity as well. My mother’s siblings all lived within a 3 mile radius of my Nanny (until my Dad took Momma and us kids away to New Jersey); the closest was my aunt Judy who lived directly across the street from Nanny and Poppa. My aunt Judy had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl is three years my senior and the boy only one. My cousin, Vince and I were very close growing up; blood brothers in fact as we had at one time completed the (in our minds) sacred indian ritual of cutting our hands and then pressing them together. We did nearly everything together before I moved north, into Yankee territory, at the end of my fifth grade school year. But after the move we still spent our entire summer breaks together when Mom brought us back down after school cut us loose. I have quite a few interesting tales about our misspent youth, but I will save them for another time. I know, I know, this is supposed to be about my Nanny, but I thought that I would give you a quick synopsis of the main players in this particular moment in history, and this is my story.
Ten years old and playing in my aunt’s front yard with my cousin, Vince. We were doing all the normal things that ten and eleven year old boys do: climbing trees, digging holes, mooning passing cars, and turning over rocks looking for critters to put in his sister’s underwear drawer, nothing special - the basics.
We had worked our way around the front yard, effortlessly jumping from one boyish task to another. That all changed when I picked the game we both loved to play. With an excellent ten year old's copy of an old kung fu film, I called to him as I stood from my rock and pointed in his direction. “Your Kung Fu skills are very good… But I am a Chin brother, and my Kung Fu skills are…” beating on my chest with a closed fist, “top notch!” With a scream of mock rage he charged and I did the same, thus starting a full on, lip-synch out of synch, kung-fu war.
That we crossed multiple martial styles, cultural boundaries, and imaginary weaponry in our live action movie mattered not – we were ten and eleven remember? Rocks became shuriken, dirt a special blinding powder (incidentally, quite effective when it found its mark); mops and brooms on the carport transformed into spear and staff; sticks from the plethora of oak trees in his yard became mighty swords. We were screaming banshees as we fought from the front to the backyard and back to the front. We climbed fences and rolled into the neighbor’s property, only to jump back up and climb back over into aunties. When not shrieking, we were acting out various parts of all the Kung Fu Theater movies we had soaked up over the last few years. Things were going great until cuzz did the unthinkable; great until he threw down the gauntlet; he killed my Master. He didn’t just kill him, but he did it in my imaginary school, in front my imaginary clan.
Now if you have seen nearly any chopstick flick, you know that when an adversary kills his opponent’s master, “It is on!” With a renewed fury we tore at each other, and ended back up in the front yard. For the grand finale, we both squared off and sat down to meditate (read a breather for two winded kids that just happened to fit into their plot line).
What’s this, a plot twist? The front door to my aunt’s home opened inward and I saw my Nanny standing there with her back to the screen door as she continued to converse with those inside. Here was my chance. Know it or not, she had just become my enemy’s Master. I grinned and stood slowly, “Your Master will die. My kung fu is strong.” My nemesis answered, “Her power is too great…prepare to die.” I picked up my sword and took a stalking, circular, out-of-the-way approach toward the screen door. In my mind I was a ninja now and my prey was in sight. About five or so steps from my quarry, all hell broke loose.
Farewells said, my Nanny turned and pushed on the, always slightly ajar, screen door. As she crossed the threshold something fell from the top of the screen door. It fell across her head and shoulders and she did what we all would do with such an occurrence; she reached up to brush or pull whatever it was off of her. At this point, I figure it moved and she quickly turned her head and found herself looking into the eye of a three foot snake. My grandmother let out a screech that would do any specter proud and began beating herself about the neck and chest. She spun around madly, flailing and wailing at the reptile. I had about two seconds to laugh because as she spun around to face the front yard her brain threw the “flight” switch because apparently “fight” was not working with the desired expediency. This old lady went into a dead sprint. I had never before, nor would I ever again, see her move that fast. She bore down on me in a flash, her eyes wide in panic and it was all I could do to dive out of her way to prevent being trampled. She ran right past me and out into the street still screaming and throwing her arms around her head and neck as if possessed. I think she stopped, after about a hundred yards or so, in the middle of the street with my aunt Judy on her heels to help, check on, or save her. My cousin and I ,full of concerned laughter, did what caring boys do and ran to look for the snake.
A quick scan told us that the snake probably vacated the premises as fast as my Nanny did. As I turned back to call out my assurances that the snake was gone, I spotted a ball of fur hanging from a low lying branch and I knew instantly what it was; that nasty old oak tree had seen fit to snatch my grandmother's wig right off of her head as she sped beneath it.
I don’t know if it is youth or that I was just that devious, but I recovered my "Chin brother" character quickly and bent down to retrieve my sword. “Your Master has left her secret power behind and I will make her weak,” I yelled as I ran the few steps to where the wig (talisman of power) dangled precariously from an oak branch. With one small jump and one mighty swing of my sword-stick, I brought the wig to the ground and commenced to whipping its ass. No more would it hold power for my cousin's Teacher. Knowing that he was obviously defeated, cuzz ran up beside me and brought his sword to bear and aided me in vanquishing the Wig of Evil. Our entire chi reserves had been spent on this momentous conflict, so we were oblivious to, and no match for, the powerful head smacks and ear grabs that pulled us away.
