Here we are : the human race—an unfathomably ginormous population ( which, by the way, is still growing !).
How ginormous are we right now?
Let’s put this into a few perspectives.
I—The “Wall” of People
Image 01 :
A crowd of 1 Million people
IMAGE SOURCE : Michael Powell and Michael Cooper—Day’s Campaigning Shows an Inverted Political Plane—2008-10-18,, https://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/19/us/politics/19campaign.html, Photo : Damon Winter/The New York Times
Let’s take this photo, for example.
For the sake of establishing any number of variables to forecast any number of scenarios, let’s pretend that we have three parameters to work with :
[1] The physical size of the photograph is three inches wide by two inches tall—a simple rectangle at 3″ x 2″;
[2] the photograph represents a quantity of one million ( 1,000,000) people.; and
[3] the population of the entire planet is estimated to be approximately 7.5 billion people!
If 1 billion equals “1,000 millions”, then, a population of 7.5 billion would equal 7,500 of these photographs!
Spread out evenly that roughly equates with 86 photographs ( columns) wide by 86 photographs ( rows ) tall.
That would “build a wall” that would be approximately 21 feet wide by 14 feet tall!
Image 02
The Wall of People
IMAGE SOURCE :
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21 feet by 14 feet might not exactly sound like a “mountain”, but when you consider that each 3″ INCH x 2″ INCH rectangle equates to one million people, and you stand back and look not only at how many people are squeezed into that tiny 3″ x 2″ space, but also multiplied by the 7,499 repeats of that same photo is just so mind-boggling as to how ginormous that is—7,500 millions on that wall!
That’s how many people that are on this planet right now, at this very minute.
…and….we’re still growing larger every day!
I—The “Roll Call” and “Chow Lines” of People
A “wall” of people sounds purely academic and statistical, and completely devoid of the humanity of the people in that group.
In contrast, would be the “line” of people waiting to be attended to, in some personally important way such as in the acquisition of [a] necessities ( e.g., food, shelter, clothing, healthcare, and education being among the most obvious examples) ; as opposed to [b] luxuries ( such as, yachts, gambling binges in Las Vegas, $200,000 sports cars; jewelry or breast enhancement for a man’s loved one, or even lavish vacations drowning in the most “depraved” of social debaucheries in the most private and expensive of hedonistic resorts catering exclusively to the upper echelons of society).
For instance, as far as necessities are concerned, we all need food to eat, so, let’s pretend that it’s “breakfast time” and everyone lined upin a single file line to get served in the cafeteria—much like the soup kitchen food lines of the Great Depression of 1930’s American life.
Unfortunately, there’s only one food worker available to serve the hungry population of seven billion people, so there can be only one line.
How long would that line be? How many miles would a line of 7.5 billion people stretch out to be?
You’re not going to believe your eyes until you see the math!
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1.3 million miles! Specifically, 1,325,757.58 Miles!
Seriously! Do the math.
Let’s start with the amount of personal spaceeach person occupies, while standing in that line.
Image 03 :
The Space Each Person Occupies
IMAGE SOURCE :
The typical person—in profile—occupies approximately 12 to 18 inches of space regardless of their height.
For the purposes of the calculation I went with the more conservative (i.e. lower ) of the two “extremes” ( 12 Inches / 1 Foot ).
If I had used the 18″ figure, it would make my case even stronger because the line would be 50 percent longer!
Image 04
People Equal Feet
Image Source :
Second, is the principle that since each person occupies a nice round number such as “one foot”, that makes the math all that much easier.
Ergo, if “people equal feet” then 20 people equals 20 feet.
Image 05
5,280 feet in one mile = 5,280 People Per Mile
IMAGE SOURCE :
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To keep things in round numbers, we’ll even shave off the “.5” in 7.5 billion, and just call it an even seven billion.
Lastly, if people equal feet then seven billion people equals seven billion feet.
If we know that there are 5,280 feet per file, and we divide our seven billion feet ( or people ) by 5,280, we’ll produce the number of miles in seven billion feet.
The calculation and answer :
7,000,000,000 / 5,280 = 1,325,757.58 !
That’s 1.3 million miles!
Miles ! Not feet. And, millions, not thousands!
The population of China would generate a line of almost 190,000 miles all by itself!
So would India’s—since both have exceeded a billion people in their population levels.
Put them together and their portion of the line would be just under 400,000 miles at 380,000 miles—essentially one fourth of the world’s population by just two nations.
But, seven billion feet equals 1.3 million miles!
I just can’t wrap my mind around that number; that distance.
They don’t even manufacture consumer cars that would last the entire journey and go the distance.
If you bought a brand new car ( American : GM, Ford, Chrysler; Asian : Kia, Hundai, Honda, Toyota ; or European : Nercedes Benz, BMW, Bentley, Rolls Royce, Fiat, Lambourghini, etc ) right now, that vehicle would break down ( to the point of having to junk it and buy another brand new car ) long before you were even a fraction of way done with the journey.
But if they did manufacture such durable, long-lasting and dependable equipment, and you drove from the start of the line to the very last person at the end of the line, the chart below shows how many people you would have seen at each given milestone.
Image 06 : Milestones
IMAGE SOURCE : Screenshot From Excel
1—The Milestones
a—Every Mile
For every mile ( 5,280 feet of distance ) of people in that line, you are seeing a quantity of 5,280 people; two miles, 10,560 people; three miles, 15,840 people, and so forth.
b—Every 10, 100 and 1,000 Miles
After ten miles, you would have seen 52,800 people.
100 miles? 528,000 people!
A thousand miles? You would have seen “only” 5.28 million people—a long way away from 7.5 billion!
Even after a thousand miles—a thousand miles!—of seeing face after face, you’re still not even one percent of the way to 7.5 billion!
Keep on going!
c—At 10,000 Miles
At 10,000 miles, ( almost half way around the planet—the earth’s circumference being around 25,000 miles at the equator ) you would have seen 52,800,000 people, which is stillless than one percent of the world’s population—half way around the planet, and you haven’t even scratched the surface in that there’s more than 99 percent of the population you still haven’t seen!
Not there yet. Nope. Keep on going!
-10K—————————————————-
d—At 100,000 Miles
At 100,000 miles ( that’s like the line going completely around the planet four complete times), you will have seen 528 million people—and that’s only seven percent of the world’s population.
At 100,000miles of faces, you have still not seen 93 percent of the line!
Onward. Keep on going!
—100K————————————————–
c—At 1,000,000 Miles
Finally, at 1 million miles, you will have seen 5,280,000,000 people—approximately 75 percent of the world’s population.
But even at one million miles, you would not yet have reached the end of the line; you’d still have another 325,000 miles ( more than a quarter of a million miles ) to go.
Yep. Keep on going!
Finally, somewhere around mile #1,325,757.58, you would see the last person standing in line.
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2—The Extremes of the Distance
There are two aspects of the line’s length : [1] how far it would stretch; and [2] how long it would take you to travel the length of the line.
Let’s further pretend that you’re a general in the army, and you looking over all your troops as they line up in single file for roll call before reporting to the mess tent for breakfast.
As far as the length is concerned…
As a general, you jump into your jeep and drive along the line and wave to your troops as you slowly drive by.
Some notable thoughts on just how long that line really would be, consider the following bullet points ;
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a—The line would circle the planet a little over 53 times
If you calmly, vacation-like, drove non-stop at 60 miles per hour, from the beginning of the line to the end, it would take you 22,095.96 hours to make the trip, which translates into 920.67 days which is about two and a half years.
Stopping for gas countless times would certainly stretch that out even longer.
By the time you drove to the end of the line and back, you would be at least five years older.
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d—Time to travel the distance in….an emergency vehicle
Calculation : 1,325,757.58 miles / 100 mph = 13,257.58 hours ( 552.40 Days ) 1.51 Years
If you drove a bit faster at, say, 100 miles per hour ( e.g., an emergency vehicle rushing to the scene of an accident) you could shave that down to 13,257.58 hours, which is essentially 552.4 days, or 1.51 Years.
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e—Time to travel the distance in….a jet
Calculation : 1,325,757.58 miles / 500 mph = 2,651.52 hours ( 110.48 Days ) 0.30
Even at 25,000 miles per hour in a rocket ship, it would still take you two solid days to reach the end of the line.
Anyone that far toward the end of the line would be screwed if they needed emergency assistance requiring attention within minutes—or an hour at the absolute latest—since even a rocket ship’s 2-day “expedited” trip couldn’t get there in time.
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Image 13 : Spreadsheet : Vehicle-Time Comparisons
CHART SOURCE : Excel Spreadsheet
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That’s a long time—because that’s a long distance…because that’s a lot of people!
3—The Extremes of the Quantity
During Roll Call, even if no traveling was required, and each person stepped up to a fixed point in front of the General to shout out their rank and name and say “Here!”, and immediately walked away to allow the next soldier to do the exact same thing, at a rate of one soldier per second, how long would it take to take roll call of seven billion soldiers?
At one every second, that wold mean it would take seven billion seconds to roll call seven billion soldiers.
How long is seven billion seconds?
Again, you’re not going to believe your eyes….
….until you see the math.
IMAGE SOURCE : Screen shot of Excel Spreadsheet
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222 Years to do a roll call of seven billion soldiers at one every second!
Every second(!) …and it would still take more than two centuries!
That’s how many people are on this planet right now : 1.3 million miles long that would take two centuries plus two more decades and two more years to do a head count with.
And that’s just seven billion—not the 7.5 billion the population really is!
7.5 billion is actually far more accurate—and frightening!….and another 20-plus years of counting people
And 8 billion ?
Just around the corner, my friends. Plus, yet another 20 years of counting
So, the problem is actually worse than the “rosy” picture I’ve painted with the slightly lower population total of 7 billion I used, instead of the 7.5 billion figure I could—and perhaps, should—have used.
I was just trying to keep the math simple while still getting my point across about just how unfathomably huge a population of 7 or 7.5 billion people really is.
But at seven billion, we’re already in the “greater-than-two-centuries” range to do a one-at-a-time census, head count, or roll call with.
And THAT is just “roll call”! Period!
That does NOT include the line up for breakfast; then another lineup a few hours later for lunch; and yet, another in the late afternoon or early evening for dinner.
So far, we have four lineups at approximately 222 years each to satisfy the needs of the people lining up for whatever hand out they’re in line for.
222 times four equals 888 years.
And those four lines are just for meals and the roll call! That’s it!
That does NOT account for: [1] Housing needs [2] medical visits; [3] education attendance; or even [4] each person’s individual preferences are for leisurely activities—i.,e., we can’t all be forced to “enjoy” the exact same leisurely activities and be given, say, a deck of playing cards and told, “That’s your passion now. You will like the exact same thing everyone else enjoys…” or something to that effect.
Although many will crave watching or playing team sports such as baseball, basketball, football, hockey and soccer, some might prefer the more individualized sports of car racing or golfing, while yet others might not have the slightest interest at all in any sports whatsoever, and instead might prefer to indulge in binge-watching something on TV, or listening to music or the painting on canvases or learning the sculpting arts, or maybe watching a magician or buying from a florist, or maybe learning the martial arts or knitting or cooking or gambling or fishing or DJ’ing or interior decorating or gardening or…you-name-it.
Lining up for the roll call and three meals every day would be the first 888 years of processing program recipients ( with only one person serving them ) , another 888 years to satisfy the housing assignments, doctor visits, educational sessions, and the assignment of “toys”, for a total of over 1,700 years of serving people in a one-at-a-time-every-second kind of way.
You can easily see why we need more than one person pitching in at any given time on any given project.
There’s a lot of people ( more than 99 percent of the seven billion people on the planet ! ) needing a lot of assistance!
For the most part—with plenty of exceptions, I’m sure—I feel that any endeavor involving only one (or very few people) proactively working toward a goal, is likely going to take decades, centuries, or even a millennium to complete, when it’s quite possible—and likely—that with an entire team of people working on it, might take only hours, days, weeks, a few months, or even a year, or two, to solve the problem!.
That’s my hypothesis, anyway. The fewer the people working, the longer the time to complete the task of solving problems.
And speaking of problems : there are plenty to solve. We have war, poverty, hunger, disease, crime, corruption, ignorance, apathy, estrangement, natural disasters, and, yes, even unfortunate accidents that aren’t anyone’s fault.
Multiply any problem by seven billion, then, multiply that figure by the number of possible problems, and I promise you, you won’t run out of customers.
WE ARE UNFATHOMABLY LARGE IN SIZE, AND WE ARE DYSFUNCTIONAL AND NEEDY ( and many are greedy ) AND WE ARE HERE AND NOW AND WE’RE NOT LEAVING ANYTIME SOON!
We have problems. Yes we do. We all do.
Do you have solutions? Now’s the time to step up and prove you’re right!
If you’re not proactively part of the solution, you might as well be an active participant in the creation of ( and/or the continuation of) the problem—in other words : if you’re not going to be a “fireman”, you might as well be an “arsonist”.
If you decide to be a fireman, we got seven billion fires happening.
Get to the nearest one with your skill set and put the fire out, and be the hero you were sent to be.
Go ahead and introduce yourself to your first client/customer and say, “Hello! Nice to meet you! How can I help you?”
When you’re done there, go onto your next client and solve his, her, or their problem, as well, and repeat the process of going onto the next client, and so on, for as long as you can, being a hero to as many people as possible.
We got a lot of people in trouble and in pain; and we need every helping hand we can recruit to help.
Well, yes, they can—and are—used all the time to trick people into believing all kinds of things that aren’t really true, in the nasty game of politics.
But they can also be used to entertain.
For example…
Imagine, you saw a job ad that clearly stipulated, with bullet points, the term of the contract and the pay structure as follows:
[1] “TEMPORARY 31-Day Job. On Day 32, you will no longer have a job.
[2] No Days off—you work every day. Some days might be longer than others; longer than a standard eight-hour day.
[3] Your pay is structured as follows : You are NOT paid by the hour, but by the day.
—[a] Day ONE = $0.01. That’s it! One frickin’ penny;
( As the supervisor or foreman says, “See ya’ tommorrow morning.” fully expecting you to show up for Day TWO );
—[b] Day TWO = $0.02. That’s a 100 percent raise! You just doubled your pay for the day;
—[c] Day THREE = $0.04. another doubling of the pay for the day;
—[d] Day FOUR = $0.08. …ditto, another doubling;
—[E] Day FIVE = $0.16…and another;
…and every day afterward the pay doubles for all 31 days.
Do you take that job?
Or. do you say, “Get lost, Mutha F—R!”
Five, four, three, two, one…
Times up!
You either dodged a bullet or lost the chance of a lifetime.
What do you think just happened?
If you turned the job down, then you lost out hugely!
Don’t believe me?
Look at the chart below.
The 31-Day Job
You don’t really make any money until the 16th Day when you’ve earned more than $300 for the day; and then it just balloons from there!
By Day 23, you’ve made more than 41,000 for just that day alone—more than most individuals salaries in the working class sector.
By Day 28, you’re taking in more than a million bucks!
For one day’s work!
By the 31st? A Ten million dollar day!
Now that’s “swimmin’ pools and movie stars” ( for those with a familiarity with 1960’s sitcoms ).
IMAGE SOURCE : Bruce Mars @ https://unsplash.com/photos/cAbdf_gNxH0
For almost 20 years ( or 18 years and two months to be more precise) I became dangerously complacent in my station in life in that the job I had, paid enough to cover the bills but not enough to save for retirement or plan for emergencies— i.e., from a financial perspective, it was all “hand-to-mouth”, so to speak.
I know, that was not too smart on my part; but, then again, I never made any claims that I was an “Einstein” in the ways of life.
In any case, in July of 2016, my boss of 18-plus years announced the he was closing the doors for good, and that it was time for us all to start looking for new jobs.
Being in my fifties and without a PhD or a masters degree in anything ( I’m not a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist or a certified public accountant or any other kind of “professional” ) I knew that I was going to run into the problem of :
[1] age discrimination—that is, being “too old” to fit in with the young-and-vibrant company culture of most organizations with young people at the helm of the human resource departments; and
[2] “knowledge” discrimination—not having any advanced degrees in anything ( even though I’ve seen plenty of pandemically-related YouTube videos that showed many middle-aged people who did have those otherwise highly-sought credentials and who still encountered age discrimination in their job searches) .
Having neitheryouth nor credentials, I knew I was going to be in for a rough—and likely, very long—ride.
Being both “old” and “uncredentialed” was a double-edged sword for which I had no shield ( e.g., wealthy parents or a business-owning buddy who could give me a mortgage-paying job ) to protect myself with.
Like most people in this world, I was on my own to fend for myself.
1—My Telos
Although it would be about 40 years past the time I should have done this, I realized that I needed to find my “telos” which is a Greek word meaning “ultimate object or aim “, which is all too often erroneously associated with one’s passion or hobby, when it has nothing to do with that in most cases.
One of the best clarifications I found on this term was actually on a sitcom; in this case, on Tim Allen’s “Last Man Standing”, in Season 3, Episode 8, titled, “Vanessa Fixes Kyle”, where Venessa talks Mike into giving Kyle a job selling boats, which he ends up sucking at—it wasn’t his forté, or his “telos”, as they say.
To make his point, Mike—doing his vlog—explains the story of a friend of his who wanted to be an actor, and who spent years trying to get his foot in the door of Hollywood, but the closest he could come to that goal was doing one single Radio Shack® commercial, and never advanced beyond that fluke of an opportunity.
But….
As a self-employed landscaper, his friend found a ton of prosperity that he never achieved ( and never would ) being an actor.
Thus, acting may have been his passion, but landscaping was, in fact, his telos .
Once his friend realized that, he was a much happier person.
Of course, to add a joke into the mix, Mike also throws in the quip that an oak tree’s “telos” is to become someone’s wooden desk—but don’t tell the oak tree that. LOL.
To be able to pay my bills long term—without going from one job that I wasn’t meant for, to the next job I wasn’t meant for, I needed to find my telos—and soon!
Not realizing that I needed to begin that long-overdue journey, I blindly continued to look at what my non-telos “opportunities” were, which ended up being : [1] becoming a minimum wage grunt; ; [2] skilled laborer or blue collar worker; or [3] pointlessly continuing searching for another customer service job ( like the one I just had been laid off from).
A—Option #1 : Minimum Wage Jobs
Unfortunately, for me, Option #1 wouldn’t even pay half of my bills, so, that wasn’t really an “option”, if I wanted to keep my home.
Fast Food Worker
IMAGE SOURCE : Александр Марко @ https://www.dreamstime.com/man-bright-t-shirt-giving-fast-food-order-isolated-white-background-male-courier-worker-holding-home-delivery-goods-image156192562
Plus, minimum-wage jobs tend to inflict non-standard schedules on employees—that is, since one job at minimum wage won’t, by itself, pay the bills, a second job becomes absolutely necessary ; but…unfortunately, many low-paying jobs have their employees working NON-Standard schedules—e.g., days this week, evenings, the next week, and overnights the week after.
Having a second job becomes impossible since you could never really guarantee your second employer that you could work the hours that he or she needs you.
Thus, in minimum-wage jobs, it is all too often the case that the first jobguarantees that you can’t work a second job .
You can’t possibly pay your bills under those circumstances.
Ergo, “Option” #1 is not an option at all!
B—Option #2 : Skilled Laborer or Blue Collar Jobs
Option #2, really wasn’t a realistic choice, for three reasons.
Carpenter
IMAGE SOURCE : Jana Sabeth @ https://unsplash.com/photos/oQQEXoG8Oqc
[1] most of the unionized trades won’t accept unskilled/untrained labor over a certain age. For instance, when I tried to get into the electricians’ program back in the late 1980’s/early 1990’s, they told me the cutoff point was 27 years of age, which was about where I was at, at that time. Now? I’m 30 years past that point being 57-going-on-58 years old—so, I’m pretty confident that I’d get even more rejected now;
[2] Moreover, I’m not really mechanically inclined. Specifically, for example, also back in the late 1980’s, when I briefly worked with a friend’s friend, who just happened to be a self-employed electrician, I did just fine with pulling wire through conduit and wiring up switches and outlets, but when he tried to get me to bend pipe, I couldn’t get a single piece to be fabricated to the specifications he instructed me to achieve—I either cut the conduit too short, or bent the pipe at the wrong place or at the wrong angle; and, even after practicing on an entire bundle of 1/2″ EMT pipe, I didn’t get a single piece right. Not one! He also did some light plumbing work, which I was also not very good at. When I took a brief job as a laborer on a demolition site, I almost removed my boss’s knee caps when he came up behind me when I was just about to swing a 20-pound sledge hammer into a section of a lathe-and-plaster wall. So, it’s actually fortunate for me, and my would-be employers, that I’m not employed in any mechanically-related occupations since I’d likely be far more of a dangerous liability than a productive asset; and finally,
[3] I’m not physically fit to handle any physically strenuous labor. Being a cancer survivor, I endured the three-tiered treatment of chemo, radiation, and tumor-removing surgery, all of which left me easily fatigued. Thus, for example, if I had to carry a bundle of roofing shingles on my shoulder up a ladder onto a roof, I’d likely get winded or possibly even dizzy enough to fall off the ladder—or worse, my fear of heights might trigger me into fainting (LOL) once I looked down ; or, even carrying something heavy on level ground for a significant distance could cause me to have to sit down momentarily and catch my breath—something no employer, or any hard-working employees, would have much patience for.
