Football, a Brutal Game.

My younger cousin Mike, who has some sort of milk shake obsession, (a complex, yet treatable, affliction: we need to act, Life Explained fans, to end this horrible disease, we are accepting donations now, please give generously to this noble cause) asked me to join his Fantasy Football league.  It was an act of kindness and generosity so noble and pure as to make a grown man weep.   But, there is no time for that, we are talking fantasy football here.

Acting quickly, as is my norm, I assembled one of the finest teams to ever take the field.  I filled both lines with Trolls and Orcs, man those guys are big, and mean, plus they are not above taking a cheap shot in the scrum that develops on running plays up the middle.

At fullback we had a dwarf, tough, resilient, unafraid to get his nose out of joint in dive plays, and short yardage situations.  Also, the ax is a real bonus when pass blocking.

Tailbacks, receivers and defensive backs were all elves, tall, lithe, athletic and fast.  Elves have great hands, can change direction quickly, and can make "magic" catches.  They are hard to beat.

Our linebackers were all vampires, fast, agile, aggressive and hostile.  They scared the bejesus out of opponents, and teammates, and coaches, and fans, vendors, office staff, grounds crew.  They were really frightening, but nobody wanted to be the one to tell them they were being traded.

Here was the real genius, though, we put a Wizard at quarterback!  Not just any wizard either, a powerful, steely eyed, resolute mage, unshakable, unflappable, almost un-sackable, a quick learner, able to control the huddle and make the right audibles at the line.  Kind of a father figure to the whole team, and able to conjure up a cooler full of beer on a whim.

It was a solid team, and we could go far, if we took it one game at a time, and gave 110 % and didn't overlook anybody, and all of those other things that a team needs to do to have a successful season.

Man, we cruised, too.  Running right over the top of the Lions, and the Bears, and the Panthers, and the Broncos, (we even made an unscheduled stop to stomp on the Tigers, even though they are a baseball team, we hate animals) destroying the Cowboys, and the Redskins, and the Vikings.  The Eagles, and their high flying antics gave us a few problems, at first, but as soon as we scattered fish all over the field it was over, stupid birds.

Nobody could handle our mix of speed, strength, and horrifying undead awfulness.  We were a team of destiny.

Then we had to face the Giants in the Championship game.  They crushed us.  Still, it was a good season, next year we might try to draft a little more size.

Thanks for the invitation, Mike.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, but not around normal folk.

This last vacation I spent about a week with my past, a bit of ancient history, a time long gone, and mostly forgotten.  Actually, we never remembered most of it, but the parts we could recall seemed like fun.  There were very few things we would not try, and almost all of them we had to try again, just to see if our first impression was correct.

And you know what, with the exception of a few beers, and maybe a shot of whisky, every now and then we left them all behind.  Oh sure, we had a lot of fun reminiscing about the old days, reliving our grand errors, talking about how much fun it was to be so stupid so often, but we were both glad those days were over.  Over cold beer and fantastic Templeton Rye we drove the "way back machine" to our days of mistakes and gloried in them.

But, those days are gone (I hope), and good riddance, all of those bad habits are history (I hope) and I have no desire to come any closer than discussing them with my good friend and fellow degenerate.   

However, the last bad habit either of us left behind was smoking.  It was the most difficult to break.  I don't know enough about the psychology or physiology of addiction to say it is the most addictive substance, maybe it is, maybe not.  Maybe the difficulty is caused by convenience, it is everywhere. A person can buy formula and diapers for their child and stock up on cigarettes and grab a lighter in one stop.  Right there by the register, cartons, packs, signs, colorful point of purchase displays all calling to smokers, screaming "hey, don't forget us."

Smoking bans are popping up everywhere, and smokers are forced to stand in the elements, outcasts in modern society, to light up.  They might as well sew a scarlet S on their clothes, and just accept the stigma. It is certainly OK to buy them, just don't think about smoking one around polite society. "Stop bullying" ads attempt to make us more humane, and accepting, but, ask any smoker what happens when someone walks by as they are trying to enjoy a peaceful cigarette in the last refuge allowed, the outdoors.