Having both mastered the coupled look of complete innocence and utter confusion, we cried out in unison, “What…What did I do?”. When that didn’t work, plan B – point at each other while indignantly yelling “He started it!”
I think it was the hilarity of my dear old grandmother's actions, and the situation in general, that saved us both from the sound whipping we probably deserved. The mangled wig even won a reprieve from the trash and became a centerpiece for a story told many times.
It is memories like these that I remember most vividly when I think of my Nanny. I hope she can run without tiring and walk without fear of serpents doing aerial insertions, wherever she may be. Maybe she doesn't even need a wig.
Talk to ya soon.
I was around 10 years old at the time and happened to be at my aunt’s house. My mother is one of 4 children and they are all very close. Close not only in relationship, but in living proximity as well. My mother’s siblings all lived within a 3 mile radius of my Nanny (until my Dad took Momma and us kids away to New Jersey); the closest was my aunt Judy who lived directly across the street from Nanny and Poppa. My aunt Judy had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl is three years my senior and the boy only one. My cousin, Vince and I were very close growing up; blood brothers in fact as we had at one time completed the (in our minds) sacred indian ritual of cutting our hands and then pressing them together. We did nearly everything together before I moved north, into Yankee territory, at the end of my fifth grade school year. But after the move we still spent our entire summer breaks together when Mom brought us back down after school cut us loose. I have quite a few interesting tales about our misspent youth, but I will save them for another time. I know, I know, this is supposed to be about my Nanny, but I thought that I would give you a quick synopsis of the main players in this particular moment in history, and this is my story.
Ten years old and playing in my aunt’s front yard with my cousin, Vince. We were doing all the normal things that ten and eleven year old boys do: climbing trees, digging holes, mooning passing cars, and turning over rocks looking for critters to put in his sister’s underwear drawer, nothing special - the basics.
We had worked our way around the front yard, effortlessly jumping from one boyish task to another. That all changed when I picked the game we both loved to play. With an excellent ten year old's copy of an old kung fu film, I called to him as I stood from my rock and pointed in his direction. “Your Kung Fu skills are very good… But I am a Chin brother, and my Kung Fu skills are…” beating on my chest with a closed fist, “top notch!” With a scream of mock rage he charged and I did the same, thus starting a full on, lip-synch out of synch, kung-fu war.
That we crossed multiple martial styles, cultural boundaries, and imaginary weaponry in our live action movie mattered not – we were ten and eleven remember? Rocks became shuriken, dirt a special blinding powder (incidentally, quite effective when it found its mark); mops and brooms on the carport transformed into spear and staff; sticks from the plethora of oak trees in his yard became mighty swords. We were screaming banshees as we fought from the front to the backyard and back to the front. We climbed fences and rolled into the neighbor’s property, only to jump back up and climb back over into aunties. When not shrieking, we were acting out various parts of all the Kung Fu Theater movies we had soaked up over the last few years. Things were going great until cuzz did the unthinkable; great until he threw down the gauntlet; he killed my Master. He didn’t just kill him, but he did it in my imaginary school, in front my imaginary clan.
Now if you have seen nearly any chopstick flick, you know that when an adversary kills his opponent’s master, “It is on!” With a renewed fury we tore at each other, and ended back up in the front yard. For the grand finale, we both squared off and sat down to meditate (read a breather for two winded kids that just happened to fit into their plot line).
What’s this, a plot twist? The front door to my aunt’s home opened inward and I saw my Nanny standing there with her back to the screen door as she continued to converse with those inside. Here was my chance. Know it or not, she had just become my enemy’s Master. I grinned and stood slowly, “Your Master will die. My kung fu is strong.” My nemesis answered, “Her power is too great…prepare to die.” I picked up my sword and took a stalking, circular, out-of-the-way approach toward the screen door. In my mind I was a ninja now and my prey was in sight. About five or so steps from my quarry, all hell broke loose.
Farewells said, my Nanny turned and pushed on the, always slightly ajar, screen door. As she crossed the threshold something fell from the top of the screen door. It fell across her head and shoulders and she did what we all would do with such an occurrence; she reached up to brush or pull whatever it was off of her. At this point, I figure it moved and she quickly turned her head and found herself looking into the eye of a three foot snake. My grandmother let out a screech that would do any specter proud and began beating herself about the neck and chest. She spun around madly, flailing and wailing at the reptile. I had about two seconds to laugh because as she spun around to face the front yard her brain threw the “flight” switch because apparently “fight” was not working with the desired expediency. This old lady went into a dead sprint. I had never before, nor would I ever again, see her move that fast. She bore down on me in a flash, her eyes wide in panic and it was all I could do to dive out of her way to prevent being trampled. She ran right past me and out into the street still screaming and throwing her arms around her head and neck as if possessed. I think she stopped, after about a hundred yards or so, in the middle of the street with my aunt Judy on her heels to help, check on, or save her. My cousin and I ,full of concerned laughter, did what caring boys do and ran to look for the snake.