So, having neither mechanical common sense nor physical stamina, being a physical laborer ( unionized or not ) would not be an “ideal” occupational choice for me—or, the people I’d be otherwise working with.
C—Option #3 : Customer Service / Parts Counter Jobs
Finally, Option #3, was my only choice left—but that would leave me right back to where I started from : trying to get a job in the customer service / parts counter environment which is going to be either in a small, “mom and pop”-owned and operated establishment that’s likely destined to go out of business in the next two to five years, or be owned by a major corporation, whose human resource departments were likely to be staffed by young people not looking to hire older people, such as myself.
This was quite a pickle to be in. I needed an answer to a possible fourth option.
Then, I found one—maybe.
D—Option #4 : Writer
“Hmmm. That might be an interesting option to consider.” I thought to myself when I first encountered the idea.
But what kind of writer?
Well, that’s the challenge that I’m confronted with.
Writer
IMAGE SOURCE : Dan Counsell @ https://unsplash.com/photos/zIwAchjDirM
Do I want to write 500-page books or 5-page blog posts?
If, on the one hand, the choice is books, should I write in world of fiction or non-fiction? If the former, what genre : drama/suspense; horror; sci-fi; romance; comedy? If the latter: academic research; politics; cooking; healthy living; self-help?
On the other hand, if the choice is blog posts, should I focus on marketing products or more non-marketing introspective topics?
Writing Choices
Writing Choices
There seems to be more than one option to choose from in the realm of writing.
Some choices will produce more income than others. Which ones should I choose that meets somewhere in the middle in that it :
[a] it produces at least some income ( as opposed to none) ; and
[b] it entails things that I can find some interest in ( i.e., it’s not as boring as, say, a seminar on the difference between whole versus term life insurance ).
That is, I make some money, and I’m not bored to death doing it.
I’m not quite sure that I’m disciplined enough to write lengthy works such as a 500-page novel—although I have started a few manuscripts in that direction.
But it’s been several months since I last opened those files, if that gives you any idea of my level of commitment to those projects.
But a five-page blog post?
Hmmm. Now, that seems more like my speed!
But write about what?
II—My Three Choices In Topics to Write About: Experiences, Suggestions And Passions
A—Experiences
1—Pipe Trades
My occupational background with the most experience is in construction tool sales ( I sold pipe-fabrication tools to contractors in the pipe trades—i.e., plumbers, pipefitters, electricians, HVAC, and sprinkler contractors ).
But I’d be lying if I claimed that the pipe industry was something that I enjoyed on a personal level. It was a job; and nothing more.
I’ve never had any dreams of threading four-inch rigid pipe, or torching some copper tubing, or cutting water pipe in seconds flat with the newest whiz bang pipe cutter.
I don’t exactly have piles of magazines in my library that revolve around the topic of the pipe-fabrication industry.
To be sure, when I was employed in the field, I was excited when I received a purchase order for tools to be shipped out to a job site, and I thoroughly enjoyed “talking shop” with the purchasing agents or field supervisors who ordered the tools, or even their drivers who came to our facility to pick up their orders, but, at the end of the day, when I arrived home, I would much rather jam in a band, or write an article about the “Jetson Age” implications of the new Volkswagen Hover Car or time travel or post a less-than-complimentary meme on Facebook regarding the apparent stupidity of a given politician, or any other frivolous pursuit.
I really wasn’t interested in conversing about whether or not there’s a better standard in pipe threading than the NPT or NPSM protocols that dominate the American plumbing and electrical industries, respectively.
2—Sanitation Engineering
Janitorial Supplies
I also have another 16 years experience (although it was part-time, not full time) working in the building maintenance field from a “sanitation engineering” perspective ( i.e., janitorial ).
So, I suppose I could write for industries that cater to the businesses engaged in office building and factory maintenance. My topics could include such earth-shaking choices of paper towels versus air-blown hand dryers; brooms versus dust-mops; carpet-cleaning options; or why floor waxes can’t be butyl-based, and the like.
But experience does not automatically equate with passion. I don’t often ponder the relative merits of floor waxes from Johnson® versus Bolotin® or Zep®.
It’s very likely that I’d soon find myself being depressed having to meet deadlines writing about such topics.
Maybe not. Who knows? Perhaps I should look into it.
I’ve also worked as a Customer Service Representative and Accounts Receivable Support temp for various companies and even had a brief stint as an over-the-roadtruck driver.
And I have at least one post (possibly more pending ) pertaining to those experiences, as well.
Whatever words ( or, more specifically, rants ) that I could generate regarding those jobs would not be enough to ensure an ongoing steady stream of income, that’s for sure.
Once I was done ranting, I’d be done writing. Game over.
Summing up all my experiences outside of my “interest zone” there’s essentially little or nothing at all that I could find myself attempting to make a living at writing about.
B—Suggestions ( That I Have Neither Experience In Nor A Passion For )
I went to YouTube to see what kinds of content they pushed for their viewers and of what I saw, essentially none of it moved me in the slightest degree.
To be sure, YouTube had plenty of the content I did like; there was no shortage of that.
However, YouTube did not present that material as a “featured” element of its catalog of choices. It wasn’t even in the list
1—YouTube’s Suggestions
Among the options that YouTubedid highlight, though, were such options as :
Beauty & Fashion ( Threadbanger; Carli Bybel; Sarai Jones )
Cooking & Health ( ChefSTeps; Gordon Ramsay; Noreen’s Kitchen )
Film & Entertainment ( Grace Helbig; Amber Closet; Hair Jordan; )
To say that I found zero interest in any of those YouTube Channels, would not be entirely accurate, since my interest was actually less than zero, which I didn’t think was possible.
A far as “Beauty and Fashion” is concerned, since I’m bald, and don’t use beauty products, I wouldn’t know the first thing about them, and I would probably sound like an idiot, as best, or even an outright liar, at worst, if I commented on them trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. And although I do admit that I notice “hair styles”, per se, when it comes to cosmetics ( lip stick, rouge, eye shadow, etc) I much, much, much prefer the au naturale look ( i.e., no makeup at all ). So, “Cover Girls”/”Cosmopolitan”/”Fashion” in women or the “GQ”-types in men, are not my idea of the ideal image or persona in men or women. Some of those models in certain clothing or fragrance markets are just so bizarre looking ( like they’re from a Russian Mob, or something along those lines—“mystical”, I suppose, by, maybe, European standards ), that their image is far more likely to trigger feelings of being turned off rather than being intrigued.
I love stand up comedy ( especially the improv shows like “Whose Line is it Anyway?” or “Make Me Laugh”, both of which are no longer produced ), but shows like “Modern Family” or “The Office” or re-boots without their original actors such as “The Connors” ( without Roseanne) just don’t do anything for me. Even the numerous cast changes of “Last Man Standing” has lost a significant amount of something since moving over to Fox, and the original Mandy got replaced by the new Mandy. Moreover, judging from the comedy shows/acts that YouTube did suggest, I wouldn’t like a single one. Ergo, any comedy entertainment that Iwould like, would likely be perceived as passé. If this was the game show “Make Me Laugh”, and they used YouTube’s list of comedy choices to trigger me into laughing, there’s a good chance that I’d win every round, since none of it would even make me grin, much less laugh.
As far as sports is concerned, I haven’t followed any sports since I was a kid. As I often joke, one could ( in the middle of winter) tell me that “Just last night a sober Babe Ruth struck out on the 30 yard line in the middle of the Fourth period to win the Stanley Cup at Wimbledon”, and I wouldn’t question it. I can’t even fake an interest in it. I do my best to avoid the Monday Morning Quarterback discussions at work. If I had to write an article on sports-related topics, I’d very likely find myself just staring at the screen, wondering where to start. It’s just not my thing. It never has been outside of a two-year hobby of baseball card collecting, and some school sports ( softball and wrestling ). Outside of that, I don’t think I’ve ever read the sports sections of newspapers or magazines; I’ve never watched a nanosecond of ESPN, or any other sports channel. Like I said, it’s just not my thing.
Music
Jack Moreh @ https://www.stockvault.net/photo/182954/singer-playing-electric-guitar-stylized-looks
Music ? Especially today’s music? ( Katy Perry, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, alternative rock, metal, rap and hip hop, etc.—not one of them appeals to me in the slightest degree. I even accidentally came across a BuzzFeed video where some woman actually made the laughably presumptuous assertion that “everyone likes Beyoncé—it’s a fact”, and I thought, “Seriously? Wow! Where is she getting her data from?” If life was an episode of Jeopardy, I’d have to say, “I’ll take woefully-misinformed people for one hundred dollars, Alex.”). Yes, I admit, I have heard songs that I did like, from a few groups that I normally would have no interest in whatsoever, only to later discover disappointing things about the group, such as : the rest of their album sucked, and one song does not justify saying you “like the band”; or, they’re simply a “cover” band in that they didn’t write any their own music : penned by some writer-for-hire—writing one’s own material is a prerequisite for my respect. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing cover tunes, but if 100 percent of one’s catalog is written by people other than the artist performing the music, then that’s an automatic deal-breaker for me. In that case, I’d probably have more respect for a boy band with hairdos. I can’t see being excited about writing positive things about those groups.
Tech talk? Although I’m intrigued by scientific ingenuity as far as, say, travelingfaster than the speed of light or prosthetics for the handicapped are concerned (i.e. things that I would like to see happen—and some really amazing stuff out there) , I’m just not impressed, at all, with advances in cell phone technology ( where nobody pays attention to anyone else in the room around them anymore—with their noses constantly buried in their brightly-glowing cell phone screens ) or videosurveillance or 5G capabilities since 100 percent of those advances are designed to “improve” the ability of Big Brother to implement a 24/7/365 surveillance society which should cause far more feelings of insecurity than “security”. I could not be trusted to be a spokesman for those industries, without the client risking that I’d be a whistle-blower the very nanosecond I came across news of any kind about any government or industry using this technology to pursue an unholy agenda—I’d be shouting the news from the rooftops! That would probably make me an unwelcomed guest in their circles.
Gaming? I’ve never played a single game since it doesn’t appeal to me in the least. Actually, back in August of 1982 I did play a Miss Pac Man game on my girlfriend’s TV set. But since then? Not once! I couldn’t tell a Playstation from an XBox—nor do I have the slightest desire to learn the difference; and, as a side note type of observation, almost every kid I’ve known that isreally into gaming, seems to have an aversion to working a full-time job. It’s as though putting down the joystick or gamepad for eight hours is somewhat analogous to asking a crack addict to put down his crack pipe for eight hours : sacrilege!
Cooking? Although my wife binge watches Gordon Ramsay’s TV shows, I have absolutely no interest in any of them since “fine dining” isn’t a priority for me—that is, having the culinary palette of a teenager : hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, PBJ sandwiches, soda, etc. Moreover, when I see pictures of gourmet food’s so-called “dinners”, the portions pictured look like they wouldn’t feed a bird ( two twigs or carrots, criss-crossed on top of a 2-inch square patty of fish, sitting on a bed of beans resting on a tiny pile of sauce, with parsley thrown on top? ” Give me a F*&%ing break! I want a double bacon cheesburger plain [no condiments], with a bag of greasy french fries on the side and a 32-ounce phosphoric acid -containing, aspartame-loaded Diet Pepsi, please! Thank you!) . Fine dining is obviously not meant to “fill you up”—or even taste good. But it is designed to empty your wallet! So, my ability to portray fine-dining in a positive light or in an “ooh-la-la” manner is essentially non-existent. I’m a junk food junkie, and there’s not many writing gigs that deliberately advocate “overtly unhealthy” eating choices—like mine! Thus, out of all the topics suggested by YouTube, cooking shows and food critic blogs are probably the least likely for me to choose.
TV & MOVIES
IMAGE SOURCE : ACTRESS—–sabinemondestin @ https://pixabay.com/photos/head-shoot-business-red-black-lady-1542339/; MAN IN CHAIR—gracinistudios @ https://pixabay.com/photos/model-tv-television-series-anime-4248873/
Film & Entertainment. Today’s movies all contain underlying propagandic “social justice” messages that I have no use for, since I’m usually diametrically opposed to what the messages really mean, once you analyze all of the ramifications—most of which, are hidden and concealed; and for good reason. Plus, Hollywood’s left-wing extremist actors ( Cher; George Clooney; Leonardo DiCaprio; Meryl Streep; Jim Carey; Jeff Daniels; et al ) all voicing their ridiculously ugly hypocrisies and frequently inaccurate socialism-loving opinions on political matters has converted me into an anti-Hollywood mindset. So, there’s really nothing in the film industry that I would want to write a non-negative story about, unless the topic is the equipment and software that’s used in special effects. Those topics are fine, otherwise, the content coming out of Hollywood studios can only serve as an industry to insult, not praise.
So, all of those topics mentioned above are simply out of the question. My comments on those industries would not be sponsor-friendly ( that’s for sure ) , and my very first post ( If I truly wrote from the heart ) would go unpublished or deleted, and would very likely be my last post for that client, that’s pretty much guaranteed.
That leaves the marketing-oriented pursuits of working for clients outside of those industries—grocery stores; retail chains; doctors offices and hospitals; etc.
Enter : the internet “stars” of the blogging industry and “change-your-life” YouTube gurus whose absolutely annoying ads begin virtually every YouTube video and whose advice almost invariably involves writing market-oriented content strategies intended to fill our checking accounts with thousands of dollars in client fees allowing us all to live a life of—in the words of Robin Leach—“champagne wishes and caviar dreams”.
Among the projects they contend can land us such immense wealth are jobs like case studies, white papers, SEO Copywriting, Social Media Marketing, and a laundry list of other options not mentioned here—and even of those that are mentioned, I’m not even sure I know what those mean.
[a]—Blog-For-Money Gurus
There’s an endless parade of people blogging about how to make money blogging.
The two that once dominated my notifications lists were the two women shown in the photos below.
YouTube Videos on Blogging
The woman in the top image, Jordan Makelle, talks mostly about writing from a marketing perspective which is something I’m just not good at ( at least, not currently ), whereas the woman in the bottom image, Kat Sullivan of Marketing Solved, focuses on how to use social media to market your products or services.
They’re different perspectives on how to do different things in the same world of writing and marketing.
As a result of watching videos like these, the algorithms generated by my viewing habits, causes entities related to those industries to flood my email and plaster my internet browsers with all kinds of “get-rich-quick” schemes, where the advertisers likely rake in more money selling coursesabout an industry , than they do actually workingin the industry they profess to be experts in.
Annoying Ads The Begin Every Video
***** IMAGE SOURCE : Screenshot *******
Pretty much every YouTube video I watch annoyingly begins with an ad from some “knowledgeable”-and-benevolent guru trying to teach us all how to see the light of a “better way” of becoming financially independent.
Self-help gurus are not a new thing that came out of the internet craze. They’ve been around a long time, especially in the realm of authors who write books on the subject.
For example, back in the early to mid-1990’s, long before I surfed the internet in search of guidance in areas of self-improvement, I bought books pertaining essentially to the same ideas.
[b]—“Go-With-Your-Passion = YES” Gurus
Self-Help Books
Sinetar Book IMAGE SOURCE : Scan
One book—whose ideas I grossly misinterpreted—was titled, “Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow : Discover Your Right Livelihood” by Marsha Sinetar.
My error in reading her book was that it’s really geared toward self-employed people owning their own company as they dive into the area of their passion.
In contrast, I went to work for an employer as an employee ( huge difference…and huge mistake! ) who owned an entity whose products ( i.e., musical instruments) fascinated me.
I was making $6-per-hour with a commission structure that started out at 1 percent, and maxed out at less than 2%!
If your gross sales were “only” $20,000 for the month ( and even that was particularly difficult to achieve—especially when you lost sales all the time to the national chains who had much lower prices and better deals—and, $20,000 was closer to the one percent end of the scale than it was to the two percent end) you might—again, might!—get a $100-$200 commission check on top of your $960 gross paycheck…allminus taxes, of course!
On the one hand, I loved working in a guitar store ( my ten-hour days —10:00AM to 8:00PM ) flew by like no other job, but, on the other hand, the money certainly did not “follow” ( I was following a mirage ) , being that working 160 hours—with commission!—still netted less than a thousand dollars for the whole month!
That job definitely did not lead to a lifestyle of “swimmin’ pools and movie stars” , that’s for sure!
It may have satisfied my passion, but it certainly was not my “telos”, by any stretch of the imagination
[c]—“Go-With-Your-Passion = NO” Gurus
In direct contrast to Sinetar’s advice, was that of TV Celebrity Mike Rowe, of “Dirty Jobs”, who has several YouTube videos where he advises people to not—I repeat, not!—follow their passions.
YouTube Video on Advice on Finding Your “Telos”
To make his point, Mike uses the awesome example of the early episodes of the TV show, “American Idol”, to show how people frequently made the error of attempting to turn their avocations ( in this case, their hobby of singing) into a vocation ( a profession ).
Their auditions clearly showcased their lack of talent ( inability to sing in key ), but somehow, their love for music and/or desire to become a rock star was so intense, that they preferred the beautiful lie of an angelically-“pleasant” voice over that of the ugly truth of a demonically-grating one.
The point is : humans tend to conflate their telos with their passions, when they may have nothing to do with each other, and may, in fact, be counterproductive toward each other.
The result, of course, is that we end up being in the wrong job our whole life ( we end up having countless “woulda-coulda-shoulda” moments of regrets upon reflective analysis of the wisdom of those decisions at those points in our lives) .
In my case, it’s just more undeniable evidence against me that I was not an Einstein. MENSA never sent me an invitation, I admit that.
Not that I am an Einstein now, either, though, by the way. No such claim is being made! No, sir! I’m as flawed as they come.
Flawed or not, I need to find my “telos”───and soon!
III—CONCLUSION
In conclusion, ( at least, for now ) I’d much rather talk about the Twilight Zone than sports; or, psychedelic music instead of auto repair; or, literary publishing instead of establishing a birdhouse-building business or becoming a crossing guard in one’s retirement years.
I don’t have the slightest degree of interest in any of those subjects.
But…
The problem with my interests is that the opportunities to make a living writing on those subjects are far fewer than those that involved selling a product or service that I haven’t a salt grain’s worth of interest in.
So, I suppose while I’m indulging myself on topics that do interest me, I need to find a product, service, or cause, that I truly believe in , so that when I write about it, I feel good about what I’m saying, and the client pays me well, because he, she or they, appreciate the thoughts I type on paper or into the cyberspace of the internet.
Hopefully, this post explains why I don’t post particular topics—if it’s not because of a lack of interest, it might simply be because of a lack of knowledge, and I’m not comfortable writing on subjects above and/or beyond my intellectual experience in life, because I know how foolish people look when it’s obvious they don’t know what they’re talking about, and I don’t want to be that guy.
On that note, have a great day, and thanks for visiting this page.
—2—MY TWO ( FORMERLY THREE ) QUESTIONS REGARDING THE STORY’S VALIDITY
—–a—WHY ONLY THE DEFEOS AND LUTZES AND NOBODY ELSE?
—–b—WERE HARD DRUGS INVOLVED IN THE MASS MURDER’S CAUSE?
—–c—WHY DID THE NUMBER OF FLIES CHANGE? (ANSWERED?)
IV—A POLICY OF WHAT TYPES OF VIDEOS I AVOIDED
-A—“LOW-LIGHT” VIDEOS
-B—“INSURANCE SEMINAR” VOICE ACTORS
V—INTERESTING SCRIPTS AND INTRIGUING VOICE ACTORS THAT I DID CHOOSE
-A—“A Haunting In Georgia”
–B—“School Spirit” and “Ghosts-R-Us”
–C—“The Queen Mary”
I—Introduction : The “Unexplained”
In my life, I can honestly say that I have had experiences with the “unexplained”.
I’m not going to call them “unexplain-able“, per se, since I believe all occurrences do have an explanation behind the reasons they’ve happened; just because we less-than-omniscient human beings have not yet found the explanations, does not mean the explanations do not exist, in the first place, but simply that they have not yet been discovered and acted upon.
The three areas where I can expound on such experiences are in : [1] The death of a former landlord—who I wasn’t even that close to, personally, socially, or otherwise; [2] A precognitive dream I had; and [3] the odd occurrences in a house I grew up in, between 4th grade, and my sophomore year in high school.
A—The Maltese Factor
I forget the exact year, but somewhere between 1996 and 1998, I lived in an apartment on the old 39th Street in Lyons, Illinois.
Big-Brimmed Hat
Our landlord, was an elderly woman named Connie Maltese, who had to have been in her 80’s or better. She walked with a cane, and the clothes she wore seemed to have that late Civil War-era vibe to it, where, on occasion, she’d wear one of those large-brimmed hats, which was impossible to “not notice”.
One day, our landlord’s daughter stopped by to tell us that Connie had passed away, and that she ( the daughter ) might be considering selling the 4-unit apartment building, ( since she had no interest in being a landlord ) and that, although she was not asking us to leave, per se, but rather, as a result of her selling the building, when the current leased expired, we should expect probable changes in the terms of the lease ( i.e., the rent—with the new landlords, whoever they ended up being).
With a new landlord, it was far more likely the rent would increase than decrease; and if we foresaw any problems paying a higher rent, then, while we’re still ahead of the game, we should consider starting a search to seek out a new apartment in another building that offered rents more in line with our budget.
Connie’s daughter had no idea of what a new landlord would charge us for rent; those decisions would be completely out of her hands.