When I quit smoking I swore that I was not going to be a sanctimonious ex-smoker, my past is riddled with the shadows, and shallow graves, of barely dead dependencies (each one waiting for the right moment to attempt a reunion tour of sorts).   I may not understand the science behind the need, but, I am all too comfortable with the reality.  If you build it they will come, and they will buy and they will light up.  Humanity feeds off destructive behavior and thrives on self delusion.  "Oh no," we think, "this will never happen to me," as we watch people suffer and die.

What I can't help but wonder is why do we spend all of this money, all of this energy telling people how bad it is to smoke, forcing them to stand in the rain, or snow, or oppressive heat, or freezing cold and still allow the sale of such an awful commodity?  I am no big fan of restriction and law, but isn't it time to end the madness?  "At long last, have you left no sense of decency?"  Probably not.

Smoking kills, there is no denying that, and it is so expensive, and so heavily taxed.  Plus, most states use the taxes raised to pay for efforts to get people to stop smoking.  Something there seems so silly.

But, life goes on, and the insanity piles up so quickly.   So, next time you see a smoker, smile at them, say hello, and move on past, they are there because that is where they are told to be.  "Go, stand out there so we can all see you in your anguish and your shame."   Besides, we all appreciate a kind word occasionally.  Remember, "there, but for the grace of God, go I."

When I first started this post it had a very logical conclusion, at least by my standards, then it kind of took off on it's own, and now I am not sure of the original plan.  Honestly, I don't think it was about smoking.  Just try to be nice to everyone, accept people for what they are, and don't judge a person, particularly not by a single act.  Hey, that is pretty good advice.

Don't forget to tune in tomorrow when we will review my new app to help focus on a single idea, and not get sidetracked on sermonizing and grand ideas, let's face it no one is going to listen to that kind of crap anyway.  Now I am off to find a new app for keeping on track.  Any suggestions, just email me.

Templeton Rye, a little reward for living this long.

Sometimes life throws a nasty curve ball your way, and it careens wildly, looping around, dodging, weaving, jumping, sliding, dropping just out of reach of your best swing.  Circling around behind the catcher, and the umpire, dancing, weaving, finally hitting you right in the back of the head, just under the lip of the batting helmet, leaving you dizzy, staggering around, talking incoherently, babbling to strangers who look at you like you are a complete idiot.  And sometimes you are.

Occasionally, though, life tosses a watermelon sized slow pitch, a pillow sized softie that homes in on your bat and flies through the air, rocketing past the fence, leaving the outfielders gasping for breath, and the fans of the opposing team accusing you of doping, corking your bat and making a deal with the devil, while you jog slowly around the base path of the day, waving at bleachers full of adoring fans screaming your name and pleading for your autograph.

Templeton Rye is one of the nicest things life will ever throw your way.  It is a generous, delightful, delicious drink from a small town in Iowa, appropriately named Templeton, Iowa.  What a wonderful coincidence, eh?

We first learned of this wonderful elixir several years ago, my wife read about it in one of the many periodicals she picks up randomly and reads.  But, once she read about it, she had made up her mind, and once my wife (delicate little angel that she is) makes up her mind the best thing to do is say "what a great idea," and at least act like you have a say in the decision.

On that trip we looked all over Iowa.  We stopped at every liquor and super market between Sioux City and Davenport.

Iowa is a long state traveling from east to west, and while sparsely populated there are what seems to be thousands of little towns along the Interstate 80 corridor.  Each with it's own little carryout, and each had the same story, "we get two bottles a week and they are gone in minutes."  Hey, this stuff must be good.   We even drove to the distillery to see if they had any for sale.  "And what did it avail us, it availed us not."

After a long, fruitless day, we were crushed.    We retired to our motel room, dejected, and forlorn.

Since we had made it all the way to Illinois we decided to try the local Hy Vee (a chain of food stores, with the a great name, but not quite as good as Piggly Wiggly).  But, to save the heartache of walking in and asking hopefully, we called, and asked.  "Yes, we have three bottles," the clerk said.  "Save me two, DAMNIT,"  we screamed, leaping into our car, and driving slightly above the posted speed limit to get there while the getting was good, and it was good.

That night when we got home we opened the bottle reverently, and sipped the barrel aged, small batch, golden amber ambrosia.   It was smooth, and wonderful, and it burned just enough to remind you it was alcohol.   It was worth every side trip, every step into every carryout, every rejection across the whole, indifferent state of Iowa.  It was whiskey they would be proud to claim in Kentucky, a state that takes whiskey very seriously.