A quick scan told us that the snake probably vacated the premises as fast as my Nanny did. As I turned back to call out my assurances that the snake was gone, I spotted a ball of fur hanging from a low lying branch and I knew instantly what it was; that nasty old oak tree had seen fit to snatch my grandmother's wig right off of her head as she sped beneath it.
I don’t know if it is youth or that I was just that devious, but I recovered my "Chin brother" character quickly and bent down to retrieve my sword. “Your Master has left her secret power behind and I will make her weak,” I yelled as I ran the few steps to where the wig (talisman of power) dangled precariously from an oak branch. With one small jump and one mighty swing of my sword-stick, I brought the wig to the ground and commenced to whipping its ass. No more would it hold power for my cousin's Teacher. Knowing that he was obviously defeated, cuzz ran up beside me and brought his sword to bear and aided me in vanquishing the Wig of Evil. Our entire chi reserves had been spent on this momentous conflict, so we were oblivious to, and no match for, the powerful head smacks and ear grabs that pulled us away.
Having both mastered the coupled look of complete innocence and utter confusion, we cried out in unison, “What…What did I do?”. When that didn’t work, plan B – point at each other while indignantly yelling “He started it!”
I think it was the hilarity of my dear old grandmother's actions, and the situation in general, that saved us both from the sound whipping we probably deserved. The mangled wig even won a reprieve from the trash and became a centerpiece for a story told many times.
It is memories like these that I remember most vividly when I think of my Nanny. I hope she can run without tiring and walk without fear of serpents doing aerial insertions, wherever she may be. Maybe she doesn't even need a wig.
Talk to ya soon.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Questions
Unanswered questions:
How can anything that is completely perfect create something so entirely flawed? Was “In his image” a blatant mislead?
How can unconditional love be something to strive for? If a treasured gift is given and the recipient belittles it, steps on it, rolls it in feces, and then spits in the givers face, what intrinsic value does the gift have if the owner doesn’t protect it?
Why does society measure someone’s worth by what they do for others?
Isn’t the imposition of morality through force, which has nothing to do with protecting life or liberty or property - the latter two necessities for the first, just another form of tyranny?
How can we do whatever we wish as long as we say we are sorry? How can a man murder, steal, rape, and destroy, say he is sorry and be guaranteed rich rewards in the hereafter but someone who strives for peace, perfection, and respect of his fellow man burn for all eternity if he isn’t “saved”?
These are just a few of the more serious questions that I often ponder, with little satisfaction in the answers category. I know the context of these questions can be taken in a myriad of directions and many will read into them things that just aren’t there. So if you want to discuss them rationally, that’s what the comment section is for. If you don’t like this line of questioning, then go away. I have never heard the term “blind” used as an adjective before any noun to make it positive. Why is “blind faith” any different?
Talk to ya soon.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Birthday Reflection
Time marches on and today I am another year older. My family took me out for a great dinner and I had a wonderful time. It seems that time spins faster the older I get, giving merit to the saying, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.” Don’t misconstrue that as a whine as that is not the tone intended; but my perception is changed as time passes and it seems to currently step in double-time.
As I reflect over the last year, I see so many things I should have done that I did not. There are no excuses, only reasons, and my number one would be apathy. At 33 there is so much I should know that I do not, so much I should have done and have not. ‘A work in progress’ will be the label I wear until I breathe my last. But that is life, no? As long as we continue to strive to better ourselves, as long as we stay in the fight, we live. It reminds me of a quote my Dad once printed out for me to read, with hopes that I would take it to heart. I was young and did not understand the wisdom of the words, but as I became older I realized it to be a most noble goal to aim toward and the only way to be truly alive. Thanks, Dad.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” - Theodore Roosevelt
As I reflect over the last year, I see so many things I should have done that I did not. There are no excuses, only reasons, and my number one would be apathy. At 33 there is so much I should know that I do not, so much I should have done and have not. ‘A work in progress’ will be the label I wear until I breathe my last. But that is life, no? As long as we continue to strive to better ourselves, as long as we stay in the fight, we live. It reminds me of a quote my Dad once printed out for me to read, with hopes that I would take it to heart. I was young and did not understand the wisdom of the words, but as I became older I realized it to be a most noble goal to aim toward and the only way to be truly alive. Thanks, Dad.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” - Theodore Roosevelt
In reflection I also grasp how truly blessed I have been. I could not have hoped for a better family than the one Divine Providence has given me.
I am proud to be able to call myself an American and live in the greatest country on earth. With all her faults and troubles, there is still no better place to be.
Happy birthday to all of you who were born today and may you have many more. May your next birthday’s contemplations bring to mind your great accomplishments and the resolve to overcome your bitter defeats.
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