If I remember correctly, our rent—although by no means, “low”—was probably advantageously lower than similar apartments in the area.
So, “heads up”, folks!
Anyway, literally only two or three days after being informed of Connie’s passing, I was at the grocery store ( the Jewel-Osco at Harlem and 39th Street in Stickney ) and I was in the dairy section walking past the eggs and approaching the shelves where the milk was at.
There I was pushing my cart toward the milk, and as I got within 10 feet, or so, of the shelving unit where the full gallons were at, I got in front of the cart and started pulling the front of the cart behind me.
As I came to a stop, directly in front of the milk gallons, I momentarily looked up, and although it didn’t register at first, I saw a woman that looked exactly like Connie ( same age, same clothes, same smile and facial expression, same hat—she was the only woman I knew that wore that kind of “Gone With The Wind” hat 130 years out of it’s normal time frame—etc; in fact, for all intents and purposes, it was Connie! )
There she was, only about five feet away from me ( two strides in her direction and I could have touched her ! ) in the middle of the aisle, with no basket, to lean on or shop with ( and I can’t see a woman of her wobbly physical state walking around a huge store like that without a shopping cart to put even “just a few” groceries into; and she certainly would not have walked, all by herself, to the back of the store to retrieve something as heavy as a gallon of milk, especially given her uncertain physical stamina in her obviously-weakened, walking-cane-dependent geriatric state ) , but, strangely, she was just leaning forward with her cane, as though she was in motion walking, but she was completely motionless!
Just like a photograph. Completely frozen in time! No movement whatsoever!
She wasn’t looking directly at me, per se, but rather, just to my left, as though there was someone or some thing just to the left of my left shoulder that she was looking at, and she was aiming her walking direction directly at that person or thing next to me.
If I had thought of it, I should have looked to my immediate left to see who or what she was looking at. But I didn’t. In my caught-off guard moment, I just nonchalantly went about my business and continued doing my shopping.
Like I said, it didn’t register at first.
So, after ever-so-briefly looking at her, I turned to look at and reached for a gallon of milk, and as I pulled it off the shelf, it dawned on me that I had just seen Connie, and when I looked back up, there was absolutely no sign of her anywhere.
I looked around in all directions, but there was no sign of her in any direction.
There was no way she could have “disappeared” down one of the aisles in 1/16th of a second—not even an Olympic sprinter could have traveled in any direction that fast!
When I realized what had just happened, I put the milk in the shopping cart, and just stood there motionlessly, myself, staring down at the floor, somewhat disturbed by the creepiness of the impossible vision I just had.
B—My Soothsayer Dream
In one of my posts titled “Strange Dreams“, I discuss a precognitive dream I had the night before an evening where my then-girlfriend broke up with me.
Not only did all the events in my dreams, have a direct correlation to the events of the following evening, they unfolded in the exact same sequence they occurred in the dream—or, should I say nightmare.
I’ll never forget the unsettling accuracy of that nocturnal prophecy.
C—The House
Finally, in one of my earlier posts “8650 W. 44th Place, Lyons, Illinois“, I elaborated on a house ( that is no longer in existence, since it had long since been torn down and two other structures—a single family dwelling and an apartment building—built in it’s place on the property ) where I had spent the last five of my elementary school years and the first two of my high school years in.
8650 W 44th Place—01-Old
In that post, I mentioned how that house had an eerie component in that there were some strange occurrences that took place while we resided there.
Without rehashing those stories in their entirety here, suffice it to highlight two points : [1] that my two German Shepherds reacted very uneasily when in the basement of that house—they didn’t seem to mind being upstairs, but their hackles would stand straight up every time they would reluctantly go into the basement at the “request” of either my brother, or myself, where our shared bedroom was; and [2] my dad ( on only one occasion ) had experienced hearing someone talking on the intercom, when there was no one home besides himself.
II—My Google® Search For Other Stories
Despite how interesting those particular stories are to me, personally, this post is not going to be about those occurrences or that house, per se, but rather, about other places ( i.e., homes, museums, hospitals etc. ) that are also reputed to host disembodied spirits, poltergeists, and other paranormal phenomena.
Regarding such a topic, there are countless links on Google® to research from.
Google Search on Hauntings
In fact, when I typed in the word “hauntings” into the search box, Google generated 12,500,000 results.
Wow! 12 million results!
I really wasn’t convinced that I was going to have enough time to click and investigate every one of those links; nor—that even if I could—that I would be able to fit that many stories into this post. That would make for a very long page, indeed.
The alternative, of course, was to limit this post to only a select few stories, which I found to be a far-more-feasible approach.
But which links?
A—My Video Library
Well, one idea I had was to choose from those stories that I personally had video tapes on, that were also sourced online, as well.
And yes, I did say video tapes—as in VHS tapes.
Of course, I do have a DVD player, but I do not have a DVD recorder. I never had one; and I love to record every show that interests me, and that’s where my VCR comes in handy.
But I’ve always had a VCR since the early 1980’s, when they first came out; and when they did, I was a video-recording maniac! I recorded everything I could. My very first obsession was recording the syndicated reruns of M*A*S*H.
But that’s a different topic for a different post.
My point here is simply that the stories I decided to write about today, are those that I have VHS tapes on, but, that are also uploaded by someone else on the internet, whether that be YouTube or Facebook or wherever.
III—The Amityville Horror Story
The one video that I will not be focusing on in this post pertains to the well-known “The Amityville Horror” story ( not because of any “faults” in the story, per se, which is actually awesome from cover-to-cover as far as the book is concerned ) but because pretty much 100 percent of the videos (both, the Hollywood movies—i.e., the original with James Brolin, AND the re-make, with Ryan Reynolds) and the pseudo-documentaries pertaining to that story, invariably add elements that are not found in the original book, written by the late Jay Anson.
Jay Anson, Author of “The Amityville Horror ( Wikipedia )
I find the act of adding into a movie elements that are not in the book to be a crime of sorts—and, an unforgivable crime at that!
The book, however, is actually pretty awesome!
I’m sure people who worship, say, Stephen King as the “master” of horror stories, will probably assert that the movie adaptations of his books never do his books any justice, and that’s certainly true in the case of the Amityville Horror story, as well.
Once you have: [1] read the book, and then you have; [2] seen either of the two Hollywood movies, you almost automatically become offended by the absolute crap the directors incorporated into the movies—that is, totally-invented elements that simply never happened as far as the book is concerned, because they can’t be found anywhere between the covers.
But hey! The movie has to “sell”, right?
Shame on you, Hollywood! You absolutely ruin 100 percent of the stories you modify—I mean, “tell”.
The picture above shows two books, because the original ( the one on the left) which I bought back in the 1980’s, had gotten misplaced over the years, and then I went to a used book store to replace the “lost” one.
However, within a few weeks of buying the second copy, I ended up finding the first copy in a box down in the basement, and now, I have two copies.
The second copy, obviously, has a different cover because it was published several editions subsequent to the original print.
As far as the story, itself, is concerned, I contemplated doing ( but have not yet commenced ) a graphical/pictorial storyboard of the book to highlight what I think are among the many cool parts of the book that neither Hollywood movie ever covered; nor, will such a post contain elements that never occurred in the book, the way the Hollywood movies so shamefully did.
A—Fictional Versus True Stories
Fictional books on horror from writers such as Stephen King or Clive Barker never really appealed to me ( in the slightest degree ) simply because they were fictional to begin with.
The authors, as far as I know, never claimed they were “true” stories.
If they had claimed they were true, I might have been interested in reading them. But to combine the fact that the book is openly presented as fiction along with the fact that it’s a thousand pages long ( especially in the case of King’s books ), is a double deal-breaker for me.
Reading a book takes far more effort than watching a movie.
Ergo, it must be true to justify any amount of time invested in reading it.
Otherwise, I will read non-fiction, but not fiction.
For me, reading a fiction book is out of the question since life is far too short to invest any effort in the reading ( beyond a page, or two ) about events that never actually happened.
I’d rather be educated with reality, than entertained with fiction.
B—Is The Amityville Horror a True Story?
Apparently, the Lutzes ( who told the story ), and Jay Anson, ( the author who wrote the book about the story ), certainly presented it as being true.
Surely, though, there was no shortage of detractors who claimed the story was an invention that the Lutzes deliberately fabricated for financial gain.
The Lutzes, of course, would not be the first people to claim such stories surrounding the scene of a horrific tragedy.
1—Cause And Effect
There’s obviously plenty of precedents where post-tragedy scary tales of ominous hauntings have been generated regarding places where terrifying events had previously taken place ( e.g., a man, woman or child dies under horrifying circumstances and the place where they died is the scene where unexplained and frightening events have posthumously occurred, which are then directly attributed to those people’s horrifically unnatural deaths ).
The house where the Lutzes resided certainly was no exception to that rule.
THE DEFEOS
The DeFeo Family (Source : https://www.theopinionatedone.com/searching-for-the-truth/the-real-story-behind-the-amityville-horror-house-will-freak-you-out )
Six of the house’s seven previous occupants, ( The DeFeos : a family of seven—two parents, three boys and two girls ), were all murdered in cold blood in their sleep, by the oldest son, who shot them all to death with either a rifle or a shotgun.
The event of the mass murder certainly planted the seeds of all kinds of possibilities where ex post facto stories could be generated that perfectly fit in to the cause-and-effect narrative which is always at the core of post-tragedy paranormal events, such as hauntings —cause : people dieunnaturally ; effect : they hauntposthumously.
2—My Two ( Formerly Three ) Questions Regarding The Story’s Validity
a—Why Only The DeFeos and Lutzes and Nobody Else?
On the one hand, the fact that Ronald DeFeo claimed that disembodied voices goaded him into committing the murders certainly shows that the Lutzes were not the first to claim that paranormal events were associated with the property.
On the other hand, since not one person who has subsequently resided at the house has ever reported any paranormal events, shows that no “other-worldly” forces have been in force outside of the DeFeos and Lutzes occupancies of the property.
Why only the DeFeo’s and Lutzes and no one else?
b—Were Hard Drugs Involved In the Mass Murder’s Cause?
In DeFeo’s case, it had been alleged that he was involved with hard drugs, and, if drugs like LSD were involved, it’s not entirely out of the question that he “heard” LSD-induced voices and he reacted according to those auditory hallucinations.
If the voices he heard were drug-induced, and not paranormally-generated, that would mean that the number of claims of supernatural origins would be reduced to just the Lutzes and not DeFeo, as well.
The fewer the number of supernatural claims, the more likely the claims of mystical involvement would be false ( although the reverse might not necessarily be true, since it is frequently the case that the greater the number of people who actually believe a “factoid”, the greater the likelihood that a certain degree of “group think” or mass hysteria might be at play; but, in this particular case, if the Lutzes were the only ones claiming a paranormal connection, that would certainly justify a degree of skepticism on the part of those the Lutzes attempted to convince their story was true ).
A Comparison of Ronald “Butch” DeFeo [ Left ] and George Lutz [ Right ] ( Source : The TV Show “In Search of… The.Amityville Horror @ https://m.imdb.com/name/nm0527567/mediaviewer/rm1646410496/ )
Of course, there is that one strange detail, though, that they say that George Lutz, the father, strongly resembled Ronald DeFeo, the murderer.
In fact, when George told people where he lived, he was often told by those familiar with the house and the DeFeos, that he eerily resembled Ronald. Especially when he walked into a bar that DeFeo had previously frequented. When George walked in to have a couple of beers, the bartender momentarily thought that George was Ronald.
Although that fact may not have any truly deep meaning to it, it is, nonetheless, an interesting piece of trivia.
As far as those who assert that the story is an elaborate hoax, I never really found any of their doubts convincing, since they never gave any specifics about what they doubted, like the two I just mentioned in the above paragraphs.
They always just opined that the story was “for financial gain”, which I always thought was vague on the lie-proving details.
But I have since laid to rest a third, potentially large, doubt of my own.
c—Why Did The Number of Flies Change?
It’s been a while since I read the book, but I seem to recall that they refer to an event where a rather large gathering of flies took place in a particular room—in the dead of winter, when flies are not otherwise normally present.
But if memory serves, the flies are mentioned only once in the book. I could be wrong—like I said, it’s been a while since I read it.
Yet, in countless interviews with Kathy Lutz, she seemed to have changed her story about the number of flies that gathered.
Specifically, in most interviews she would usually claim that the number of flies that gathered was in the “dozens” or “around thirty”.
The Lutzes being interviewed by David Hartman on Good Morning America on July 26, 1979 ( Source : YouTube Video titled “Amityville Horror – Good Morning America” uploaded by YouTube Account FriendshipTown @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3g2gTWlwQ8&t=57s @ 4:59 )
However, in one interview with David Hartman, the original host of ABC’s “Good Morning America”, she claimed that the number was over “a hundred”.
Initially, my thoughts were along the lines of “There’s a huge, noticeable difference between ’30’ and ‘100’, and I don’t think my characterization of such a quantity would vary that much if I was attempting to accuratelyrelay my personal experience of an event to someone who’s interviewing me to get the facts of my story.’
In Kathy’s defense, though, if the flies incident happened on more than one occasion (which I don’t believe the author Jay Anson mentions more than once in the book), well then, it’s certainly possible that the number of flies that gathered could have varied that much, in which case, my doubts would be lessened.
Moreover, in the interview, Kathy did mention that it was not one, but two rooms that were affected by the ominously unnatural fly infestation.
But, if the flies incident did happen only once, then, it’s either 30 or it’s 100—it can’t be both; and I can’t see how someone who’s telling the truth, could remember the incident so inconsistently.
Outside of that one doubt, though, the Lutzes always seemed genuine and honest; and they even admit, in the Hartman interview, that the movie (of which only the original version of the movie existed at that time ) was not entirely accurate in its depiction of events.
In any case, enough of the Amityville Horror story, for now.
Let’s move on to a few other stories.
IV—A Policy of What Types Of Videos I Avoided
A—“Low-Light” Videos
STUPID Imagery—Haunting Documentaries
One particular form of video-related story-telling I avoid like the plague are those that use…ahem, “investigative” journalists who incorporate that ridiculously silly meme of “darkness”-based clips.
I’m not a videographer, or a film-maker, so, I’m not familiar with the official terminology associated with the type of videography that I’m referring to, but it’s that type of recording where they turn the lights off, and film under low-light conditions, as though that makes the video clip “more” unnerving or scary, or whatever other emotion they think they’re laughably and erroneously attempting to maximize.
The very nano second I see this kind of video, I roll my eyes, shake my head, and I feel as though my intelligence has just been insulted, and then I angrily change the channel.
But, I do believe in a presentation that dramatizes the details to make them seem more interesting or scary or unsettling. After all, it is supposed to be covering the details of a scary story.
B—“Insurance Seminar” Voice Actors
There are many videos on YouTube that simply read off the highlights of a story’s details with all the excitement of a lecturer reciting the bullet points of the pros and cons of various types of coverage at an insurance seminar.
Those videos are usually titled something along the lines of “The 10 Most-Haunted Places, in America”, where the script is intended to merely highlight the places mentioned, rather than focus on the details in any kind of frightening way.
I avoid those videos, as well. Way too boring for my liking.
V—Interesting Scripts and Intriguing Voice Actors That I Did Choose
In contrast, my goal in maximizing the “Ooh-that’s-interesting” factor in the telling of stories that are meant to elicit feelings of unsettling fear or uneasiness is to feature narrators with a gift for interesting voice overs, such as Robert Stack ( best known for his hosting of the TV series, “Unsolved Mysteries”, 1988-2002 ), Leonard Nimoy (whose voice was naturally intriguing as was manifested in his hosting of the TV Series “In Search Of..” among other TV specials pertaining to paranormal-related topics ), and a few other lesser-known voice actors in the field of mysterious phenomena.
A—“A Haunting In Georgia”
But one of my all-time-favorite accounts was narrated by neither of those two masters, but a man by the name of Anthony Call.
The documentary, titled “A Haunting In Georgia”, produced in 2002, pertained to a couple in Georgia (Andy and Lisa Wyrick ), whose (at that time ) four-year-old daughter, Heidi, had experiences where she was befriended by the disembodied ( but, fortunately, friendly and protective ) spirit of a long-since-deceased man by the name of James Gordy, who actually existed, but whom she could not possibly have known since he died decades before she was born.
There were also two other spirits she encountered , one with a bloody hand, named “Lon” ( whose name Heidi had erroneously thought was “Kahn”, and who turned out to be the long-since-departed [1957] uncle of her next-door neighbor ), and one other character whose obscured face and ominous persona understandably frightened Heidi.
But I don’t want to ruin the story for you with any spoiler alerts, so, I’ll post the link to the video below and let you watch the video for yourself.
A HAUNTING IN GEORGIA
B—“School Spirit” and “Ghosts-R-Us”
The following video focuses on three stories, all of which are good; but I only highlight two of them :
[1] “School Spirit“, which is actually the last of the three stories and begins at time marker 29:50 and continues on to 43:25, and talks about a Demolition company that was contracted to tear down the 75-year-old Metz Elementary School in Austin, Texas, only to encounter multiple apparitions of some of the school children that once attended the school ( the garb the young apparitions donned would imply the children were from the 1930’s era of the Great Depression), who do not want the school tore down, and, in which one laborer loses his life in one serious tragedy in the process of disobeying the warnings coming from the delightfully-playful-one-minute-yet-sternly-serious-the-next, disembodied spirits of the children issuing the warnings; and
[2] “Ghosts-R-Us“, which, as you might have already guessed, is about a Toys-R-Us” store in Sunnyvale, California, that’s apparently “occupied” by the tortured soul of a long-since-deceased, emotionally-disturbed farm hand, by the name of Yonny Yohnson, who ( it is believed ) died from exsanguination, when he accidentally hit himself with an axe when he was chopping up firewood in anger after being rejected by his boss’s engaged daughter who was upset by love letters he had been pointlessly sending her prior to her wedding day. Employees of the store tell of their experiences of frightening paranormal events while employed at the store.
“SCHOOL SPIRIT” & “GHOSTS-R-US”
29:50 & 1:19
This above video was a part of a series that lasted only three episodes, and which changed not only:
[1] it’s name—from “Haunted Lives” ( in the first two episodes ) to “Real Ghosts” ( for the last episode ); but also
[2] the actors doing the voice overs—from Leonard Nimoy ( in the first episode only ) to actor Stacy Keach ( for the second and third episodes ).
Why the changes?
I’m not sure on either the name or actor changes. But, once I watched the second and third episodes I noticed an immediate decrease in quality of the stories told and/or the scripts written.
Specifically, although the stories of the second episode weren’t exactly “garbage”, per se, there was something missing in the “eeriness” department.
The third episode, however, crossed a line in that it contained stories that involved teens having a large part in the dynamics; and where teens are a core component of the story, there’s usually a “cheap thrill” component that accompanies their involvement.
Rarely is something involving teens as the main actors in a story, a quality product.
In one story, one college’s fraternity members held a seance to appease a deceased spirit that represented a past student who was refused entry into the fraternity, and by posthumously granting him membership ( via seance) , they essentially calmed his anger and they all lived “happily-ever-after”.
In another story, teen girl cheerleaders in the basement bathroom of a haunted building said something into a mirror that reacted in a “spooky” way, in a very cheap “Mary Worth” kind of way.
In both cases, the college fraternity and the girl cheerleader stories, it just seemed so “Freddy Kreuger/Halloween/Friday The 13th”-like in that the stories seemed to be targeted at the teen crowd, and I immediately was turned off by the arguably intelligence-insulting storylines of both tales.
Nimoy is no longer among us, so we can’t ask him whether the producers fired him from the job, or he left voluntarily.
I’m pretty sure that if I was the voice over actor in the first episode, and I got a preview of how cheap the second and third episodes were going to be, I certainly would have left that position, since I would not want to be associated with that caliber of “journalism”.
C—“The Queen Mary”
Finally, from the golden tones of the late Robert Stack, host of the TV show, “Unsolved Mysteries”, comes the story about the boat The Queen Mary, where several employees share their personal experiences of encounters with those whose souls never left the ship, even though their physical bodies did—years ago!
I found it interesting that a woman who worked in the boat’s dining room had an encounter with a motionless apparition that was eerily similar to my encounter with my deceased landlord’s motionless apparition.
Watching that scene made me realize that my experience was not as isolated as I initially thought it was; maybe there’s some currently-unseen common denominator between our two cases.
In any case, I’ll leave you with these videos to watch.
If you’ve had unusual experiences, please feel free to share with any comments.
I hope you enjoyed this post and thanks for reading and watching the content provided.
Happy New Year, all! This is my FIRST post of the year, 2021. May this be a much better year.
Anyway, when I was a kid, in my teens, I realized that there were certain types of stimuli that would relax me to the point that I would get what some people call the “tingles”.
A. JET PLANES
For instance, while taking a break after mowing the lawn, I would often hear the distant sound of a jet airplane flying overhead, probably somewhere in the several-miles-in-the-sky range—perhaps three or four miles, maybe more, in elevation.
It had to be pretty far, since although I could hear the sound of the jet, I could not see it.
I’d look up into the sky, but there would be no sign of it visually.
Yet, despite not being able to see it, merely hearing it was enough to trigger an intense feeling of relaxation .
The sound was so mesmerizing, for lack of a more accurate term. I suppose I use the term “mesmerizing” because the feeling I experienced was similar to that one would expect in a person listening to a hypnotist to experience.