This year we had no trouble finding a few bottles, production had increased, we found some in Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska and South Dakota.  It was still just as good.  But, we kind of missed the hunt.  In honor of our wonderful vacation I think I will go pour myself a shot, would you like one?

Childhood Memories, Adult Realities.

When I was young, so long ago, things seemed much bigger, distances much greater, life much larger, scales exagerated and accomplishments grander.  It was a time when I saw things as a child does, looking up.

There were three men who, at the time, seemed like giants.  Men who lived epically, laughed heartily, and never gave up.  They were my uncles, and they could fix things, and tell jokes, and entertain people, and all my life I thought the world of them. 

Two of them were my Mother's brother, Uncle Joe, and Uncle Matt, and the third was my Father's brother in law, Uncle Kenny.  Joe and Matt were twins, and my Mother and my Aunt loved them without reservation.   Kenny was married to my Father's sister, a sister he adored.  Anytime we visited them or they came to see us, everybody was excited and you could feel the anticipation.

All three of them were men of action, who never never lacked the fortitude required for difficult work.  They spent their years making a living, toiling in the fields, running a business, providing for their families.  In my youthful vision they were huge, men of consequence, strong men, men who commanded attention,  men who shook the hand of a child with a vise like grip and a warmth that still provides fond memories.  

As I grew older and learned more about my father, a man I adored, who had passed away when I was still a child, it became evident that he was a man who valued honesty, and took great ptide in his reputation.  He had a great respect for each of these men, and that only added to their cache in my opinion.  

Of course, behind every good man is a good woman, and these three men were no exception.  Matt's wife Fern, who helped run his company, and to this day is still an organizational force.  Joe is married to Vera, one memory still strong is the way Joe always looked so neat and pressed, that was because Vera would iron his clothes.  Kenny had Norma, who helped run the farm, fed family and farm hands and was able to take my Father to task, not an easy thing to do.

On vacation this year I stopped to spend time with each of these giants from my youth.  Time, years of work, and age has taken their toll on each.  Now I am taller, my hand shake is firmer, and my gait steadier.  But, as I travel home, through the rain, driving across the endless, indifferent plains of the midwest I realize they are still the larger than life men I remember.  They will never quit, and against the terrors of time and the cruelness of age they will stand strong.  And I am proud to be their nephew.

Vacation, Day 1.

Up with the sun, gone with the wind.  There are things about driving half way across the universe with your family that are a little uncomfortable.  Occurrences on the Bounty begin to make sense.

"Mr. Christian, we stopped at the last rest area."  Said Captain Bligh, sounding a little smug for a guy in a wig, holding a map, and a bag of pistachio nuts.

"Sir, we have had two bottles of Dasani (a registered trademark of the Coca Cola Co.) and a Snapple (a registered trademark of some other company) since then."

Maybe the crew was upset about the music, or the climate control, or the way a bag of snacks has been allocated.   We have had gun fights erupt between our sons over a perceived slight in beef jerky distribution.

A new GIF just for this reshare.

Or, maybe the 1st mate was a little sore and tired from carrying out more than one persons share of luggage, and stuff.  And maybe he found it a little galling that while there was at least a 12 pack of everybody else's favorite drink, there was hardly anything the first mate liked.

Anyway, if you want see what type of people are in your family, load them in a car and drive for hours, across the featureless, homogenous midwest, devoid of landmarks, or any method of measuring progress.  Soon you will you have bonded with, or divorced yourself entirely from, your whole family. Plus, you will start to understand what happened to HAL 9000.

Captains Log

Stardate 07152013.
Found these two distinctly hostile lifeforms in the middle seat of our StarShip.  Attempts at communication have been futile to this point.  Repeated "good mornings" have only elicited a series of grunts, sighs, and a peculiar rolling of the eyes, as if they are trying to view the tops of their head from the inside.  

Will continue to endeavor to make contact with the beings, ascertain their intents, see if they are here as ambassadors of peace (who want to buy us lunch) or bellicose monsters bent on our destruction.

Note to self; Ask Spock if breakfast burritos from McDonalds are a gift from the heavens.

I had to save the world, so sue me.

Loyal readers of this blog know I am not given to boasting, or shameless self promotion.  Lately, though, an age old wound has been opened, and even though it will require some descriptive language that may seem like bragging, and despite the considerable anguish this will cause me personally, the world deserves an explanation, and many of the documents have recently become declassified.

When I was much younger I was approached by a group of concerned people who needed assistance.  They were trying to save the world from an angry mob of women shoe shoppers from Alpha Centauri (also known as Rigel Kent), the brightest star in the Centaurus Constellation.   Apparently, despite having a radial velocity of -21.6 km/s and an apparent magnitude of -0.01 (don't get me started on the spectral type of G2 V) they don't have any decent shoe sales.  This, according to the terrified people who contacted me, spelled big trouble for our sleepy little planet.

Looking back it is surprising how many people were unaware of the bus loads of savage bargain hunters screaming across the heavens toward us.  Fortunately, thanks to the frightened people who hired me, they did not need to know, I was on the job.

Working quickly, as I am known to do, I assembled a team of top scientists, the most proficient engineers, and the wildest looking group of crypto-zoologists you have ever seen and we started constructing a defensive umbrella that would save the Earth, and the terrified people who hired us were grateful.

Sure, it was touch and go, time was short, and we were forced to work night and day for weeks on end.  Months of sleepless toil, until our backs ached and our fingers cramped, and our feet hurt, and we had headaches, and blurred vision and we lived on hot dogs and breakfast sandwiches, and we liked it, because we were doing the right thing, for the right reason.  We simply could not let the Earth, and the horrified people who hired us, be destroyed.

It was a beautiful construct, too, elegant, simple and brutally effective.  Using a 60 watt bulb, we sent the light through several magnifying glasses of increasing size and power, until it was like a miniature sun.  Using a calculator from Woolworth's as our computer, (things were different back then, and dime store calculators were the best thing you could hope for) we calibrated it to track any space borne Mimosa aroma, and incinerate the vehicle in which it was being transported.  

Unfortunately, the person in charge of procurement, was a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of items needed, and forgot to buy a 60 watt bulb, and electric fixture.  We were moments away from being overrun by angry shoe shoppers from outer space and I had to act quickly.  So, I reverse engineered my BABY sister's easy bake oven, just to save the world.  And have not heard the end of it since.  Despite the fact I have replaced it, and sometimes she finds the kitchen confusing.  Last time we visited she was in the kitchen screaming, like a banshee, "How come my pie isn't cooked and it's all soggy?"  Her husband, a man with a lot of patience, said politely, "that's the dishwasher, dear."

Now the story has been told.  I don't like to brag, but it was going to come out sooner or later.

Teachers are human, too, maybe.

Teachers used to terrify me, malevolent beings bent on my destruction.  After a full days torment there they were popping up to haunt my dreams.  There were teachers who, given the proper motivation, could cut a car in half with a yard stick, and the proper motivation was normally only one poorly constructed sentence, or misplaced decimal point away.  Life and death decisions waited at every turn.

Naturally as I got older and met teachers in a more social climate, or met any number of either of my son's teachers I realized they were evil.  And time had not changed their desire to make my life miserable.  I actually bought a Kevlar vest for conferences.

Imagine my surprise when one of the people who befriended me early on the forum turned out to be a TEACHER!  It was almost funny, we had little online conversations, and she seemed so nice.  To my hyper-alert, heightened teacher radar pieces started to fall in place.

I started to notice things, like how when she entered the forum all of the people would disappear.  There was a one word post, "LOOKOUT,. it's Millie" (not her real name, to protect you, my innocent readers) and it would echo up and down the forum.  And my forum posts would start bouncing back to my email with red marks all over them.  Sometimes they were actually crying.

Still, I pressed on, we were quit smoking buddies, and soon we became Facebook friends.  I noticed her "wall" was littered with people begging for forgiveness, asking to be excused from the "lunch time pop quiz club" pleading for leniency regarding the book report on "War and Peace."  One was particularly touching, "I am only a 2nd grader, and that book is huge, I can't even lift it up."

Next thing you know we are playing "Words with Friends" together.  It is terrible how badly she beats me, sometimes she makes up words, and the app lets her, because even the guys at Zynga are terrified of her.  Once she had used every square on the board, and made "legal words" everywhere.*

But, she is a good friend and we quit smoking together, and that is a very strong bond.  I hope she doesn't make me clean the erasers, it was just a joke, And I think the world of her, you are great, Emma, (not her real name).  Now, I need to tidy up my notebooks, and study my history, a little.