Anyway, I’d stretch out on the picnic table as I listened to the jet fly “past” my house., and as the sound faded away—from it being too distant to be heard anymore—I’d be left with this hope that the time frame in which I was experiencing these sensations would be extended for as long as possible.
It was almost “orgasmic” in that it could be addicting if one could deliberately self-trigger the sensations.
B. BACK SCRATCHES
I’m not sure about anyone else, but I’d also experience a similar sense of complete contentment when I’d get a back scratch from my then- girlfriend, Roxanne, as she’d talk softly while her fingernails caressed my back ever so lightly, and I’d drift off, almost to the point of actually falling asleep on her.
Similarly, the distant sound of a jet plane would generate a similar feeling of that same sense of complete relaxation.
C. SOFT-SPOKEN ASSISTANCE
There was another time when a friend of mine, Donny, who lived across the street from me , saw me getting frustrated at my 10-speed bike, when I couldn’t get my chain to stay on the sprocket, as it kept falling off after I’d ride my bike only a few houses away from home, and I kept walking the bike back to my house , and sitting on my porch , with the bike upside down, as I re-laced the chain back onto the teeth of the sprocket, attempting to get the chain to stay put.
After a series of loud curse words, and what he probably thought was a buildup of anger intense enough to cause me to throw the bike across the front lawn, he came over and said, “Let me take a look at it.”
While he was fiddling with the chain and sprocket, he was talking rather softly ( in a soft-spoken manner—which was not his usual M.O. when it came to speaking; which is probably why it caught my attention ) and in the two-fold process of watching him work, and listening to his soft-spoken voice, I found myself wishing Roxanne was behind me scratching my back.
With her fingernails scratching my back, and Donny’s reassuring voice , both tag-teaming my sensory responses, I would have been in Seventh Heaven.
That was in the early to mid-1970’s.
Also, as a somewhat humorous side note, is my concern that my heightened sensitivity to this stimulus-response paradigm could cause me some problems in the job world.
For example, I worked at one company back in the mid-1990’s, and my immediate supervisor, Ken, took me out into the factory to go do some paperwork that was located out in this office-like enclosure that was smack dab in the middle of the main production section.
Although the two-desked “office” did have an air conditioner installed in the wall that faced the overhead doors, it was mid-autumn so, it wasn’t turned on. Yet, it was still pretty warm outside, possibly in the mid- to -upper 60’s, so it was noticeably stuffy in that room. It definitely needed some fresh air, but opening the door would also allow in approximately 100 decibels of very unpleasant noise levels coming from nearby machinery and cranes.
Anyway, we walked into the office, and Ken said, “Have a seat.” as he pointed to me which of the two desks to sit down at.
I sat down, and he threw a 12-inch tall pile of those super wide (14″ wide?) green-and-white striped computer printouts from a dot matrix printer, with that detachable strip along the sides with all those holes in the strips, and he flipped open the first pile for me to work on.
Ken, who normally was always shouting because of the noise level in the factory, was—in the quiet of this relatively-soundproofed enclosure—suddenly talking very softly as he was showing me what he needed me to do with this huge pile of printouts pertaining to production inventory.
Leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the relevant columns to be focused on, he practically whispered the instructions, and I was fighting to stay awake. I literally started to nod out.
He might as well have been saying, “You are getting very sleepy. Your muscles are becoming completely relaxed, as the sound of my voice sedates your mood. When I count to five, you will cluck like a chicken…”
Shaking my head in the attempt to revive myself, I looked over at the air conditioner, wondering if I should turn it on after he left, just to feel some kind of exhilaration in order to stay awake.
Because of that incident, to this day, I always worry that if I’m ever at a new job, and being trained by someone, with a soft-spoken voice, while giving me verbal instructions, I might literally fall asleep on them during my training.
Now that I think about it, I did have a professor in college, whose lectures I frequently nodded out during, simply because of her voice was such an auditory sedative.
Anyway, back to the subject of my initial discovery of my sensitivity to ASMR-like stimuli.
II. YOUTUBE VIDEOS
Post 1970’s, it would not be for another 40 years, until the 2010’s, when I was video-surfing on YouTube, that I would encounter a term, “ASMR”, which I was not familiar with, which stands for : Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, which put a spotlight on a sensation for which, up to that point in time, I had no term to refer to it as.
In fact, I didn’t even think there was an official term for it, since I didn’t think it was a “thing” for anyone outside my own mind. I literally thought it was “just me” being weird (well, many people think I am; but that’s besides the point).
I had no idea other people were having similar experiences.
Once I discovered that there was a smorgasbord of videos pertaining to this phenomenon, I went zealously looking through the YouTube Video Content search pages seeking out the videos that would offer up the exact content that would trigger the very sensations I enjoyed experiencing.
About the only two negative aspects to this discovery were that :
First, the vast majority of videos available fell far short of the quality I was looking for—i.e., there were “deliberate” ASMR videos, and there were also “unintentional” ASMR videos, of which I preferred the latter by a ratio of 99 to 1; and
Second, of those content providers that were “on the right track”, only a small portion of the videos they uploaded sufficed in the realm of eliciting the sensations I was seeking : that is, one person’s “gold” is another person’s “pyrite”.
A. “DELIBERATE” VERSUS “UNINTENTIONAL” VIDEOS
1. “DELIBERATE” VIDEOS
One of the original “deliberate” video creators was a woman who goes by the name of “Lita”, whose videos entailed her giving someone a massage while simultaneously talking very softly throughout the procedure.
However, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t remember any of her videos containing the term “ASMR” in the titles, so, I’m guessing she was not marketing her product as ASMR-related.
Maybe she was and I just don’t recall the details that would point to such a claim.
Anyway, her videos were very relaxing.
Unfortunately, a deluge of “wannabees” soon followed suit with absolutely horrible content of “whisperers” who role play in their videos, usually in a doctor’s office, a library, a travel agency, a job interview—I’m surprised someone hasn’t uploaded a booking at a police station., yet ( “Do you have any priors?”, “Have you ever been arrested?”)
I realize those people mean well, and there are plenty of people who find their videos pleasing or somehow filling whatever void they need filling, but for me, the whispering videos are just so unnatural and phony and unfulfilling on so many levels, especially those “starring” some 17-year-old girl whose whispering is actually far moreirritating than relaxing.
2. “UNINTENTIONAL” VIDEOS
In contrast, are the “Unintentional” videos, which are not officially created to be ASMR-related videos, but the voices of the people “starring” in the videos are so relaxing, that an ASMR-like reaction is commonly experienced by those who watch them—or, more accurately, listen to them.
I’ve embedded a few of such videos below in this post.
Most of the videos are of people educating the viewing audience on the fundamentals of some topic—everything from coin-collecting to cooking to the Alexander techniques of the proper way to sit and stand and do The Twist to you-name-it.
Still, there are others that are merely clips out of actual movies, where the actors are simply talking softly in a given scene ( I can think of at least three movie scenes—that I’d like to upload since no one else has) that can trigger an ASMR-like reaction in those who listen to them.
Either way, instructional videos or movie scenes, I like these videos because they don’t seem to insult your intelligence the way I feel the “Deliberately”-created videos do.
B. “GOLD” VERSUS “PYRITE”
Of those people who upload the “Unintentional” types of ASMR videos, there are some that really work for me, which I consider to be among the “gold” collection, and there are many that just aren’t as relaxing as the gold ones. I consider these the “pyrite” videos, because they may initially appear to be potentially relaxing, but ultimately end up not having the same effect that it had on the person who saw fit to upload the video.
The “soft-spoken” attribute is one that is subject to relative assessments : what might be deemed as sufficient to one person, might fall short of the goal for someone else.
For instance, if the soft-spoken attribute was measured in, say, decibels, my Goldie Locks-like range of what is “just right” and not “too whispered” or “too loud” might be slightly or drastically different than someone else’s range.
Perhaps someone finds the shouting of Sam Kinison still “within range” of a relaxing tone of voice, whereas, for me, even a normal talking voice is still much too loud to have any kind of sedative-like effect.
The same goes for the other end of the decibel spectrum : the obviously acted-out whispering one person might find calming, another person (such as myself) experiences it as displeasingly unnatural and therefore not relaxing at all.
III. CONCLUSION : HOW I USE ASMR VIDEOS
I am , by no means, any kind of “puritan” when it comes to pharmaceuticals in the sleep aid department : if I really think I need some assistance, I’ll be happy to take a 25 mg or 50 mg Benedryl capsule.
BUT…benedryl frequently makes me feel groggy in the morning, so, if I can fall alseep via au naturale means, I will certainly choose that method any day, since there’s no hangover associated with drug-free methods.
When foregoing pills, my chosen alternative is the use of ASMR videos.
Toward that goal, I’ll use my computer to prepare for that task.
Actually, I have two computers on my desk :
[1] a desktop, which is my main PC, where I do all my job-searching and social media posts—and which has a tiny Bluetooth speaker hooked to it , so I can hear mp3 files or any YouTube videos I listen to on the fly ; and
[2] a laptop, which I use in my music studio applications, and which is piped into a large screen TV not only so I can see the laptop’s screen magnified, but also so I can hear YouTube videos much louder than the tiny Bluetooth speaker on my desktop is capable of.
When I listen to ASMR videos, it’s either on my laptop through the large screen TV, or on my Smartphone through a pair of headphones.
When I listen to ASMR videos on my laptop, it’s usually pre-bedtime, and I’m just testing to see if I’m really tired enough to go to bed.
On the one hand, if I get through an entire video, and I haven’t experienced any relaxation or yawned at least once or twice, that’s usually a sign that I’m nowhere near ready for bed, and I’ll move onto something else for an hour, or so., at which point I’ll try “the test” again.
On the other hand, if I find myself not focusing on whatever tasks I’m currently working on, and instead, staring out into space, or if I’ve actually closed my eyes for any amount of time, then, I’m probably ready for bed.
If that’s the case, then I shut everything down in my studio and head on upstairs to our bedroom, where I put on my headphones, plugged into my Smartphone, and I just randomly pick one of my favorite ASMR videos to fall asleep listening to.
A. SOME OF MY FAVORITE VIDEOS
As mentioned before, I’m not a big fan of “deliberate” ASMR videos, since the silliness factor goes off the chart on pretty much the whole series, which seems to be overabundant in “role-playing” styled videos.
Hence I choose the “unintentional” videos, instead, and since there is no one person’s voice that stands out as the “master” of the genre, I just listen to each video and judge it on its merits— if I fell asleep listening to it, it’s a keeper.
I’ve embedded four videos below of which only the first three are ASMR-related.
I’ll explain the fourth video in the next section, “IV. A SHOUT OUT FOR “LUNAR SOL“.
The first three are “unintentional” videos, the last of which is by the YouTuber, “Lita” whose videos are often considered the mother of the genre. Her videos were 100 percent live, I think, by which I mean, she was talking while she performed her massages.
There was one person, who started out doing Lita-like videos where she was giving massages, but, her talking was POST-production. Instead of talking live while giving her massages, she recorded her videos sans talking, and then did a voice-over in post production.
For the most part, her videos did offer some relaxation-like qualities, although, in her earlier videos there were all kinds of issues with background noises, but eventually she worked out those glitches and started getting far-better audio tacks that accompanied the video.
Unfortunately, somewhere along the lines she must’ve started thinking that Lita-oriented videos weren’t going to generate the following she was seeking to create, so she later started incorporating into her video catalog the “role-playing” styled videos which I just can’t stand.
But those didn’t “undo” the massage-oriented videos I did like.
I think her real name is Melissa, and she goes by the YouTube name of “asmrmassage”. The picture below is linked to her YouTube page listing her videos.
Although I generally go directly to the “unintentional” videos in my collection of links, I will, on occasion, watch one of Melissa’s videos just to break up the monotony .
Lastly…
IV. A SHOUT OUT FOR “LUNAR SOL”
In a somewhat unrelated thought, I’d like to conclude this post with a mention of one YouTuber who, although originally started out doing deliberate ASMR videos (many of which she’s deleted for some unknown reason) under the name “Hailey Whispering Rose”, has also done some NON-ASMR music videos under the YouTube account “Lunar Sol“, where she teamed up with this other musician , Dan Caine, and what a team they are.
He’s a really good songwriter ; and I don’t know if he engineers his own recordings, or has some recording studio do all the work, but the final product is so polished-sounding. Four-Star quality!
In this relationship Hailey has dropped the word “Whispering” from her moniker, and is just “Hailey Rose”.
In any case, her voice ( to me, anyway) is ANGELIC! ! !
She ranks right up there with Candace Night’s voice.
Dan Caine is one lucky S.O.B. to be her partner, whether that be musically platonic or even emotionally intimate.
Whether she’s singing music or not, her voice hits all the right nerves with me.
Anyway, I just wanted to advertise for Dan and Hailey, since the quality of their work warrants such exposure!
In the 1990’s, when I was in my 30’s, in the realm of occupational choices, I went from one extreme to another, and had equally dissatisfying results in both cases.
Specifically, I went from working in an office for a temp agency to working in trucking as a union laborer.
In both cases, I saw some ugly trends that made me detest those that work in both industries.
I know, “Welcome to the real world!”
Table of Contents
I. The Temp Agency
—A. My First Assignment : Memorex-Telex
—B. The Second Assignment : Whirlpool Factory Service
II. The Union Truck-Driving Job
—A. Got My CDL and Got Hired…Right Away
—B. The Layoff From Yard Waste…Right Away
—C. The “Re-Hire” To The Mechanics Division…Right Away
—D. The Transfer to Medical Waste…Right Away
—E. How The Position Got Created In the First Place
——1. The Old System
——2. The New System—My Job
—F. Where I Ran Into Problems
——1. The Normal Shift
——2. The MILKED Shift
———a. Mike W.
———b. Don
———c. Kelly…The Trouble Maker
III. Conclusion
I. The Temp Agency
I decided to write this blog when I saw a video on YouTube where the title began with the two words “Permanently Temporary”, which immediately reminded me of my time as a temp worker.
I didn’t watch the whole video, since I was doing other things, but I just put it on for background noise while I was involved in other tasks—I just absolutely hate a dead silent room.
I have to have on some kind of white noise, such as a fan running, or some conversation going on in the background. So, I’ll put on YouTube videos for such purposes when I’m working on the PC.
In any case…
“Permanently Temporary” is a PERFECT name for the reality of the industry.
So, back in the early 90’s, I worked for a temp agency by the name of Pro Staff, which was located in Downers Grove, Illinois, at the time.
A. My First Assignment : Memorex-Telex
My first assignment was at a company called Memorex-Telex, which was a combination of :
[a] Memorex (of the “Is it live or is it Memorex?” fame); and
[b] Telex, which, I think, by itself, manufactured business-oriented P.A. systems—e.g. when a person talks into a microphone at a bank, a grocery store, or a gas station to announce something over the P.A system , THAT was Telex’s business at that time : microphones, amplifiers and speakers for non-music business applications.
Together, though, the two companies were involved in a completely unrelated industry : leasingbusiness computers to major corporations (e.g., governmental bureaucracies; department store chains; major railroads; national gas stations; etc.).
When I took the job, the recruiter painted the position as a “get-your-foot-in-the-door” type of opportunity for a “no one” like me to find room-to-grow employment with major corporations, instead of pointlessly continuing on working for small, mom-and-pops, where employees walked around bent over like a hunch back because the glass ceiling was so low we “couldn’t even stand up” without hitting our heads on the light fixtures—and I’m NOT a tall man.
Despite the phony hope the recruiter was dangling over my head, I was going to be working as a permanent “Temp”, although I was not aware—yet—that my position was designed to be indefinitely ( or even permanently) temporary [from Day One] when I took their client’s assignment at their Naperville , Illinois office.
I worked in the microfiche department that provided account information to both the accounts receivable and accounts payables departments.
The industry was not yet using digital formats like Microsoft Excel’s spreadsheets, text files, or pdf’s or jpegs to store data, but rather printouts generated from microfiche machines—which ours broke down frequently.
Out of approximately 15 people total (in both departments), there was only one employee who was a “temp”: me!
Everyone else was permanent and full-time.
After about eight or nine months in that dead-end position, there were no openings for me to get my foot in the door full time and permanent-–i.e.with benefits.
I had to start thinking about moving on to bigger and better things—which, at that time, I still erroneously believed could be achieved by staying with Pro Staff, but only changing assignments to a new client.
I started to let it be known in casual conversation with my permanent co-workers what my intentions were, and they, in turn, must’ve told two friends, and so on, until management got wind of my intentions.
Then, a man by the name of Doug, who was their “Controller” for that office, asked me if I would be interested in moving over into a position that was strictly for accounts payable—although it would still be through the temp agency and not through Memorex-Telex, and that detail alone was enough to take ALL the shine off the glitter of that offer.
He agreed to give me a few days to think about it, and one of my co-workers in the Accounts Receivable department, Sheryl, warned me that the offer was a ruse.
The position I was being offered would be closed by the end of the month, and the temp agency would have already replaced me in my old microfiche job with another temp, and I would not have my old job to go back to, when my new job got closed out.
That is, I’d be unemployed again! Nice, huh?
Specifically, Memorex-Telex was moving the entireAccounts PAYABLE department down to their headquarters in Oklahoma, and they just needed someone to empty the file cabinets into cardboard boxes for the big move.
Needless to say, I trusted Sheryl way more than I trusted shifty-eyed Doug, so I told Doug I wanted to stay in the Microfiche department.
Whew! Thank God I did! Just like she said, at the end of the month, while I was outside having a smoke with another co-worker, Craig, we saw two men rolling two-wheeled dollies in and out of the building, hauling out the very file cabinets, boxes, computers, etc. of ourAP department.
And...the Temp who took that job……was laid off at the end of the day.
That could have been me.
“I can’t believe Doug tried to get me to accept a Position he knew was being ended. Zero ethics!” I thought to myself.
Then, about two months later, on a Sunday morning, while eating breakfast and reading the newspaper, I decided to read the want ads (back when the Chicago Tribune’s job classifieds were LITERALLY 15 to 20 pages thick—NOT counting the rest of the paper) and guess what I saw : my microfiche job!
But…as a full-time Memorex-Telex employee and NOT as a temp!
“WTF?!” I thought to myself in shock when I saw the quarter-pagead, which I brought into the office the next morning to show to my manager, Joyce, and said, “Why is this job in the paper? I’m already doing the job! Just hire me!”
“Floyd,” she said without any emotion or remorse, “You’re welcomed to submit a résumé but we have to be fair and get as many people as possible to try out for the job…blah, blah, blah….”
I wanted to clock her right there—with brass knuckles. “WTF bitch!?”
I kept my cool, though, and went about my day, and talked to that same woman who warned me to not take that position Doug offered me, and she explained to me why it wasn’t being offered to me
“Floyd,” she said with genuine understanding for my predicament, “You’re not going to get this job, and here’s why : when Memorex signed that agreement with the temp agency, they agreed to a stipulation that Memorex would pay Pro Staff a fee of three thousand dollars to hire you away from them. Three thousand dollars, Floyd! But! Do you know what they paid for that quarter page ad in the Trib’? Two hundred and fifty dollars! You do the math. They can hire someone off the street for less than ten percent—less than ten percent!—than the fee they’d have to pay Pro Staff to bring you on full time here.”
“You think Joyce is going to convince Doug to spend three grand, when they can get someone else for less than three hundred?” she continued on.
I was scammed into being permanentlytemped!
And the story didn’t stop there.
B. The Second Assignment : Whirlpool Factory Service
After being replaced at Memorex-Telex, I was placed in the Customer Service Department at Whirlpool Factory Service ( i.e., the people you contact when you need a house call when a home appliance, such as your stove or refrigerator, goes on the blink), who was using us to phase out the department in its entirety at its Addison, Illinois Branch, as all the technicians were being equipped to work straight out of their homes, and allcalls were being handled at some other facility in Arizona (Flagstaff? Phoenix? Not Sure. It just was not going to be anywhere near Illinois!)
There was nine of us when I got placed there; there were five left after I got let go; and I have no idea how much longer it was after that, that they finally closed the whole office down!
Weeks? Months? Not sure.
Small world, though : ten years after that, I made a delivery (to Bosch Tool) for a small mom-and-pop tool company I was working for, and when I got my delivery documents, I saw the address, and it looked familiar. I couldn’t place the location in my head, when I departed the office, but when I pulled into the parking lot at Bosch, I realized I was in the exact same office I was working in when I worked for Whirlpool.
In fact, the will call counter, where I dropped off my delivery was only about 30 feet from where my desk was at 10 years earlier. I’ll never forget that. Small world!.
But, fuck Pro Staff! and alltemp agencies…and their complicit employees!
They’re “simply doing their jobs”?
I’m simply voicing my opinion of what scum they are.
They should, at least, expect to be insulted, for knowing in advance that they’re exploiting the workers that they publicly purport to be providing employment “assistance” to.
Shame on them!
II. The Union Truck-Driving Job
I grew up in a union labor household. My father, Earl, retired from trucking as a Local 705 Teamster.
It’s ironic, too, that he named me after a friend of his, Floyd Allen, who was in management at the trucking company he worked at until his retirement : Orscheln Brothers Trucking, which, although still in business, no longer has a terminal here in the Chicago area (specifically, Summit, Illinois—where Archer Avenue, Archer Road, and First Avenie/171 all meet up), but are still in business down in Moberly, Missouri.