*Really, it is a friendly game between equals, she is just a lot more equal, that's all.  She does not need to cheat to beat me.

To J, a wildly wonderful, mildly powerful superhero.

Two years ago, today, I quit smoking.  To me, it was a momentous day, a little frightening, but exhilarating, liberating, a day that I had longed for, but had never been quite ready to accept.  Something happened, that year, though, that made me feel like I could finally end the expensive, smelly relationship.  Maybe, somewhere inside, I knew that on the plains of Canada a remarkable person was also getting ready to put aside the foul things.

She travels the internet under the alias of J, and claims to have mild superpowers.  It seems, to me, that one of those superpowers is the ability to cover any situation, no matter how rancorous, with humor, and charm, and wit, sweetness, kindness, and tolerance.  And the way she handled tough situations was far beyond mildly superior.

I met J on the same forum as Frank, (http://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2013/07/replacing-old-friend.html).   It was a place of refuge, and comfort, when things got tense and a cigarette was sounding pretty tasty there would always be someone around to talk you down.

Anytime you get that many people together who only have one thing in common there is going to be some tension.  Also, people who have recently quit smoking can be a little irritable anyway, needless to say there were flare ups, and a little animosity at times.  And sometimes people got a little mean.

  Imagine a forest, dry, crackling tinder everywhere, a hot wind blowing from the south.  Soon, one wrong word strikes an exposed nerve, and there is a spark.  See how quickly the flames spread from tree to tree?  It is a terrible, horrifying conflagration, swirling winds are carrying sparks, and there seems to be no hope. Just when the monstrous thing is about to erupt and engulf everything in it's path, you hear a voice, filled with hope.

"Look, up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane."  No, it's J riding a wave of good will and cheerfulness, coming to smother the anger, and hurt feelings.  It was an amazing thing to see., here comes this Canadian woman, with some indescribable, mild superpowers, who pours a mixture of honey, caramel and whipped cream all over the anger and the hurt, turning an explosive, lethal situation into a delicious chocolate sundae, then you have seen J, working her magic.

For many who recently quit dreams about smoking are pervasive, and disturbing.  Discussing those dreams on the forum was risky, and best avoided.  One time this poor soul made the mistake of mentioning a smoking dream at the wrong moment, and several ex-smokers turned angry, and things were looking bleak.  On cue, in flies J, to tell the story about how shortly after quitting she had this realistic dream about smoking, and how happy it made her, she could smoke all she wanted without ever lighting up.  Every night in her dreams she could smoke away, without risk, or cost.  It was a masterful ploy, and it brought a tear to many an eye.  It didn't turn into the summer of love after that, but nobody could argue with her logic.  And peace returned to the kingdom.

So, here's to you J.  I raise a Moosehead and a shot of Canadian Club to your health.  Maybe, if you have a free afternoon you could take care of the troubles in the Middle East, I am sure you will still be home in time for dinner.

Shoe shopping, and other war stories.

Over the weekend my wife and I went to the mall to pick up her sunglasses.  She is very practical, and frugal, so getting her to buy prescription sunglasses took considerable salesmanship, endless arm twisting, and the right sale, or at least the right sale.  She said they were very comfortable, she looked charming and pretty in them, and she could see, even in daylight.  She was flush with achievement, and ready for a new challenge.  "Hey, let's go over to Von Maur and look for some shoes," she said.

"Sure, that sounds easy, why not?"  I knew there were a lot of good reasons, but, she is my wife, and sometimes you need to sacrifice.  So, we went.

It started pretty innocently, there were not many people (it was early) so I braved the inner area, feeling brave, invincible, immortal.  Things were smooth, and I was flying high.  "Let's go look in the "bargain room," she said, an evil twinkle in her eye.

"Sure."  But, as I got closer, I smelled the carnage, decay, death coming from inside, and said, "I'll just wait out here."  Quickly finding a chair towards the edge of the department, with my back to the wall, and good lines of vision, I sat down.  It was ideal, nobody could sneak up behind me, and I could keep all of the shoe shoppers in sight.

Off to one side was a group, maybe 4 or 5, shopping together, for safety probably.  One of the women was wearing a dress (a flowery mid length number with a flutter hem) and decided a pair of cowboy (cowgirl?) boots would compliment it nicely.  Standing in front of the mirror and admiring the boots and dress together, she asked, "What do you think of this look?"

Most of her friends were pretty supportive, but one, an older, angry looking woman (who had been slamming down the complimentary coffee, right out of the carafe) in a pink jump suit with a flowered belt, and matching purse said, "those boots, that dress, and makeup, you look like you should work the evening shift at the I-74 Holy Diesel Truck-o-Rama. (where your 5th truck wash is always free)."

That is the wrong thing to say to a woman with such easy access to pointy healed shoes.  The woman
in the dress grabbed a Charles David Sway Pump, (only $129.95, compare to $195.00) shrieked at a pitch that would have disrupted the sonar echo location of bats, leaped into the air and landed a glancing blow to the temple of the caustic woman in the pink jump suit.  She saw what was coming and grabbed some Jessica Simpson Roxee Platform Sandal (on sale for $59.95, down from $70.00), and while wiping a small trickle of blood from her cheek started circling the woman in the dress.

By now, other shoppers had started to form a circle around the combatants, and a low, guttural chant was starting to pulse, like a wave, from the crowd, "shoes, shoes, shoes, winner gets the shoes."  Some of them were holding lit torches, (where did they get those?) and there was a vendor selling shots of cranberry vodka, and brie, with water crackers.

Soon, all of the women were wrestling for shoes, and the floor was littered with little nylon socks, and flip flops.  It was a dystopian view, filled with anger, and hate, and then one woman, stopped pounding another woman's head on the floor and said, "your dress would look so cute with those Steve Madden Palet Gladiator Sandals, (only $49.95, noramllyShoe $89.00).

All of the women turned toward each other and started helping pick out shoes, and purses, soon they were headed to casual wear, and beach attire.  Followed by the sounds of distant, disturbing drumming.

My wife found some shoes she liked, but missed the show.  Poor girl.

Independence, and the right to a long weekend.

For the past several years the Constitution has been used as proof of substance on a wide variety of views.  Everybody is quick to discuss how this very old document provided the rights for all sorts of behavior, or intolerance of behavior.  Don't get me wrong, I love the Constitution, and almost all of the Amendments.  I am not too crazy about 18, but since 21 trumped that, I am at peace with the whole thing.  Here is where my problem lies.  Yes, the constitution is a fantastic work, and it is amazing that people could have been that prescient so many years ago, they clearly could not think of everything.

Today is a perfect example.  Yesterday we, as a nation, celebrated our independence.  It was a national moment of pride and joy, remembering how we broke the bonds of tyranny, and subjugation.  Most of us did this with a few frosty beers, some meat cooked on a grill, and watching a few things explode. Honoring our forefathers, giving thanks for our freedom, without all of the discomfort of ceremony, or substance.  However, had our forefathers been aware of the demands of the modern corporate work week they would have changed the Declaration of Independence to read "The First Monday in July," instead "July 4th, 1776"  Thereby insuring an extra three day weekend every year.


It might be time for a new amendment, a three day weekend amendment.  And trust me, the founding Fathers enjoyed a few beers, now and again, they wouldn't mind.

My Mother, I hope she isn't watching.

It is Independence Day and that makes it a perfect day to post a small tribute to my Mother.  She was an independent old cuss if ever there was one.

She lived through the loss of two sons, her sister (a woman who was so close my children called her Aunt Grandma when they were young) and her beloved husband.  She raised my little sister and me single handedly.  Through all of this she never complained, looked for sympathy, or, lost her sense of humor.

When she got older her eyesight began to fail, it was a disease that was complicated by smoking.  So, she quit.  In her 80's after decades of smoking she put them aside, and never looked back.  Sure, she fussed, and compained, and griped, but, my wife and I both believe she was very proud, and so were we.  

Eventually, age caught up to her, and she passed away.  In many ways, I think she was ready, though, her children certainly were not.  

As one last example of her humor, she told my little sister that she was supposed to tell everyone that she died because they made her quit smoking.  She always had to have the last word.

Old habits, and new revenue streams.