The Chicago-area unions proved too costly for Orscheln to operate in.
Initially, when my dad first started at Orscheln, the company was a non-union outfit. But, at some point in time, the drivers voted to go union—in this case, Teamsters Local 705.
Unfortunately, for the friendship between my dad who was then union, and Floyd who was in management, the move toward unionized labor somehow soured their friendship, so, I ended up being named after someone my dad did not like. LOL.
Oh well, shit happens.
Anyway, when he was still working, I think he was making around $11.00 an hour when the minimum wage hovered around $2.00 per hour in the mid-1970’s, but I don’t have a copy of one of his paychecks to verify that, nor did the first three pages of a Google search lead me to any links that zeroed in on that exact answer, but I just seem to remember that he was making somewhere above $10.00 an hour at that time.
In any case, he retired early in his late 50’s and had a pension to rely on in what he was going to hope were going to be his golden years, but brain cancer cut him off in 1989, at 63 years of age—approximately six years after his retirement in 1983, the same year my daughter was born.
I, personally, never had any official opinion—neither pro nor con—on the subject of labor unions.
Philosophically, I couldn’t see being “against” the idea of collective bargaining, if it meant that those whose blood-sweat-and-tears level of skilled labor contributed to the success of the company, and resulted in a paycheck that would allow that worker to buy a home and raise a family.
So, to that extent, I supported unions, as an organization that ensures that the hard work by skilled laborers gets rewarded accordingly. It would be great if more laborers could unionize and increase their standard of living for the work they contribute to a company’s success.
But I would soon learn, that I do not support many union workers, because their work ethic is no better than that of a crooked politician.
In fact, I think the corrupt union worker deserves to be be jealous of crooked politicians who make a lot more money with their corruption than the laborer does.
For example, I’ll see or hear about some $22-an-hour laborer criticize a self-serving, corrupt politician because he voted himself a $30,000-a-year raise in taxpayer-funded income, and yet, the corrupt union worker, will deliberately drag his feet on a project and “invest” 12 hours in a job that takes only eight or nine hours to do, which unethically adds a few hundred dollars to his or her paycheck.
Yet, with 12 months of “shady” time card management, his overtime comes nowhere near the politician’s $30,000 of extra income, and now the laborer believes “only” the politician’s corruption is truly evil.
But the corrupt union laborer claims, “Yeah, but my kid needs braces; my mortgage has gone up a hundred dollars a month; fuel prices are up.” etc, and I want to reply, “Well, boo-fuckin’-hoo asshole! Your bills are not “more important” than that politician’s bills, or my bills, or the bills of the non-English speaking immigrant who runs the cash register at the local McDonalds. Why the fuck should anyone think your reasons for being corrupt are somehow justified, when no one has a “justified” reason for being corrupt. Corrupt is corrupt! Just because someone else is better at it than you, doesn’t endow you with any special rights to bitch about that disparity! You don’t like it? Become a politician and make way more money being corrupt! Until then, shut the fuck up!”
Until I met—and worked with—a union laborer, I never had that attitude.
Now, thanks to being exposed to some, I have no respect and no compassion for those who are corrupt themselves, but complain about others who are better at it.
A. Got My CDL and Got Hired…Right Away
In any case, in the mid-90’s, I decided to get my CDL ( Commercial Drivers License) and try my hand at truck driving.
I was lucky in three ways :
[1] I found a job within weeks of getting my license, in this case, at a now-defunct company, located in the Melrose Park/Northlake, Illinois area, called BFI (or Browning-Ferris Industries), a waste-hauling company, which was later bought out by Allied Waste, which, I believe is still in business;
[2] the job was a union job—as opposed to a non-union gig, where many people work a non-union job for years before finding one represented by a labor union; and
[3] even though I was laid off within three months (since I had the least amount of seniority, I was among the first to be laid off) I was hired again within two or three weeks in that case, too.
The reason I was laid off so soon was because the job I took was seasonal—i.e. collecting yard waste (grass, leaves, twigs, etc)—which ended at the top of December (just before the beginning of winter), but was expected to be re-hired again in April, when collection of yard waste would again start up.
So, it wasn’t like I was “fired” for any wrong-doing, per se; it was simply a seasonal employment thing—which the company went through every year; and as other employees would retire, die, or get fired, everyone at the lower rungs of the union ladder would rise up a notch or two, and be one step closer to NOT being among the first to be laid off during the next round of “musical chairs”.
I was new; I had not built up any seniority yet; I was a “private first class” in this army; so I was among the first to be laid off this round.
But, like I said, I got lucky again because I didn’t have to wait until April to get re-hired.
Although I got re-hired within two or three weeks by the same company (BFI) I was hired by a different part of the company—the mechanics division, instead of the drivers division.
Was I a mechanic, too?
No, not even close.
But, I could wash trucks ( after they repaired them), and that’s the job they offered me, until April, when I could return to the driving division, and resume picking up yard waste again.
Why did the mechanics division choose me, when there were other drivers, with the same seniority rating, who got laid off, as well?
Simple. They liked my attitude toward the truck I was assigned.
That is, part of the D.O.T. ( Department of Transportation) rules, drivers are required to perform two examinations of their vehicles while on duty :
[1] a PRE-trip inspection (i.e., At the beginning of their shift, BEFORE they drive their trucks on the road) ; and
[2] a POST-trip inspection ( at the end of the day, AFTER their driving duties have been concluded).
During both inspections, the drivers are supposed to check for all electrical, hydraulic, pneumatic, and mechanical problems such as tires that were bald or were low on air pressure, broken springs, no leaks in the air brakes system, all the headlights and taillights/brake lights were fully functional with no broken lenses, and the like.
Although pretty much everyone did their PRE-trip inspections, many did NOT do their POST-trip inspections, and instead, elected to just postpone the Post-trips until the next morning, under the notion that if it’s broke at the end of the shift, it’s not likely to fix itself overnight, and since the drivers were exhausted after a nine-to-twelve hour shift ( back then, our trucks did not have those lifting devices, and all garbage cans were manually emptied into the hopper, and since the number of very-heavy cans emptied was in the hundreds each day, the work was extremely exhausting!) they just weren’t interested in taking the time to inspect their trucks, and fill out the paperwork.
They’d just do the previous night’s post-trip at the same time they’d do the current morning’s pre-trip : in the vernacular of computer terminology, it was simply a “copy-and-paste” procedure.
The problem with that option, though, was that whatever problems they discovered then, could only be addressed at that point in time, when the driver should’ve been on his route, instead of hanging around the mechanic’s building, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, while they waited for the mechanics to fix whatever problems were discovered reported on their pre-trip inspection, when it was actually spotted on the post-trip inspection the night before, and the problem could have been already repaired.
But not me.
At the end of the shift, after all the other drivers parked their trucks and headed straight for the office to drop off their waste-collection papers, I was still out there with my clipboard and walking around my truck doing my post-trip inspection and paperwork.
If I saw something wrong, I noted it, and walked the paperwork over to the mechanics building to report it, and by the time I came back in the morning, my problems were repaired, and I was ready to go, and begin my route.
Jack, who was the head mechanic back then, noticed my diligence and it paid off for me.
B. The Layoff From Yard Waste…Right Away
As expected, the top of December arrived, the trees had all given up their leaves, and virtually all homeowner-based yard work had ceased as mornings of frost and snow had covered the ground.
Yard waste didn’t go to the normal landfill, but rather to a facility that simply burned the foliage in huge incinerators. The facility I dropped off my loads to was just down the street from our facility where we parked our trucks and did our daily paperwork.
It was Friday, I dropped off my last load, and a few of the men at the yard waste disposal site, had said “Goodbye” to me even before I knew I was being laid off. They must’ve known since this was something they witnessed every year going from autumn into winter.
Personally, I knew that I’d eventually be laid off, but I just wasn’t sure of the exact date.
As I parked in the yard, I did my post-trip, and went to the office to drop off my daily paperwork, I had a note in my slot that informed me of my temporary “separation”, with a “see-you-in-April” type of exiting salutation.
C. The “Re-Hire” To The Mechanics Division…Right Away
I had been laid off for about two weeks, and I was expecting it to be about four months.
But, it was only a few days before Christmas, when I got the phone call.
“Hey, Floyd! Jack, here, in the garage. I heard you got laid off a few weeks ago.” he said.
“Yes, sir. I guess I gotta find something until April.” I replied.
“Well, I’ve got an option for ya’, if you’re interested.” he added. “We need someone to wash trucks in the bay after they’re repaired. It pays eleven bucks an hour, and that should help you out until you get called back. Whaddaya think? Interested?”
“Absolutely! Yes, sir.” I exclaimed.
“See you Monday!” he laughed, hearing the joy in my voice.
“Thanks, Jack! See you then!” I replied as I hung up with a big smile on my face.
Even though $11.00 per hour was one dollar more than I was earning hauling yard waste (which was only $10 per hour), I actually made more money driving since I had plenty of overtime on my paycheck, whereas washing trucks never exceeded 40 hours per week,
But, still, $10 per hour, was better than a “stick in the eye” as my parents would often say.
So, I washed trucks for about a month, and then…..
D. The Transfer to Medical Waste…Right Away
Mid-January, while I was getting wet, washing a truck in a bay, I was approached by another manager, Mike H. who asked me if I’d be interested in joining BFI’s medical waste division, hauling the waste coming from hospitals and clinics—loads that, like yard waste, were treated differently in that they were not delivered to a land fill, but rather to a specialized medical waste facility.
Although it was back down to $10.00 per hour, there would be overtime in this position, as well—i.e., about the same, if not a tad more, as my yard waste route—assuming that I didn’t milk the job and take much longer than it actually took, which was—I would soon learn—a very common practice among drivers in that division; and that is where my problems began.
E. How The Position Got Created In the First Place
1. The Old System
Federal law requires that when medical waste is picked up, the paperwork that reflects that pickup has to contain the License Plate number of the truck doing the pickup.
Of course, trucks occasionally break down, and when they do, they have to be towed into a facility to be repaired.
Unfortunately (for the company) the mechanics union had a clause in their contract, that no truck can be worked on if the truck still contains the medical waste in the cargo area.
Thus, the waste had to be removed before the mechanics could work on the truck.
At the same time, federal law prohibits transferring medical waste from one truck to another, in a manner not in compliance with the health-related regulations, and simply changing the license plate number on the Bill Of Lading is, for a host of reasons, not legal.
Thus, a conundrum is created : the truck can’t be repaired with the medical waste in the cargo area; yet, the cargo can’t be legally transferred to another truck.
How can the medical waste reach it’s final destination, if the truck containing the cargo won’t move on it’s own, and the cargo can’t be moved to a truck that does move?
Tow the inoperative truck to the medical waste disposal facility and unload it from the broken-down truck?
I’m sure they’ve figured out by now how to go about dealing with that dual-cancelling situation, but at the time, BFI decided to transfer the cargo off the non-operational truck to one that worked, and, in the manner that they did it, it was deemed illegal, and they somehow got caught by the authorities and they were fined and they lost their license to deliver the waste directly to the medical waste disposal facility.
2. The New System—My Job
The new system was where BFI picked up the medical waste in their straight trucks, and then, had to drive it up north to Muskego, Wisconsin ( a whole new state ), where the cargo was unloaded onto 53-foot trailers, which were, in turn, driven southbound, by other drivers operating tractors with the name Ryder Leasing on the doors, right back into Illinois into a town I think was called Clinton, where there was supposed to be a medical waste disposal facility there.
So, instead of driving it directly south to Clinton, it got transported 90 miles north—in the EXACT OPPOSITE direction—and then returned to Illinois several hours south of its original location, by a different company.
That additional shipping had to have killed the profit margin for BFI, for sure.
That was my job, to haul it up to Wisconsin. I do not know the drivers that hauled it back into Illinois.
F. Where I Ran Into Problems
The drivers who picked up the medical waste from the facilities in the Chicago area worked days.
The drivers who drove the loaded trucks up to Wisconsin, worked nights, and we’d take two loads each shift. Each load contained maybe a hundred plastic (re-usable) tubs and perhaps 20 to 30 disposable cardboard boxes—many of which leaked, and that was gross. You could never tell what disgusting substances were leaking out of the tubs or boxes.
Plus, you didn’t want to touch the cargo with your bare hands, that’s for sure. Especially since there were used hypodermic needles in the lot—and AIDS was still very much an issue.
1. The Normal Shift
Anyway, starting at 5:00 PM and working until done, could range anywhere from 5:00AM to about 6:00AM or even 7:00 AM, during inclement weather-based driving conditions, such as bad snow storms, or heavy rains and flooding, both of which turned the highways into parking lots.
On a very good day (which was rare), once clocked in, at 5:00PM, it might take a half hour to do my pre-trip and delivery paperwork, so I usually didn’t leave the yard until 5:30PM, give or take 10 minutes.
Averaging it out to 5:30, it would take about another 20 minutes to a half hour (of driving in rush-hour traffic on Manheim Road ) to reach the TriState Tollway, to begin the journey up to Muskego. Now, it’s 6:00 PM.
Barring any traffic jams, it took about 90 minutes to travel from Chicago to Muskego, which would make it approximately 7:30 by the time I arrived there.
Once I pulled into the yard, and backed my straight truck up to the rear end of the trailer that I was offloading the medical waste onto, and opened the doors, another 15 minutes had been taken up, and the actual offloading was another solid 60 to 75 minutes, and then, another 15 minutes to do my paperwork and drop it off, so we’re talking 8:45 to 9:00 PM.
Another 90 minutes later I was back in Chicago, so, now it was around 10:30 PM.
It would take another 30 to 45 minutes to do my post trip on the first truck and the pre-trip on my second truck, and grab my paperwork for the second trip, so, I wasn’t leaving the yard until 11:00PM or 11:15PM.
“To lunch, or not to lunch?” : that was the question.
If I did stop some place (there were plenty of places to eat at between the yard and the tollway), that meant approximately another half hour to park the truck, go inside some restaurant, order my food, bring it back out to my truck and eat it in the cab. So, now, it’s 11:30 to 11:45.
15 minutes later, I was back on the highway, and 90 minutes later, I was back in Muskego around 1:15AM.
The “stopwatch” starts all over again with the coupling of the rear ends of the two trucks, the unloading of the cargo, and the filling out of the paperwork. So, now, it’s 2:45AM, or so.
Another 90 minutes later I’m back in the yard in Chicago, and it’s now 4:00 or 4:15AM
Another half hour later, I’ve finished my second post-trip, and my time-card related paperwork, and I’m ready to go home, at 4:30 to 4:45AM.
That’s, essentially, an 12-hour shift.
Four hours of overtime per night.
Time and a half, at $10.00 per hour straight time, meant $15 per hour overtime at 4 hours per shift ($60) multiplied by 5 days per week : an extra $300 per week on my paycheck—and that’s with me rushing through the job; or, at least, not milking the job.
If there was a snow storm, or hard rain fall, traffic on the highway would come to a crawl, and it could easily take 2 hours or more one way to get to Muskego and the same time frame coming back, multiplied by two trips per shift, and it’s easy to see how a driver could find himself pulling into the yard at 7:00AM, on a 14-hour shift!
Lots of overtime during crappy weather.
But, nice weather? I’m done by 4:30 to 5:00AM.
2. The MILKED Shift
But not for some of my cohorts, who were making a much-larger hourly wage than I was. Another driver, Mike W, was at scale, which was somewhere in the neighborhood of $18 per hour—which made his overtime rate of $27 per hour.
a. Mike W.
He’d finish a solid hour to 1.5 hours after I returned to the yard.
His paychecks made mine look like minimum wage.
b. Don
Another guy, Don, was also at scale, but his time frame was about the same as mine—he might pull into the yard at the end of the shift, maybe a half hour later than me, but not much longer after that.
BUT …
c. Kelly…The Trouble Maker
This one guy, Kelly (who reminded me of my oldest brother, Tom, in looks) always milked it every shift.
He could’ve had a load of “only one container per load”, and he’d still stroll into the yard at 6:00AM; and if bad weather was part of the equation, it was essentially a “double” shift for him.
One evening, on my second trip up to Muskego, I saw Kelly pulled over on the shoulder on the TriState (just a mile or so south of the Wisconsin border), but he didn’t have any of his Road Hazard equipment on display (i.e., D.O.T Regulations require a driver, whose truck is broken down on a roadway, to display highly-visible, reflective devices on the shoulder behind the truck so other motorists can see the potential hazard in the roadway).
He had no triangles or flares displayed, so, I put on my flashers, pulled up behind him, put on my air brakes, and got out of my truck to see if there were any problems.
I walked up to his tractor, and tapped on his window before peaking inside, and seeing him lying down sleeping (he had a bench seat in his tractor; so he was able to stretch out horizontally) .
Startled, he sat up and rolled down the window and reacted as though I had a problem for him to solve.
“What’s up?” he asked rubbing his eyes, “What’s the problem?”
“Um, nothing with me.” I replied, “I thought you were broken down, or somethin’. But I saw you didn’t have your triangle out or anything. I was just making sure, you were alright.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” he said with a tone of disappointment in his voice, ” I was just taking a break.”
“Ok, cool. Just checking, Dude.” I said, with a nod, as I stepped down off his tractor’s steps, and returned to my truck, to go on my way.
About a month later, he approached me in the yard before we took off on our first run.
“Hey, listen,” he began, trying to sound “friendly” and not like someone about to make a threat. “It seems like you’re always the first one in the yard each night.”
I immediately knew where this was going. But I figured I had to let him finish whatever he was going to say, just so I didn’t make any assumptions (about what I expected him to say) that would later turn out to be not accurate.
“Ya’ know, you could slow down a tad. It’s not a race.” he added, “We don’t need anyone making any of us look bad.”
Unfortunately, for me, I didn’t exactly heed his warning, as I continued on in my regular routine of finishing my shift between 4:30 and 5:00AM.
Consequently, one morning when I pulled into the yard at the end of my shift, I found all four of my tires flattened.
Fortunately, for me, whoever the culprit was did not actually damage my tires with cuts or punctures, but rather they merely let the air out.
I realized what was going on, but there was no way I could prove who did it, although I knew why it was done.
In any case, upon discovering this inconvenient warning, I walked over to the garage, and the man who was in charge when Jack was not around (I forget the guy’s name) was in his office, and I told him what the problem was, and he sent one of the mechanics with a portable, truck-mounted air compressor, over to my car, and he re-inflated my tires, and I was able to go on my way.
Although I had “received the message”, I was unable to comply with the “milk-the-job” threat in the sense that even though I never hurried through my shift to begin with, even “dragging my feet” resulted in me pulling into the yard ahead of everyone else. I just couldn’t go any slower without stopping at a friend’s house for a visit or something along those lines.
Although my tires were never again flattened, I only lasted at that job for a few more months for reasons that had nothing to do with the threat, but rather for reasons pertaining to my comfort with “mechanical” things, which is a topic I will cover in more detail in a different post.
III. Conclusion
For now, though, the main point of this post was that I didn’t like the intrinsic corruption of Temp Agencies…or Union Workers
According to Google, the average age that people get married is between 25 to 30 years of age.
I didn’t fall into that category since I didn’t “tie the knot” until I was 44 years old.
As far as the median age that people buy their first home is concerned, that stat is currently at 47 years of age—way up from the 31 years of age it was in 1981.
In my case, I was a lot closer to the current stat than the earlier one, since I bought our house when I was 44 years old, as well—the same age I was when I got married.
Both of those events occurred in the same year of 2007.
Something else also happened in 2007, along with my other two milestones: I was diagnosed with cancer.
Specifically, Stage 3, esophageal cancer, with growths in my stomach, as well—so there was some spreading of the disease throughout my innards.
Traci, my wife, must’ve thought, “This can’t be happening! We just got married, bought a house, and are just starting out our lives together! And now, I’m going to be a widow already?”
That’s what my surgeon told me : that I’d likely be dead in less than a year, at the rate the cancer was spreading.
But here I am, 13 years later, and still among the living—although with this nasty new pandemically-affected world we’re living in, I often wish I hadn’t made it.
But wishes aside, here I am.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. THE SYMPTOMS
II. THE DIAGNOSIS / PROGNOSIS
-A. THE UPPER G.I. SCOPE OF THE TUMOR
III. THE TREATMENT
-A. THE CHEMOTHERAPY
—1. THE CHEMO MEDICINES AND THEIR SIDE EFFECTS
—2. THE MEDICINES TO COUNTERACT THE CHEMO’S SIDE EFFECTS
-B. THE RADIATION
—1. RADIATION’S SIDE EFFECTS
——a. SORE THROAT
——b. DENTAL PROBLEMS
—2. MY “TATTOOS”
-C. THE SURGERY
—1. PRE-SURGERY : ERRONEOUS ASSUMPTIONS AND CONFIDENCE
—2. SURGERY : MY TWO HEART ATTACKS AND ITEMS SURGICALLY REMOVED
-D. THE SMOKING CESSATION PROGRAM
IV. THE POST-SURGERY RECOVERY : A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ME!
-A. MY WEIGHT
-B. MY DIET
-C. MY THERMOLOGICAL COMFORT ZONE
I. THE SYMPTOMS
How did all of this commotion get started in the first place?
Well, it all started when I began to choke on food—twice!
The first time was when we grilled up some boneless chicken breasts on our gas grill.
While going through the normal routine and chewing and swallowing, the swallowing part presented some problems.