Everybody knows that smoking is a dangerous addiction, and the physical, and psychological hold can be difficult to break, certainly.  But, it is also a habit, part of a pattern of behavior that becomes natural, ingrained, part of every day life.  It becomes a rote, another process that runs automatically, finish a task, celebrate with a smoke, getting ready to start a big project, better have a quick cigarette, fresh cup o' coffee, light  a fresh butt.  It just happens, often times without thought.

To quit it is important to change things, rearrange days, create new patterns, and habits.  My first work cigarette was lit right after I arrived.  Right away, I would light up, and then get on with my day.  I needed to change my routines, and find new things.

At the time I had a phone with wifi, and a very good camera (the Kin phone discussed in this post http://tim-thingsastheyare.blogspot.com/2013/04/somber-sort-of-happy-kind-news.html).  I installed my work email and my new habit was taking pictures and emailing them to coworkers.  Many times I would take a picture of their desk, and send it to them with a question "A little late, this morning?"  "It is 7:00 AM, do you know where your coffee cup is?"

It might help to explain that I am normally one of the first to arrive at work (and one of the first to leave, of course).  This aids these sorts of things immensely.

One day I pulled my ultimate email prank.

Nice Monkey

I took this wooden gorilla hanging around down by my co-worker, keeping him safe, watching his back


And hung it like this, using a small art program, "Paint" to add the "X" es to it's eyes, and I added a note saying,

Even nice monkeys can run into problems.

"If you don't want this sort of thing happening to all of your hanging, wooden gorillas leave $5.00 on John's computer keyboard.  Come alone, and don't tell the cops!"  The real genius part of the plan was, I sent it from my computer!  Just so I would get credit, and maybe $5.00.  It saddens me to say, my co-worker, Bil (if anybody from the ASPCA would like to know) did not pay the money, he would rather leave wooden animals to their fate than give up a little coin.


You see, quitting is a process, and you have to make sacrifices, but not $5.00.

Revenge is a dish best served with a $10.00 reward.

Where I work  there used to be a mug that had the universal sign for no smoking   After I quit smoking  that mug quickly became my favorite.  Hot, delicious coffee, a pat on the back and a moral stand all in one neat little package.

One day, Dr. Dawg decided to see if there was any spare food on my desk.  He does this by putting his big dog paws right on the desk and sniffing around, sometimes, if there is a promising odor he will actually lick the desk.  On this particular day he knocked my "No Smoking Allowed" mug on the floor and broke it in to little pieces.

So, I have taken the liberty of putting a hit out on the criminal Dawg.  Keep your eyes open, there might be ten bucks in it for you.

Say hello to Frank, a new friend.

I warned you that this month was going to be a long, sometimes terrible, sometimes boring tribute to me, all because I quit smoking.  Here is the first post, it is about a man I admire, a lot.

There are many reasons people smoke, none of them justify the prohibitive cost, or, the enormous risk.  Yes, there are people who live long, more or less healthy lives smoking.  And there are people who survive train wrecks, plane crashes and gunshot wounds, who wants to roll those dice?

Smoking was a friend, to me, an old, dear friend, who was always there, as long as I had the money, and a light, and a place to smoke, that was all that was needed.  There are people who would dispute this, and say, "well, it was only a chemical reaction triggered by the addictive toxins in the smoke."  Maybe, but, hey, they should get their own blog.

Anyway, if I wanted to quit, one key would be to replace an old friend, with some new friends.  I did this by joining a smoking cessation forum.  It was a great place, and offered unlimited support, and sound, researched advice and methods all designed to help you succeed.

In the forum, you join a group of people who quit the same month as you, and that becomes your main line of help, though there are plenty of other options, and most people take advantage of more than one.  In my group, there was a gentleman, named Frank, he was like the guardian angel of our little family.

Frank seemed to be omnipresent, when somebody was going through difficulty here came Frank.  A few kind words, a small bit of advice, and a breath of fresh air, delivered with the compassion of Alan Alda, with the brevity of John Wayne.  We all admired Frank.  He was the man.

I had to know more, so I read his first post, and looked into his forum past a little.  It turns out smoking has cost Frank almost everything.  But, you couldn't tell.  I will not go into his health, mostly out of respect for the man.  But, I will say, with all he has been through and goes through his offers of friendly support and advice are even more amazing.