I couldn’t get the food down my gullet all the way. It would get stuck mid-way, and as I tried to push it down with water, the water, itself, came back up rather violently, with the food still lodged in my pipe.
Fortunately, it wasn’t my wind pipe, since that would have made breathing impossible, and I’d probably would not have lasted beyond a minute or two—in other words, I’d likely would have expired by the time my wife finished dialing 9-1-1.
Instead of “Send me an ambulance, quick!”, it would have been “Send over the funeral home’s herst.”
In any case, eventually I gave up trying to get it down, and somehow succeeded in regurgitating the un-swallowed portion into the garbage can, and being so exhausted from the unsuccessful attempt to get it down, I no longer had an appetite to eat anymore, although I was still able to swallow liquids, once the food was dislodged.
A few weeks later, the same thing happened with some hot dogs : I started choking on them, too, as they wouldn’t go all the way down the pipe, and I had to dislodge them with several “dry heaves” before orally expelling them into the garbage can.
“No more friggin’ chicken or hot dogs for you until you get that checked out!” my wife exclaimed, understandably concerned that something unseen was occurring inside of me.
I. THE DIAGNOSIS / PROGNOSIS
So, I made an appointment with my primary, who asked me a battery of questions, including the expected one of “Do you smoke?”.
The answer, at that time, was, of course, “Yes!”, and after checking my vitals and groping around my neck area, she wrote me a referral to go to the nearest urgent care facility that was equipped with the necessary equipment to further investigate the possible causes of my swallowing problems.
They did a CT scan and found some anomalies that warranted more tests, so they sent me to a my gastrointestinal specialist who did an upper G.I. scope and took some pictures and found the likely cause of my swallowing problems : a tumor in my esophagus that almost completely closed off the pathway when it was misbehaving at its worst, and otherwise allowing smaller particles of food to pass through when it was in “dereliction of its evil duties” to make swallowing food or water an impossibility.
A. THE UPPER G.I. SCOPE OF THE TUMOR
Upper G.I. Scope of My Esophageal Tumor
In the upper left corner is the monster that was causing all my problems. It kind of resembles the shape of an embryo, doesn’t it?
In the upper right corner, the monster looks larger, because the camera is closer, and the pressure of the camera “squeezing by” shows the camera’s passing actually dilating the passage, creating the impression that there’s an opening when there really wasn’t.
The lower right picture shows the camera past the point of the tumor, where although it’s wide open, was also the pathway for the tumor to spread into my stomach, which it did.
One thing was for sure : that tumor could not stay; it had to be removed, since it was only going to grow larger and larger
Then, it was off to a surgeon, who said to me, something along the lines of, “If we don’t get that removed A.S.A.P., you’ll likely be dead in less than 12 months!”
Then, prior to surgery, we needed to get that tumor to stop growing in the first place, and to do that we needed some form of medicine to make that happen.
III. THE TREATMENT
No “one, single therapy” was going to suffice to “curing” me of my disease.
According to the guidelines of the medical/ pharmacological fields, there was going to be :
[a] chemo to help fight any cancerous cells;
[b] radiation to help shrink the tumors into not growing at all; and
[c] surgery, to remove whatever was left over from the bombardment of chemicals and radiation (i.e., remaining cancerous tissues ).
—–A. THE CHEMOTHERAPY
Welcome to chemotherapy.
———-1. THE CHEMO MEDICINES AND THEIR SIDE EFFECTS
I had two drugs prescribed to me :
[1] Xeloda® ( pronounced zǝ lō’ dǝ )
it’s generic name : Capecitabine, pronounced kāp sī ‘ tǝ bean )
…was a pill that I swallowed, at home, or wherever ; and
…was an infusion (i.e., injection), which could only be administered in a physician’s office or hospital setting.
I had a boss who was diagnosed with cancer ( two years before I was ) , although his diagnosis came way too late, since his lung cancer had metastasized into his bone marrow and other organs, and he passed away somewhere around a year ( give or take a month) after his initial diagnosis.
In any case, he told me something that I later discovered to be very true.
Specifically, what he said was, that after he got his initial does of chemo, he “felt nothing”; But….
A day, or so, later, it hit him “like a train” : he had no energy; he was nauseated; and he had no appetite.
I can tell you from first hand experience, he was not lying.
My experience was also along the exact same lines : my first 24 hours after my initial infusion were essentially normal—I felt no negative effects.
But, somewhere in the middle of my second day, it hit me “like a train”, as well.
I was lethargic, nauseated, and I had zero appetite.
Moreover, as the weeks rolled by, I was also constantlycold—a side effect of the infusion, Eloxatin.
In fact, my boss walked in on me in the conference room ( with the door closed, of course; but I couldn’t use the men’s room, since someone was already in there with the door locked ) one afternoon, spreading the heat-generating Ben Gay aching-muscle medicine on my legs to make me feel warm—I was so cold, that it felt like it was in my bone marrow. I was that cold. I couldn’t escape the shivers.
In fact, the manufacturer of the medicine provided gloves and a scarf to protect patients using the medicine from the cold; especially, the gloves, which were essentially mandatory, in that I was warned that grabbing cold items, say, out of a refrigerator, or perhaps, the metal handle of a pipe wrench in an unheated warehouse ( where I worked ) , or an outside door knob on a cold winter’s day, could cause a tingling ( e.g., when your hand feels like it fell asleep, with that “thousand pins and needles” feeling ) sensation in my fingertips that could become a permanentneuropathy.
Who wants that for the rest of their life?
I was also told by my boss ( well after my treatment; perhaps even a year later ) that throughout the duration of my chemo, I made lots of mistakes in my paperwork, but they overlooked my propensity to make those mistakes because they knew it was the mental lethargy resulting from the medicine that was causing those mistakes, and not anything to do with me as a worker, per se.
Now, that’s an understanding boss to say the least.
———-2. THE MEDICINES TO COUNTERACT THE CHEMO’S SIDE EFFECTS
Marinol
Although my oncologist prescribed me Marinol® (the pill version of Cannabis), I found that the smoked plant version worked better, and was far easier to acquire, than waiting for an official prescription being called in by a licensed physician.
Specifically, the pill was only to be taken according to the directions on the label.
Once swallowed, it did not offer any “immediate” relief; nor did I experience any noticeable hunger in the “munchies” sense; and although it did “numb” the nausea, to a certain degree, it, by no means, wiped it out in it’s totality.
Cannabis
In contrast, though, for me, my personal experience was such that smokingCannabis beat Marinol in every metric : it could be taken at any time; and it worked much faster on both hunger and nausea.
Thus, for example, if Traci said she was making dinner and that it would be ready by 7:00PM, if I took two, one-hitters by 6:00PM to 6:15PM, I actually had a touch of the munchies, by the time dinner was ready.
I didn’t have to force myself to eat. It wasn’t a labor of chewing and chewing and chewing, trying to find the desire to swallow.
I actually had an appetite, ( i.e. , the munchies ), and I actually looked forward to eating ( despite the possibility of choking—so I made sure I chopped my food up into tiny bits to make it easier to get past that blockage in my esophagus ).
I really can’t say that about Marinol, though.
And where nausea was concerned, smokedCannabis worked even faster—much faster on nausea than Marinol.
We’re talking minutes, not hours!
If I was experiencing nausea at any given moment, two hits and within five minutes(!) ( not 30 minutes; not two hours; not four hours; but literally five minutes ) there was zero nausea.
I mean, how could any patient say “no” to that?
Even though I had Marinol pills prescribed me, they sat in the medicine cabinet un-swallowed and unused.
My oncologist eventually—within the first two months of my treatment—stopped prescribing me the Marinol, when I inadvertently let it be known that I wasn’t taking the pills since I was electing to utilize the natural plant version instead.
I didn’t actually tell them, per se, but rather they found out when one of his nurses was about to take my vitals and blood pressure (which they always did prior to going into the chemo room, where there were recliners to sit in, while they pumped a bag of infusion in through my port) and she asked me to remove my sweatshirt, so she could take my blood pressure, and what-not.
As I was removing my outer-most pull-over hoodie sweatshirt, my Bic lighter fell out of the “kangaroo pouch” and it landed on the floor.
“You’re not still smoking, are you?!” she asked me with a sense of deep concern in her voice, as she saw me bend over to retrieve the lighter from the floor..
“Not cigarettes.” I replied, with an embarrassed smile on my face.
What happened next actually occurred ( although a friend of mine, who was also a chemo patient, but who ultimately ended up passing away, did not believe me; he thought I was embellishing the story, but I wasn’t; it actually happened! ).
When I replied, “Not cigarettes”, she grinned, shook her head, opened the exam room door, stepped out into the hallway, and shouted to the doctor , whose office was at the end of the hallway, “No need for the Marinol; he has his own supply!”
I swear on a stack of Bibles! I couldn’t believe it, and I could easily see why it does seem a bit exaggerated, but it’s not.
A few moments later, just prior to going into the chemo room, my doctor came into the exam room to do his thing of looking down my throat, and feeling my lymph nodes, and all that other diagnostic stuff, and he wanted to clarify what my intentions were : did I want the Marinol, or did I want to see my corner pot dealer?
He simply did not see any point in double-dosing me ( i.e., prescribing me the Marinol, on top of me using the all-natural plant version at the same time—NOR did he tell me to stop the plant version, either. He was completely supportive of my decision either way I went. He simply asked me to make a choice between the two, and he’d be glad to prescribe me the Marinol if I chose to not use the plant, or I could continue using the plant and he’d stop writing the prescriptions for the pharmaceutical version ). I chose the latter option. and he was completely fine with that decision.
In fact, he signed my medical Cannabis form, but I never processed it for reasons that I could do an entire post on, all by itself, which I might still end up doing.
But for this post, I’m not going to go into those details.
Back then, recreational was not legal yet, so, I elected to just score on the black market.
But the short and long of it was that Cannabis worked!; and it worked much better than the Marinol did for me!
—–B. THE RADIATION
Unlike the chemo treatments, which usually took an hour to perform ( since dripping liquids being pumped in through an I.V. bag was like continental drift in comparison) the radiation treatments were complete within minutes.
It almost felt like it wasn’t worth showing up for the treatments since it wouldn’t seem that there would be much benefit to treatments that took less time to perform, than it did to order food at the drive-thru at McDonald’s on a slow day.
———-1. RADIATION’S SIDE EFFECTS
But like chemo, radiation, too, had it’s side effects, among which were : [1] a sore throat; and [2] subsequent dental problems.
Sore Throat
A treatment for that discomfort came not from the department that performed the radiation treatments, but rather from my oncologist’s office.
They gave me (what I later learned was a very common mixture used widely by many physicians working with certain cancer patients ) a three-way concoction that had codeine, lidocaine, and a third drug with a name that escapes me at the moment.
The medicine was designed to minimize the discomfort associated with treatments such as mine.
Dental Problems
Another aspect of my radiation treatments is that they seemed to have exacerbated whatever problems I had going on in the realm of dental health.
Like many, if not most, people, I had my fair share of fillings, root canals, and extractions. So, my mouth didn’t exactly qualify for modeling jobs in the dental health field.
Although I brushed every day, I admit that I didn’t always floss, except when I ate meat, and bits of food got stuck in between my teeth, which was always bothersome enough to warrant yanking off a length of waxed dental string to remove those irritating nuisances.
But, no meat, or irritations? No flossing.
Bad policy!
Moreover, never having any disposable income (having earned so little income—barely over minimum wage—in life that I always had to struggle to find money to put gas in the tank to get to work ) I only went to the dentist for urgent care —e.g., a sore tooth or an abscess—but never for routine checkups. There just wasn’t any disposable funds to do that with.
Consequently, during my weakest period of my life ( i.e., during chemo and radiation treatments) my dental health really took a dive as was manifested when I lost two teeth—without an official extraction.
How so?
I’m glad you asked.
Being on chemo, there was a constantnasty taste in my mouth, so I always had a bottle of Crest® Oral Health mouth wash in my bag to rid me of that nastiness that I just can’t describe since there’s nothing in nature to compare it to.
Any flavor that would help mask that chemo-related unpleasantness in my mouth was always a welcomed offering.
So, for example, at many banks, when you walk up to one of their teller windows and you make a deposit or cash a check, or whatever, there’s often a container with some form of candy for the customer to take and enjoy.
At my bank, the container was filled with suckers and lollipops.
On not one, but two, separate occasions, I took one of those lollipops to enjoy on my ride home from the bank.
The first time, I was on the highway, driving around the “speed limit” (yeah, right—and if you believe that, I got swampland in Arizona to sell you, LOL) and I popped that lollipop into my mouth, sucking and biting down on it, with the radio jamming tunes, and I’m in my own little world.
We’re all familiar with our own mouths and how things sound when we’re crunching down on something. We can tell when the sound of the crunch is a “good” one—and when it’s not.
This was one of those not good-sounding crunches.
I grabbed the stick of the lollipop to pull it out of my mouth to see if there was anything ominous-looking about the lollipop itself, but….
I couldn’t pull it out of my mouth : the lollipop was stuck to the tooth.
I kept tugging on the stick to no avail; it wasn’t coming out.
“Uh, oh! This ain’t good!” I thought to myself as I drove at highway traffic speed while trying to engage in an oral examination by looking into my mouth in the rear-view mirror, which means my eyes are not on the road.
Now, my mouth seems to be watering excessively and I’m swallowing unnatural amounts of saliva being generated by whatever unidentified causes.
Almost in a panic, since I couldn’t give my mouth the attention it needed, I couldn’t wait to get to a point where I could safely pull over and check out what was going on in my mouth.
But I was actually almost home. I was about three miles ( and two unbelievably long traffic lights, once I was off the expressway ) from pulling out in front of the house, where I could then run to the bathroom, and give my mouth the attention it so badly needed.
But, at the same time, the lollipop being stuck to my tooth wasn’t something that I could calmly deal with until I got home. I couldn’t help but tug on the lollipop’s stick.
Suddenly, I heard something crack, and it didn’t sound like a “crunch”, but rather something breaking—and it didn’t sound like the lollipop.
I gave another tug, and I felt not only the lollipop move, but I felt a suction at the gum level, and now the lollipop had moved to a position where it was higher in my mouth, and I could not close my jaw all the way.
Now, my mouth was salivating even more, and I had to keep closing my lips around the stick to keep the excessive saliva from leaking out and cascading all over my shirt.
“This is a nightmare!” I kept thinking to myself, as the distance from home seemed to be lengthening, like in one of those dreams, where the door at the end of the hallway keeps getting farther and farther away no matter how fast you run.
In this case, people were tapping their brakes and braking for hallucinations; putting on their “left” turn signals—only to swerve into the right lane at the very last moment; trucks were suddenly downshifting and braking, when there were no vehicles ahead of them to warrant the change in gears or speed.
Anything that could slow me down was happening right before my very eyes!
“WTF! Everyone get the f— out of my way, you stupid S.O.B.’s!” was my attitude as I swerved like a madman around all those jokers and rushed home to address the emergency going on inside my mouth.
Just short of the exit ramp to get off the expressway, my last tug on the stick, removed the lollopop—and the tooth it was stuck to.
The whole tooth ( an un-crowned, dead, root-canal’d tooth) was stuck to the lollipop, but only a tiny amount of blood came with it.
I pulled out in front of my house and ran inside straight to the bathroom, to look at the inside of my mouth in the dimly-lit mirror.
Although the I felt almost no pain at the point of the initial “extraction”, once I saw the mildly-bloodied hole in the gum, I started to feel enough pain to warrant taking four 200-milligram ibuprofens (home-made “prescription” strength).
The second time a lollipop extracted another tooth, it was pretty much ditto of the first time : same highway; same speed; same flavored lollipop; same panicked reaction; same idiots getting in my way as I rushed home, etc.
Almost deja vu.
The only difference between the two incidents, was the first one took place during my treatment, and the second occurrence, was post-treatment.
Needless to say, I don’t suck on ( much less, bite down on ) lollipops anymore.
I now sport a big, bushy moustache to camouflage my otherwise jack-o-lantern smile.
———-2. MY “TATTOOS”
Also, one other possibly noteworthy fact was that although , officially, I have no tattoos, technically, I do, in the sense that for the radiology technicians to aim their weapons precisely, they gave me three tiny green dots : one near my solar plexus, and the other two, on my sides somewhere below my arm pits that they’d aim their radiation “beams” at.
So, if some tattoo aficionado ever asks me where my tattoos are, I could remove my shirt and show him, but, I’m afraid, he’ll be straining his eye, since the dots are so tiny, a magnifying glass might be needed to see them.
But they’re there.
—–C. THE SURGERY
Who doesn’t enjoy having their skin slit open with a razor-sharp scalpel and having their innards surgically removed, and then having the wound stapled shut?
Me! That’s who!
———-1. PRE-SURGERY : ERRONEOUS ASSUMPTIONS AND CONFIDENCE
Before being rolled into an actual operating room, I was on a gurney out in some hallway, where I couldn’t help but notice how cold it was in there, and it wasn’t the chemo acting this time.
One could almost, but not quite, see one’s own breath.
I would later learn that such tweaking of the immediate environment was intentional, since cold rooms inhibit the incubation of germs—the most unwelcome entity in an operating room where sterility is of paramount importance.
So, cold is good; warm, bad!
Also, there’s an episode of M*A*S*H, where Doctor Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce ( played by Alan Alda ) talks about a wounded soldier that had (i.e., pre-sugery) displayed a flattering amount of confidence in his surgical skills.
I forget his line verbatim, but it was something along the lines of “…and he gave me this look of confidence…”
Well, that’s exactly how I responded when I saw my surgeon approach me in the hallway prior to surgery.
So, wherever you are, Dev Sharma, thank you.
I simply had no worries about the situation that I was about to face—although, in retrospect, the situation did present unforeseen complications no one anticipated.
Moreover, since I hadn’t had any surgery since I was a kid when I had my appendix and my tonsils removed, I couldn’t remember any of the details pertaining to any post-surgical discomfort or recovery time.
In that fog of ignorance, I woefully underestimated the negatives of the aftermath of my surgery.
Specifically, just before I took my absence of leave from work to go have that surgical procedure done, I remember telling my boss, “See you in a couple of weeks!”
A couple of weeks, huh?
Sure thing, Floyd.
I didn’t return until a minimum of two months had passed—and even that was premature.
The only reason I came back that soon was because the only other guy in the office, a man named, Tad, had, himself, left for surgery—in this case, a double knee operation, and my boss, Mike, would’ve had no one to help him.
So, I returned, under a limited-duties capacity —i.e., I couldn’t lift anything heavy, which was defined as anything heavier than air.
———-2. SURGERY : MY TWO HEART ATTACKS AND ITEMS SURGICALLY REMOVED
Specifically, I had not one, but two, heart attacks while on the gurney in surgery.
What caused them?
Well, according to Doctor Sharma, the radiation treatments had literally fused my esophagus to a portion of my heart, and when they ( there were two surgeons, actually—whether that’s a requirement, or just good medicine, I’m not sure) tried to slice the fused portion of the esophagus away from the heart, that triggered the heart attacks (plural).
Plus, I was on that table for 19 hours!
They had to have taken a “cigarette break” or two throughout that time frame—I simply can’t see accuracy being a component of any procedure where fatigue would likely have reared it’s ugly head.
So, what did they do throughout this marathon 19-hour operation?
They removed four things :
[1] The lowerthree-fourths of my esophagus—including my LES (lower esophageal sphincter : the valve that keeps stomach acids from percolating back up into the esophagus ) ;
[2] The tophalf of my stomach ;
[3] my spleen; and
[4] fourlymph nodes.
Oh, and my sense of humor and my love for music—for about a year. I didn’t even pick up my guitar or find enjoyment in anything over the course of the following 15 months , or so.
—–D. THE SMOKING CESSATION PROGRAM
I actually quit smoking cigarettes within the first two months of my chemo and radiation treatments.
It wasn’t as though I was officially enrolled in some program, or anything like that, but rather, I simply couldn’t handle how crappy smoking made me feel during my chemo and radiation treatments; and believe me, I tried to quit smoking several times before ( i.e., cold turkey; hypnosis, and medicinal injections; step-down method; voodoo; whatever I thought would do the trick ) but without any success.
Although I was by no means a “chain smoker”, I definitely smoked around a pack a day ( just over or under—depending on whether it was a stressful day or a relaxed one; the former contributing to more smoking); and back in the day, in my twenties and early thirties, when I was still in my bar-hopping days, I’d smoke closer to two packs if I went out drinking all night.
Plus, I was a “full flavor” (i.e. full strength ) smoker—none of that “light” nonsense for me. When I took a drag, I wanted my ass kicked by a dose of nicotine that would make an elephant dizzy.
My normal brand was Marlboro® “Red“—or “Muds“as they were often referred to as; and, I wanted them as long as possible. So, I smoked “100’s” instead of “Kings”, although Kings were a bit stronger, which I liked, but it seemed like a mere four or five drags, and the cigarette was done; but the 100’s gave me that extra two or three drags that I wanted.
Furthermore, my parents smoked Pall Mall Red (non-menthol) non-filters, which were even stronger, and I really enjoyed one of those when I’d stop by their house and my mom would make one of her awesome Sunday evening dinners of Chicken and Dumplings ( and post-meal cigarettes were always the most enjoyable ones) and I’d sit in one of the recliners and smoking that cigarette like I was toking on a joint or something.