Some time ago Frank started a journal on the forum, where he talks about the costs associated with smoking, costs he understands so well.  His posts are powerful, and his pain comes through in elegant, short sentences, delivering reason after reason after reason to quit smoking.  There is no end to the dangers of smoking, and most of them have visited Frank, and when he details them, people listen.  His suffering and pain, offered as incentive.

He shares his agony, and his fears so freely to help others.  And then he apologizes, he does not want to sound like a complainer.  But, people respond to Frank, he is an icon on the forum now, and I consider him a friend and an inspiration.

ComFest, an explosion of fun, and rain.

Every summer in Columbus, there is a celebration, called ComFest (Community Festival, personally I don't think much of the name, it sounds too military, and official, "Commander, move the threat level to ComFest 3," but they never asked me).   This was our first visit, despite living here for over 20 years.  We really didn't know what to expect.

So many times these things are so disappointing, so filled with stress, tension, conflict, turmoil, it is like a walk through your worst high school memories, with a plastic glass of beer, which might have made high school better, (maybe I should pitch that idea to the local school board, think of the profits) except for the the hangovers, and all of the vomiting children, maybe that idea needs a little work.

Personally, I didn't expect too much, my wife is more of an optimist, (she still thinks I might turn out all right, poor, confused girl) so she was upbeat and happy.  If I found something a little silly, a little pretentious, something  that might make me feel little superior, I would have felt it was a success.  My wife was hoping for fun, entertainment, and a little release from everyday life.  We found a place to park and walked over.  Who would be right?

As we approached the park a cyclist was being put into an ambulance, blood running from his nose, his split lip and cut under his eye.  He was agitated, and seemed more than a little angry.  It was unclear what had happened, (it might have been a fight, or a wreck) but it seemed like a bad omen.  Still, we were there.  Might as well check it out.

It would be simple to find the flaws in a undertaking so ambitious as this.  But, there is a real feeling of community in this festival.  It is a diverse, colorful, noisy, community, with variety, and spirit, and a flare for fashion.  A community that does not minding getting wet, within limits.  There were people of all shapes, walking around, a careful dance, simple, casual, friendly and respectful.

Essentially, this was an anarchist's dream, cheerful, friendly chaos.  There was no order, no reason, just a wild, tangled mass of humanity, many people strolled casually through waves of music, and enjoying themselves.  Others were sitting up little communities, and talking amicably.  Lining the streets surrounding the event were vendors selling tie dye shirts, handmade jewelry, hand woven hats, and scarfs, and with the music in the background I understood what Garland Jeffreys meant when he sang "all due respect to art for art's sake."  It was almost magic.  And there was food, a lot of food, which, thanks to rains that were almost biblical, I didn't get to try.

There was a basketball game (that kept going after the rains came), a person walking a ferret (or something like a ferret, what am I a zoologist), people throwing a frisbee, who didn't mind a bit when people strolled through.  Music filled the air, music in all varieties, and it was a happy event.  In 100 meters you could walk from the blues, through some metal, into acoustic folk music, and all of it was enjoyable.  And we were only there for about an hour and a half, until the rains came, and drove us away.

When we were too wet to ignore the discomfort we left, walked a short way, found a restaurant with an open table and a ROOF, and had some food.

Nancy and Susan looking splendid in
Red ponchos and their cups.

A small warning;  This might be a good time to mention we probably would not have even thought about going, but a friend of ours asked us to come down.  She is a wonderful person, and she was part of a forum I joined almost two years ago when I quit smoking.  The month of July is going to be a celebration of the accomplishment, (or at least as long as I can dream up new true stories) with tales of the friends made along the way, the amazing trip we took together, and my gratitude to each of them.  For now, I will introduce Susan, everyone please say hello to Susan.  But, there will be much more about her later.  She will object to parts of it, but most of it will be true, and all of it will be flattering.

Bil, and Brian, (in the middle) a little angry, and they
always seem so nice.

Plus, a brief upadate;  For those of you who thought Bil was only an undefeated chess boxer, and Brian was just a gardener extraordinaire, well, think again.  They are both accomplished, widely respected and well recognized musicians, too.  Here is the proof.  There are copies of the Columbus Alive with their band on the cover for sale in the lobby, so grab several, they make wonderful gifts.  Particularly for people who like pictures of Bil and Brian frowning and looking surly.