So, I was not exactly a “light” smoker, and getting me to quit was about as easy as getting a conservative Republican to embrace the ideas of free healthcare and college for illegal immigrants, and making taxpayers ( who did NOT receive free healthcare or college) pay for it out of their paychecks.
Sacrilege!
But chemo and radiation succeeded where official smoking cessation programs failed miserably.
Another contributing element was the fact that I was a non-menthol smoker, whereas my wife favored menthols.
Specifically, she was smoking Virginia Slim® Menthol Lights at the time I was going through my treatments.
Although I quit officially buying cigarettes, I still had “the urge”.
Just because one needs to quit smoking, doesn’t mean the addiction suddenly and magically disappears. The withdrawal symptoms were in hyper mode, and my ” Jonesin’ ” made me think I wanted to smoke a cigarette the size of my one of my legs.
However, inhaling tobacco smoke when your lungs feel slightly raw from radiation treatments, tends to simulate the sensation of touching raw skin under a punctured blister, which, to say it “stings” is an understatement.
On top of the stinging sensation was the chemo factor : being queasy just from the chemo alone, made smoking tobacco unmistakably more contributory toward more overall discomfort.
Thus, chemo plus radiation equals one hell of a smoking cessation program.
The Price Factor
It worked! I don’t smoke anymore; and, at the prices shown below, I’m thankful I don’t. A carton would cost well over $100 dollars.
The HIGH Cost of Cigarettes—In Illinois
I remember, back in the 1970’s, hearing people say, “When cigarettes are a dollar a pack, that’s when I quit!”
Boy, if only they could see these prices! LOL.
When I quit smoking cigarettes in 2007, Illinois’ prices were somewhere in the $6.00-and-up price range for brand names, and maybe a dollar less for certain generics.
But living on the border between Illinois and Indiana, I never bought smokes again in Illinois, and I was getting Charter® brand ( Speedway’s own private labeled brand) for around $3.00 a pack.
And there was a website, allourbutts.com (on an Indian reservation somewhere in upstate New York ) where I bought a few cartons online at $14.95 a carton.
But post-quitting?
I forget the exact year, but one day, (long after buying my last pack) I was driving west-bound on 95th Street in Hickory Hills ( I think?) and there was a Walgreens store that had a banner outside that read something along the lines of “Marlboro’s only $95.00 a carton!”
I almost slammed on the brakes in the middle of traffic to re-read that sign to make sure I hadn’t misread it.
“Ninety five dollars?! For a Carton?! Wow! What happened there?!” I thought in shock at how much prices had increased in only a few short years.
The Addiction Factor Was Intentional
But it’s long since known that tobacco companies have deliberately spiked their products with all kinds of chemicals that increase the addictive factor exponentially.
On more than one occasion, I’ve seem assertions that nicotine is more addictive than heroin! Whether or not that’s true I’ve never actually verified; but being that I could not quit via normal methods , and my wife has twice returned to smoking after briefly quitting due to pulmonary problems, I can certainly believe that tobacco is definitely one of the most addictive drugs known to the common consumer!
There is no legitimate reason to doubt that contention.
IV. THE POST-SURGERY RECOVERY : A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ME!
There are many things about me that have changed post-treatment. Among them are : [1] My weight; [2] My diet ; and [3] My thermological comfort zone.
—–A. My Weight
At the time of my diagnosis, I would have been officially defined as morbidly obese being only 5’6″ in height while also being 260 pounds in weight.
Although, I have to admit, that I don’t put too much faith in those kinds of metrics since I had a boss, who was a body builder who was all muscle, at slightly over 200 pounds, but who still, by definition, was defined as “borderline obese”.
You get the impression that they’re talking about some porker who’s as round as human-sized volley ball, when, the actual picture is some guy who looks a bit like a miniature Arnold Schwarzenegger.
What a total misrepresentation of reality! And that’s the official guidelines to assessing whether someone’s “obese” or not. Wow!
Consequently, though, seeing such deliberately skewed misrepresentations of reality, I would view many such assessments with a high degree of suspicion given their propensity to use a term like “obese” ( which automatically—and erroneously, in many cases— conjures up images of fat or cellulite or other “undesirable” characteristics) to describe someone whose weight is largely muscle, not fat, and who was healthy and strong enough to where he could probably lift the rear end of a small car if needed.
At the peak of my treatment, I lost more than half my weight, and was down to 125 pounds—I was literally half the man I used to be.
Nowadays, though, I’m back up in the 160-pound range, which, according to google, puts me a whopping four pounds over the 128-to-156-pound range.
I’m sure, by some unethical person’s standards, those four pounds put me somewhere in the “obese” range.
Oh, shame on you, whoever you are.
—–B. My Diet
I’ve never been put on any kind of official calorie-restrictive diet, since there has never been a need to, given that I don’t eat that much. My appetite is not what it used to be.
Specifically, pre-cancer, I would eat cereal in what would look like a “mixing” bowl to some people.
Although I haven’t officially investigated any comparisons between what was officially considered a “serving size” and what I actually ate, I would feel comfortable in asserting that my typical bowl of cereal was likely a three-serving helping in a mixing bowl—with added sugar and fruit, such as bananas, strawberries, or blueberries.
The same goes for ice cream! Same bowl! With chocolate, strawberry, or caramel syrup added.
My typical peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich looked more like a Burger King Whopper!
All my fast food lunches and dinners were “supersized” with double burgers, biggie fries, and a vat of Coke or Pepsi, whatever they had on tap.
I could go over an entire menu of options that I over-indulged in, resulting in my five-by-five dimensions, but, I’m sure, you get the picture.
That description merely describes the quantities of what I ate—i.e., how much I ate.
What it doesn’t elaborate on is what I ate—which, according to most people, would likely be deemed “junk food”, which would be a fair assessment.
As far as my diet is concerned, I’ve always been a super picky eater, all my life.
I’m strictly, hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, fried chicken or fish fillets, potatoes, french fries, processed foods like individual frozen pizzas, PBJ’s, bacon, pork sausage, beef sandwiches, and the like.
One thing you’d never see me eat, though, would be…wait for it…
A salad…of any kind!
Why not?
There are two things in a salad : [1] vegetables; and [2] some kind of vinegar-based condiment, such as salad dressings .
I ABSOLUTELY DETEST BOTH.
I tried to eat a piece of lettuce one time, and I chewed and chewed and chewed, and eventually spit it out into a garbage can. I just couldn’t understand the attraction. It’s like eating a large leaf with thick veins. Yuck! Not for me.
Nor can I stand raw onions! My father used to slice one up and put it on a hamburger. Yuck! I couldn’t do that, either. BUT…I can eat cooked/sauteed onions on a White Castle hamburger, but if there’s too many, I’ll scrape off the excess and toss that in the garbage, as well.
What about tomatoes? Again, raw tomatoes, no way. Nasty! But if they’re cooked in a stew or a goulash or a similar dish, I can deal with it.
Carrots? Again, not raw. If they’re chopped into tiny pieces and thrown into a potato soup, or a peas-and-carrots side dish, they’re do-able; but I would never go out of my way to acquire them.
Other salad ingredients such as cucumbers, radishes, spinach, celery, etc, are also on my “that’s offensive” list.
One time, about 20 years ago, at an Olive Garden restaurant (which is not one of my favorite eateries; I was there only because I was with other people) I saw a woman sprinkle grated parmesan cheese on a salad, and the smell wafted over to me, and I almost blew my cookies the smell was so unpleasant to me, that I scooted away several chairs to get away from the stench.
Then, the other end of the salad paradigm : vinegar-based products such as salad dressings, and I’ve seen some people put plain vinegar on their salads.
That’s when I go running for the hills!
So, nature offers me very few alternatives to foods to eat, and thus, processed foods are the only ones that I can eat without being turned off in some way.
Also, one thing that I do differently now, is that I frequently eat my desserts before my meal, since that makes me feel more satisfied sooner, and I’m not likely to overeat on my main meal—i.e., I’m not likely to have a second serving of something, since that’s very likely to cause me post-meal digestive problems, such as nausea.
But now, post-cancer, pretty much all foods get me nauseated to some extent.
There are very few items that I can eat that are not likely to cause me some level of nausea (like certain potato chips–yes, they are technically “junk food” , but if they’re not making me nauseated, I’d prefer eating that to something “healthy” that does cause nausea).
Since nausea is my “new normal”, I’m very uncomfortable with dining out.
For example, when I got hired at a job about three years ago, the Vice President of Operations, and my sales manager took me out to an Applebees for a “Let’s-welcome-our-new-employee-to-the-company” lunch—and I was dreading every single second of it. But I couldn’t tell them that, since that would look like I was somehow ungrateful for the job, which I was not.
Being far more picky than even the pickiest teenager, there is almost nothing on commercial menus that I like; and that is not an exaggeration.
Applebee’s was no exception : I was the last one to pick something from the menu because literally, absolutely nothing appealed to me. If I remember correctly, I asked the waitress if I could get a certain chicken entree without all the garbage (i.e., no spices or sauces; just plain grilled chicken) that most people would find pleasant, and she said it was possible.
Judging from the looks on the faces of my new bosses, when I made the unusual request, I had to make up a story about certain things causing my post-cancer digestive system problems so that they could find some degree of acceptance in my unorthodox choices.
As far as the foods that I do like, I am getting better at digesting those foods that normally do cause nausea, by experiencing less nausea. But the decrease is so gradual it’s hardly noticeable.
For example, pre-cancer, I would have to drink a large glass of milk to feel “satisfied” after a meal.
Thus, for instance, what would make me feel more satisfied (full ) :
[a] two sandwiches with water or soda; ?; or
[b] one sandwich with milk?
Option ‘b’ would make me feel more satisfied, since the “coating” of my stomach from the milk seemed to fulfill whatever unwritten digestive requirement my body had.
Heck, even a third sandwich or a post-meal dessert would not even come close to the satisfaction I experienced with milk coating my stomach with only one sandwich eaten.
Nowadays, though, I can only have about four ounces of milk before nausea sets in.
It’s been 12 years now since my surgery, and I’m just now starting to be able to eat small bowls of cereal, and an occasional milk shake—a very tiny one.
I have, on occasion, tested the waters, and went beyond my normal “maximums” just to see if there were any negative results, and so far, there have been in every single case.
I’m not there yet; and my guess? I never will be. I might get better in small increments; but I’ll never again be able to do the things I did pre-cancer.
For a long time, when it came to tacos, I’d eat only the meat with some shredded cheese mixed in. I could not eat it with a taco shell—something about the shells made put me “over the top”; and even the meat alone, still gets me nauseated if I eat even a little too much.
Even peanut butter, which I’ve always loved all my life, causes nausea.
In fact, as I write these very words, I’m trying to digest the second sandwich ( the first sandwich eaten last night) of my very first jar of all-naturalpeanut butter which does not contain the hydrogenated vegetable oil that ( I assume) all regular commercial peanut butters do contain.
Although I’m not overtly nauseated like I would be with normal peanut butter, I am feeling a bit queasy, but I’m not sure if that’s merely psychosomatic in anticipation of forthcoming nausea, or if it’s an actual case of nausea, but only to a much milder extent.
Either way, the nausea factor is not “zero”.
Of course, ALL nausea is an easy fix : two hits of Cannabis, and “what nausea?”
Unfortunately, being currently unemployed, I have to take drug tests, and even in a state where Cannabis is legal for both medical and recreational use, it’s still a no-no in the realm of the job market.
If you test positive, you can kiss that job offer goodbye.
When you have a mortgage to pay, you just can’t take that chance.
Some jobs only have a pre-employment “whiz quiz”, while others call for ongoing randoms, particularly where federal law dictates it, such as CDL drivers licenses and public servants such as police and fire departments, and anything pertaining to to The Department of Transportation jobs, and, I’m sure, countless others not mentioned here.
So, I’m “required” to choose between : [a] having NO RELIEF; or [b] REMAIN UNEMPLOYED if I’m going to take my medicine.
Yes, like I said, I do have my oncologists signature on my medical Cannabis form, but handing it in for processing has multiple drawbacks, at least, in the state of Illinois, where I don’t want to be put on a list that no sane person wants to find his or her name.
Again, that story is for another post entirely.
Suffice it to say, I’m a “professional” at dealing with nausea every single day!
—–C. MY THERMOLOGICAL COMFORT ZONE
Finally, I’m always cold—and I always will be, according to both, my primary and my oncologist.
In both cases, they knew what my question was even before I finished asking it, which was, “Will I always be cold?”
I got as far as , “Will I always be..”
“Yep.” was their answer because they knew patients treated with Eloxatin® suffer some kind of change or damage to their thyroids that permanently sends their brains the erroneous message that they’re cold, even when it’s warm outside.
Thus, even in the summer, it’s not uncommon to see me with long sleeves on, because I’m only a few degrees away from feeling “chilled”; I can always roll up my sleeves if I’m feeling a bit on the warm side ( and that does happen when I’m exerting lots of energy, such as when I lifting boxes or something heavy) but I can’t roll them down if I’m suddenly chilled, and all I have on is a short-sleeved tee shirt.
But that’s who I am : I’m constantly nauseated and/or cold!
I would think most people would have a “small world” story, where, say, for example, they tell you they live in New York City, but one day was at a tourist shop in small town Montana, and they ran into their next door neighbor, and think, “What are the odds of that happening? Wow! What a small world, huh?”
Well, this is mine about a woman I once knew that I indirectly encountered her path two more times in life, after first meeting her 2,000 miles away from where we both lived, in the Chicago area.
This is the story about Toni Moffett.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. College Of Santa Fe
—–A. Finding Dojo On Campus
—–B. Hiding Dojo On Campus
—–C. Transporting Dojo Home From Santa Fe To Chicago—Via Toni
II. Hitching A Ride Home From Darien, Illinois
—–A. Getting A Ride TO the Bar
—–B. Getting A Ride FROM the Bar
———-1. My First Angel :Officer Friendly
———-2. My Second Angel : A Friend of Toni’s ( Small World )
III. Taking Over Toni’s Job At Brunner & Lay
I. College Of Santa Fe
Back in the autumn of 1984, I was in my first—and last—year at the College of Santa Fe (CSF), in Santa Fe, New Mexico (which, I learned recently, is now Santa Fe University—and probably has been for quite some time).
It was probably just before or after mid-terms ( approaching 40 years into my past, some of the lesser-important details got a little fuzzy along the way ), and I was still in my “Chuck Norris” mode and was in the middle of taking Shotokan Karate lessons on campus through a sensei by the name of Kerry Lee, who was an awesome dude.
So, wherever you’re at, and whatever you’re doing, my bow and respect to you, Sensei Lee.
At that time, I was a White Belt.
Today, I’m still a White Belt—LOL—having dropped out of the classes to take a part-time job for other financial reasons.
But, man, what a fun class that was : breaking balsa boards in half, LOL.
OK, they might have been pine or some other form of common wood, but I’m pretty confident they weren’t cut from rosewood, since there would have been a high frequency of broken bones, being that rosewood is a very hard wood ( and, thus, very hard to break), which could have only served to be more of a form of discouragement than encouragement.
But I digress.
In any case, in order to stroke our egos into thinking that we were all up-and-coming “bad asses” in the world of the martial arts, we were all encouraged to participate in the upcoming karate tournament at the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque; and I, for one, was among the first to sign up for that competition.
Since none of us had our own vehicles, we all got transported there in one of those extended-length passenger vans. There were probably eight or nine of us. I forget the exact count.
A. Finding Dojo On Campus
Although the tournament went on for several hours, I had the misfortune of winning only my first bout, but losing my second one.
We were probably just over a quarter of the way through the entire tournament, so I had plenty of time to wait around before getting a ride back to CSF.
So, I went back to the locker room, got dressed in my street clothes and decided to just wander around campus until the time and place of our regathering for the trip back to Santa Fe.
While walking around campus, I saw a woman with a puppy in tow.
The puppy appeared to be no more than a few ( three to four, maybe? ) weeks old, and it’s short legs made it seem like the puppy was running to keep up with the woman it was following.
As she walked by, I commented, “Cute puppy!”, to which she replied, “It’s not mine. It’s been following me ever since I left the library.”
“Really?!” I said both excited and concerned at the same time, since, in the latter sense, that implied the puppy was a homeless stray, and had no place to go to call “home”; and in the former sense, it was available for keeping if I so chose to go that route.
“Kss. Kss.” I called to the puppy with a phonetic sound that I’ve noticed both dogs and cats seem to respond to.
Immediately, the puppy stopped in its tracks, and turned to look at me.
“Aw! You’re such a cutie.” I smiled as it slowly walked over to me and I picked it up, and it sniffed my ear, giving me the goose bumps, and then licked my face.
“Sold!” I said with a gleeful chuckle as I hugged it, and noticed that it even had that puppy smell.
“Congrats! You’re now the proud owner of …whatever breed that is.” the woman laughed as she turned to walk away.
“Well, have a great day, Mam.” I said as she walked off, and I continued to pet my new-found canine friend.
I checked it’s gender, and it turned out to be a male.
In my family, at that moment in time, we had two previous dogs ( we still had the second one), and they were both females.
Our first dog, Rusty, a German Shepherd/Australian Sheep Dog mix, was approximately seven years old when she began to develop hip problems in the form of hip dysplasia, which, I’m told, is commonplace in German Shepherds (both pure breds and mixed breeds), and she was put to sleep shortly after the onset of her multiple problems. .
Our current dog ( at that time ), Frieda, a pure bred German Shepherd, was also around seven years old at the time I was in Santa Fe. She had some female problems, which were addressed surgically at the vet hospital, but otherwise she was, for the most part, a healthy dog.
Unfortunately, soon after bringing home my New Mexico find, Frieda’s health began to decline ( I sometimes wonder if the introduction of the new puppy into the household had anything to do with the sudden change in Frieda’s health—maybe dogs think they’re being replaced, or something along those lines, and somehow, “give up” inside) , and she, too, started to develop hip dysplasia problems, among other female-related complications, and ultimately had to be put down.
I miss all our dogs.
It’s impossible to not think of them as members of the family.
Meanwhile, back at UNM…
Here I was, in the middle of campus, with a new puppy dog, that I had no way of caring for—in the immediate sense—until we got back to CSF.
I had no vehicle to go driving around town to go find him some dog needs (e.g., dog food; bowls for food and water; collar; etc).
Moreover, the school cafeteria wasn’t open for another hour , or so, and even if it had been open, it would not have been likely that I’d would have been allowed to enter the cafeteria with a dog, and I had no one I could trust to watch the dog while I went inside to fetch him something to eat. For all I know, when I came back outside, the people I trusted to watch him, could have easily took off with him, and I just couldn’t take that chance.
So, it was just a matter of spending time with him—petting, caressing, and hugging while he continuously licked my face.
Neither one of us, it seemed, could get enough attention from the other; and I couldn’t wait until the tournament was over so we could all go home.
At last, what seemed like an eternity had finally passed , and all of us who participated in the tournament had reached our “finish lines” and were now ready to get back into the van and get back to campus.
When we gathered at our meeting spot, everyone saw that I had this puppy in my arms.
“Wow! Cool!” said one person, as he reached to pet the puppy.
“Where did ya’ get it?” he asked.
“Right here on campus.” I replied. “It was following some woman around, as she left the library, and when she told me it wasn’t hers, I realized it was mine!”
“What kind of dog is it?” asked another person.
“Heck if I know. But, it looks a bit Shepherd-ish if you ask me; and I absolutely love German Shepherds! My absolute favorite dog in the whole wide world!” I exclaimed. “I grew up with two already, and it looks like I’m now bringing home my third one.”
We were all starving, and needed to stop and get something to eat for the hour-long ride back to school.
Despite the well-known wisdom that it’s not the healthiest thing to do to feed human food to our pets, this particular situation called for bending the rules to a certain degree until I could get back to my dorm room, and start that ball rolling of getting him all the appropriate nutrition he’d otherwise benefit from.
So, en route, we stopped at McDonald’s and got the usual fare of hamburgers, fries and a soda, and, in my case, I grabbed a cup of ice water for the pooch.
So, as we rolled northbound up Interstate 25, we all scarfed our lunches, as I shared tiny bites of my hamburger with you-know-who.
“Is it a boy or girl?” the driver asked looking at me in the rear view mirror.
“Boy!” I replied.
“Got a name for him yet?” he added.
“Nah, not yet. And believe me, I’ve been tryin’ to think of one.” I said, watching him stick his nose toward the van’s open window sniffing whatever scents he was detecting in the wind.
I now had to think of a name for my four-legged friend with really soft fur.
Everyone offered up their own ideas of the usual names like Fido, Rover, Max, and what-have-you, and even the names “Chuck” (for Chuck Norris) and “Lee” (for Bruce Lee) both came up, and although I felt those names were, indeed, on the right track, I wasn’t convinced they were hitting the bulls eye just yet.
Then, it dawned on me : our paths would have never crossed had it not been for me attending one dojo ( i.e., martial arts school ) and traveling to a another school (UNM) to go spar with students of other karate schools.
The word “school” was written all over the situation, but “school” just didn’t seem to have any pizzaz whatsoever.
In contrast, though, but the Japanese word, “Dojo” did seem to fit.
“What about ‘ Dojo ‘ “? I asked to see what everyone’s reaction would be.
Although their reactions were lukewarm, at best, the puppy seemed to respond to it, since every time I said the word, he looked at me.
I’m sure it was my voice, and not the phonetics, per se, that triggered the sudden attention every time I said it. But, as long as he was responding to it, I was thinking of making that his name.
And Dojo was his name-o.
B. Hiding Dojo On Campus
Officially, dogs—as pets—were not allowed on campus.
The person who would otherwise be responsible for enforcing that rule, was a man by the name of Bo (assuming I’m spelling his name correctly) since he was the Housing Director.
Then, around 3:00 Am, one morning, I was out walking Dojo to let him do his duty, and guess who’s also out at 3:00AM and sees me with my dog?
Right. Bo.
“Shit!” I’m thinking to myself, “He’s gonna tell me that I have to give up my dog, or move off campus if I was to keep him.”
But he never came over to me, at that moment, and he never said a word afterward.
“Hmm. I wonder why?” I understandably pondered, feeling like I was getting a pass for something that was clearly not allowed.
Then, I found out about a week later, that Bo’s girlfriend, had to go out of town for a period of time ( a few days? a whole week? I never did find that part out ) and guess what? She had a dog that she needed watched while she was gone, and Bo agreed to babysit the dog—i.e., he had a dog in his apartment for the duration of his girlfriend’s absence.
“Whew!” I thought to myself, “That worked out in my favor.”
But I knew I couldn’t keep Dojo in my dorm room for the rest of the semester ( although that’s exactly what ended up happening), much less, the rest of the school year.
So, I had to somehow get him home to Chicago as soon as possible; and to do that, I first needed to get permission from my parents to bring him home in the first place, otherwise , all other questions would have been moot.
C. Transporting Dojo Home From Santa Fe To Chicago—Via Toni
Having received the “go-ahead” from both parents ( they both loved dogs—and my dad ended up reallyliking Dojo ) it was now a question of how to get him home.
The “how” became problematic when I discovered that Amtrak (my mode of transportation ) didn’t take pets (that was in 1984; they might allow it nowadays, but they didn’t then).
Airlines, however, did take pets, but I needed to know who, among CSF students, lived in the Chicago area, and was flying home.
Not finding someone to fly Dojo home was also problematic—and quite possible.
But I was fortunate.
There were two people on campus who were also from the Chicago area, and one of them, a woman by the name of Toni Moffett, agreed to do me that favor.
“THANK YOU, Toni!” was my reaction to her benevolence.
The only catch there (and it was a small one; nothing that I couldn’t handle) was that Dojo needed to be inoculated prior to flight.
So, I scraped up the $50 needed for the vet to do his thing, and all I needed to do was wait for Christmas break, when everyone went home.
It’s amazing that when I first found Dojo, he was only three or four weeks old, but, by the time he was flown home he would have been around 12 weeks old, and he had grown noticeably larger since the first day I laid hands on him.
What was actually frightening , was that the first day of Christmas Break, was that a real bad snowstorm was headed toward us, and it threatened to cancel flights out of Albuquerque.
But again, I was fortunate.
There was more than one kind-hearted person who went above and beyond the call of duty and offered to drive students expeditiously “now” (before the storm could hit and cause all kinds of problems), instead of having to wait for the scheduled shuttle that would normally transport CSF students down to Albuquerque .
So, off they went in the vehicles driven by “Super” students with Big “S’s” on their chests, as they got all those kids (and Dojo, too) to the airport, on time, and on their way home for holidays.
It was kind of funny, at one point on my train ride home, I had suddenly realized that while I was riding on a train—“second class”—Dojo was flying first class (with Doggy Champagne, I’m sure).
A few hours later, my brother, Jim, drove over to Toni’s apartment in Oak Park ( where she was from at that time ) to go pick Dojo up.
In contrast, my train trip (Amtrack’s Southwest Chief) was a 22-hour trip. So, I wasn’t expected to arrive in Chicago until the next day.
Dojo beat me home.
Another funny part of my trip was that I went past my house within a few hundred feet—literally, I could see my house as we passed through McCook (the town where I lived at that time) but because there was no station to load or unload passengers, we had to keep going all the way downtown—20 miles away!
I could see my house!
But we couldn’t stop the train. It was not an official stop.
If only they could have slowed down to about five miles per hour, I could have just jumped off at some point, while hoping to not sprain an ankle in the process, and I could’ve been home two hours sooner.
But no. Onward we trekked to Union Station.
I have to say, though, as a side note, having been eating institutional food for the past four months, I had a New York Strip steak in the dining car on the train, and I tell you, that was one of the greatest-tasting steaks I ever had!
Or, was it just that it was superior to cafeteria food? LOL.
Either way, I thoroughly enjoyed that steak.
But I finally got home! And there was Dojo, and I picked him up and hugged him again…and again…and again.
A couple hours later, he was lying on the kitchen floor, and I took my mom’s Kodak camera and took this picture, among many others.
Merry Christmas, Dojo! Welcome home!…
…And THANK YOU, Toni!
II. Hitching A Ride Home From Darien, Illinois
That was in December 1984 when Toni made it possible for Dojo to arrive home in McCook, Illinois.
Four and a half years later, in the summer of 1989, I was working at a now-defunct company called Recco Tool and Supply.
One Friday evening, I decided to hang out with one of my co-workers, a dude by the name of Todd.
There was this bar in Darien, Illinois, called Ripples, a popular hangout for singles.
A. Getting A Ride TO the Bar
I drove over to Todd’s house, picked him up, and then we drove over to a friend of his, Vinnie’s, who, in turn, drove us all, in his car, to the bar.
We pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and walked over to, and in through, the bar’s front-door entrance.
Heading directly toward the bar, we noticed the place was not yet that packed.
There was still plenty of open bar stools and tables available.
It was still relatively early around 7:00 PM, or so, and still light out, so the regular crowd was still on hour or so away from strolling in.
Todd and I went straight for the bar, and ordered up a couple of beers, but Vinnie went toward the back of the bar and disappeared for about five minutes, and came back out and headed straight for the bar stool just inside the front door, with no beer in hand.
“What’s up with Vinnie?” I asked Todd, wondering why he was sitting by the door, instead of joining us.
“That’s where the bouncer sits.” Todd replied.
“The bouncer?” I asked all confused, “You mean, he works here? ”
“Yeah. You didn’t know that?” he added.
“No! I thought we were all comin’ here to slam a couple drinks or whatever.” I said.
“We are!” Todd laughed. “Me and you! And Vinnie cards the younger-looking people tryin’ to get in, ya’ know, to make sure they’re legal, and all. Not like the bars in Brookfield that let anyone in.”
“Well, how do we get home?” I asked understandably concerned.
“When he gets off of work.” Todd responded as he smiled and took his first sip of his beer.
“And what time is that?” I asked all flustered.
“One…I think.” Todd responded having had to think about it for a second.
“Seriously? Fuck! If I had known that, I would’ve drove my car here, too.” I said, shaking my head, realizing the predicament I was in. “Plus, I only got about fifteen bucks on me, so I’m not gonna be able to buy any ladies any drinks, if I decide to hit on any of them.”
“Relax, I’ll front you a couple bucks if you need it.” Todd countered.
It was then that I realized any hope of going home was a minimum of five or six hours away, depending on how much time Vinnie spent on hanging around after last call and closing.
I was not a happy camper about the situation.
Needless to say, a worst-case scenario actually began to develop about an hour, or so, later, after the bar started to fill up with people, and Todd ended up meeting some lady, and out the front door they walked.
I was hoping that they were just going outside to go smoke a joint or whatever, and that they’d be right back. So, I sipped on my beer, all by my lonesome self, having spent four or five bucks of my less-than-$20 in my wallet, and started to think, “Maybe I should’ve taken Todd up on that loan before he split, because if he’s gone, I’m gonna be broke soon.”
I really couldn’t hit Vinnie up for a loan, since I really didn’t know him, except through Todd.
A good, solid half hour went by, and there was no sign of Todd anywhere in the bar, so, I walked up to Vinnie to ask him if he saw Todd walk back in, and he said he hadn’t.
“I’m gonna walk outside and get a breath of fresh air” I told Vinnie, as I exited the door, and went to see if he was out in one of the cars in the parking lot or whatever.
Lighting up a smoke, I walked slowly around the parking lot in my “patrol” to see if I could find Todd anywhere . But I didn’t want to be seen “peering” into any cars like some peeping Tom, or whatever, so, I had to make my random surveillance look as inconspicuous as possible.
Mission accomplished with no complications, because there was not a single person in any of the cars.
Todd was gone. he was nowhere to be found.
“Now what?” I thought to myself, realizing my two choices were either :
[1] go back into the bar, where I knew no one, and had virtually no money, and no car—and that always looks “debonair” to available ladies; or
[2] start walking home since the cash in my wallet was not enough to take a taxi from Darien to McCook.
“This blows!” I silently thought to myself, as I chose option number two.
So, I headed for the road and stuck my thumb out to hitch a ride home.
B. Getting A Ride FROM the Bar
Cass Avenue ( the street Ripples is on) is a street with plenty of lighting and everything is fairly visible while walking or driving along the road.
So, my face would be easily seen by any motorists, trying to determine if they want to pull over and pick me up, with my thumb sticking out.
1. My First Angel : Officer Friendly
“Sure as shit” as my dad used to say, the first person to pull over and pick me up was…a cop.
But, it wasn’t a Darien cop, but rather one from the neighboring town of Westmont—he probably stopped and got lunch at a joint in Darien or whatever. Cops go out of their jurisdictions all the time for a variety of reasons.
Anyway, he pulls over to the side of the road, and rolls down the front passenger window and asks me , “Where you headed?”
“McCook, and I know you ain’t gonna give me a ride that far.” I joked .
“Especially since I don’t even know where that’s at.” he laughed.
“Right off of I-Fifty Five and First Avenue.” I replied with my head slightly inside the interior of the squad car.
“Oh, yeah, I know where you’re talkin’ about.” he said, suddenly realizing where it was at. “It’s like almost all industrial.”
“Right. It’s like a population of only three hundred people, but a population of three thousand factories.” I added.
“I know people from that area.” he said, and then switched topics by saying, “You know, hitch-hiking’s illegal.” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I know.” I replied, and I explained the whole story of how I didn’t realize the guy who drove us to the bar was, himself, trapped there until his shift was over, and that I was almost out of money, and blah, blah, blah.
He laughed, shook his head, and said, “Well, I can’t give you a ride too far in your direction, but I can drop you off at Sixty-Third Street, if that’ll help.”
“Every bit’ll help.” I replied, “That’d be really appreciated.”
I went to get in the back seat, and he said, “No, hop in front. The rear doors don’t open from inside. You’re a passenger, not a prisoner.” he added with a chuckle.
“That’s a plus.” I reciprocated with a laugh.
I opened the front passenger door, sat down, closed the door, and off we rolled northbound on Cass Avenue.
As much as I appreciated any assistance, this particular leg of the trip was so short, that it almost felt like I would’ve traveled that distance anyway in less than five minutes. But I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth as we reached 63rd Street in what seemed like thirty seconds, and back out on the pavement I was .
“Thank you, officer.” I said as I opened the door, and exited the car, and he pulled away having done another good deed as a public servant.
1. My Second Angel : A Friend of Toni’s
Unlike Cass Avenue, which was comparatively well-lit, 63rd Street was the exact opposite. I’m not sure about nowadays, but in 1989, there weren’t any street lights that I remember.
There were portions of 63rd Street where it was so dark, you almost felt like you were out in the deep countryside where you can’t see your hand in front of your face.
It wasn’t just a matter of not seeing as a pedestrian, it was also a matter of being seen by drivers, who could easily run me over because they didn’t even see me until they were right on top of me.
So, I made it a point to keep looking over my shoulder, to steer clear of cars that had no intention of picking me up. And, I couldn’t very well walk against the traffic on the west-bound side of traffic, if I was hoping for east-bound travelers to pick me up.
Every time I thought I heard a car approaching from behind, I’d turn around and stick my thumb out, hoping someone would pull over and say, “Hop in.”
Instead, they’d swerve slightly out of the way to go around me. Another one passed me up.
Unfortunately, for me, the farther away from Cass Avenue I got and the farther east I traveled down 63rd Steer, the darker the street became , and the more I looked like an ominous silhouette lurking in the shadows.
What sane person is going to pull over for “Mister Death?” LOL.
No one!
Except this one guy. LOL.
I couldn’t believe it. He pulled up to me, rolled down his window, and asked, “How far ya’ goin’?”
“Wow! Uh, McCook!” I replied all shocked that he even pulled over, because I’m not sure that I would have, given the situation that the hitch-hiker’s face is completely obscured, and I’d have no idea if I was picking up a serial killer or not.
“Where the fuck’s McCook?” he asked being completely unaware of the town’s existence, despite it being a suburb of Chicago—albeit a hidden suburb.
“Joliet Road and Lawndale Avenue.” I answered with a ray of hope that he’d give me a lift as far as he could. And he did.
“Well, I know where Joliet Road is, but, Lawndale? Ain’t got a clue where that’s at. But I’m going over to south Lagrange Road, and taking that over to Archer Road, if that’ll take you in the direction you’re wanting to go.”
“It most certainly would, brother.” I laughed in relief.
“Jump in, man.” he said.
“Ah, man, I really appreciate this.” I added so relieved that not only was I getting a ride, but , in the larger scheme of things, practically to my front door.
I started up a conversation to make the time go by faster, and I tried to give him just the highlights of my evening gone awry, including the part where the first person to give me a ride was a cop, to which he laughed out loud.
“Seriously? That’s pretty wild.” he shook his head. “So, he didn’t arrest ya’ huh?”
“Nah. In fact, he was pretty cool and he dropped me off at Sixty Third and Cass, and told me to have a great night, and be careful, and all that other stuff.
“That’s cool he didn’t harass ya’.” he said.
“Yeah, that would’ve been just another nail in the coffin of a fucked up day, or, in this case, evening.” I shook my head in disappointment at how the evening’s events unfolded.
As we drove along, I wanted to light up a smoke, and asked, “Is it OK if I smoke?”
“Yeah, that’s cool.” he replied, “There’s a box of matches on the floor, being the seat, if you need a light.”
“You can never have too many lighters or matches when you’re a smoker.” I said as I reached behind me and felt the box, and picked it up and when I put it on my lap and saw the name on the matches, I was surprised.
“Wow! Revere Electric Supply? Really?” I said all surprised.
“Yeah. Why? You familiar with us?” he asked.
“Us? What? You work there?” I said, grabbing two packs out of what was likely a box of 100 packs of matches, and returning the remainder of the box back to the floor behind my seat.
“Yeah, I’m one of their drivers.” he replied.
“Wow! You’re one of my customers!” I exclaimed with a chuckle as I grabbed a smoke out of my pack and lit it with one of the matches.
“Why? Where do you work?” he inquired.
“A place called Recco Tool and Supply.” I answered.
“No shit? That’s where I fuckin’ know you from! I knew I’ve seen you before somewhere!” he laughed out loud. “Wow! What a fuckin’ small world, man! You’re the dude that’s up in the front office when I first walk in to pick up orders.”
“Yeah, that’d be me.” I laughed back. “You’re right this is a small world, dude!”
“No shit!” he continued on, all amazed by the coincidence. “So, you’re from Recco Tool. Wow! I can’t get over that. Next time I stop in, I’ll make it a point to say hello.”
“Yeah. Do that. That’d be cool.” I can’t wait to tell my boss, Wes, about that on Monday morning. In fact, the guy I was at the bar with tonight is also a Recco employee. His name’s Todd; he’s our warehouse guy. Ya’ know, drives the forklift and what-not. Looks a little like me with the receding hairline and all.”
“What’s your name, man?” he asked , as he held out his hand to shake mine.
“Floyd. And yours?” I said, as I shook his hand, and then reached into my wallet to whip out one of my business cards with my name on it, and then handed it to him.
“Ricky.” he replied. “I just started with Revere a few months ago. But, yeah, I’ve been into Recco a few times. ”
“Yeah, that’s basically where I’m from. I live about a mile from Recco. Maybe not even that far!”
“Well, hell, I know where Recco’s at.” he said, “If it’ll help I can drop you off at Joliet Road, and First Avenue, ’cause that’ll get me over to Archer Road from there.”
“Ah, Ricky, that’s so awesome of you, brother.” I said as I reached into my wallet to give him a fin for gas, “Here take this.”
“Nah! keep your money, dude. I got a full tank; my girlfriend’s waiting for me; life is good; and I’m in a good mood.” he smiled.
“Are you sure?” I asked as I held the five dollar bill out for him to take it.
He just silently shook his head in rejection of my money.
“I really appreciate this, Ricky. That’s awesome.” I said as I put the money back in my wallet.
“So, uh, tell me, where you from?” I asked him, continuing on in our conversation.
“Oak Park.” he replied.
“Oak Park, huh?” I said, and the only person I knew from there was Toni.
So, I asked him, “You know Toni Moffet?”
“Now you’re creeping me out, Floyd.” he said with a laugh. “Yeah, I do know Toni. I went to school with her. But I haven’t seen her since high school. So, we’re going on a few years since we last sat in a classroom together. Why? How do you know her?”
“I went to College of Santa Fe with her,” I replied, “and she brought my dog home. I took a train from , I think, Taos, I forget what town the train station was in. But Amtrak wouldn’t transport pets. But the airlines did, and Toni flew home, and she brought my dog home for me. I took a train, and my puppy flew first class. Ain’t that a kick in the head huh?. Ha!”
“Wow! I just can’t get over this encounter with you.” he said. “This is just so bizarre. I can’t wait to tell Mindy, my girlfriend, about this! She’s into all that otherworldly stuff and will probably say some off the wall Twilight Zone-like shit, ya’ know, and I don’t put any stock in any of that crap, but I gotta admit, this is really bizarre. It really is.”
All I said was Toni Moffett. The name Toni is far more likely to be heard as “Tony”, with a “y”, and it could have been Tony, a guy.
But he immediately knew I was talking about a woman. So, I knew he was being straight up with me.
Wow! I couldn’t get over this encounter with Ricky , either.
Finally, we reached Joliet Road and First Avenue, and he pulled over onto the shoulder of the ramp that led up to First Avenue which automatically turns into Archer Avenue/Archer Road—depending on which fork in the road he chooses once he encounters that fork.
“So, you good, brother?” he asked me as I opened the door to exit the car. “Is this close enough for ya’?”
“Ricky, you practically dropped me off at my front door. I couldn’t ask for a closer drop-off point.”
“Glad I could help!” he said.
“So, am I Ricky. Trust me. So am I!” I said with a grateful smile on my face. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be on Sixty Third Street somewhere, and I wouldn’t be getting home until three in the morning, or so. I mean, that’s a long haul.”
“Yeah it is.” he agreed.
“Anyway, if you ever see Toni again, please tell her I said Hi!”I added.
“You got it, Floyd. Be good, brother” he reassured me, as I closed the car door, and he pulled away.
There are a number of reasons why I never saw Ricky again.
One was he might’ve gotten reassigned to a different route, or possibly found a job elsewhere, or, because left I Recco a few months later. So, he might have still been with Revere, after I left Recco.
III. Taking Over Toni’s Job At Brunner & Lay
Approximately four years, or so, after leaving Recco ( circa 1993 or 1994) , I took a job at a company called Brunner & Lay, in Franklin Park, on a temp-to-hire basis.
Approximately a week into the job, once I kind of had a basic idea of how to do my job with no one holding my hand, I decided to clean out my desk, and “make it mine” in the sense of organizing my desktop and drawers, and what-not.
While cleaning out one particular drawer, I pulled out one of those name plates that you’d normally find on a door, or on a “desk stand” (for lack of the appropriate term) and it read :
“Toni Moffett”.
My jaw dropped. This couldn’t be happening!
“Seriously?” I wondered silently to myself.
I must’ve stared at that name plate for about five minutes, just in awe at the staggering odds of me encountering another one of her paths in life.
There was a guy in the cubicle next to me, who, for whatever reason, just didn’t like me at all.
But he was the only guy I knew that had been there for some time—whereas everyone else was a bit like me, relatively new to the company. So, I knew I couldn’t ask them about employees who worked there before they did.
I forget that guy’s name, but I peeked over the wall of his cubicle, and asked him as I showed him Toni’s name plate, “When did she work here?”
“Why? Do you know her?” he asked me.
“Yeah. I spent my first year in college with her out in Santa Fe, New Mexico. ” I replied. “It’s just such a small world!”
“Yeah, um, you’re replacing her!” he replied.
“Really? You’re kidding me! You wouldn’t happen to have her phone number, would you?” I asked.
He just shook his head, “No”, and then went back to his work.
Even if he had her number, he wouldn’t have given it to me.
Many, if not most of us, can relate to the topic of having “uncles” who really aren’t literally uncles, but more like distant cousins whose actual relationship along the bloodlines is too far removed to be anything less than a third or fourth cousin.
So, our elders suggest we call them “Uncle” or “Aunt”.
In this case, was my “Uncle Norman” who I met when I was somewhere between five and seven years old (circa, 1968 to 1970); and I never saw him again after that day.
Anyway, Uncle Norman showed me this card trick that’s based on math, and not sleight of hand.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
STEP 1 — CREATING THE PILES
STEP 2 — PICKING UP ALL PILES ( EXCEPT THREE )
STEP 3 —TURNING OVER TWO PILES
STEP 4 — TOTALING THE TWO PILES TO GET FIRST NUMBER
STEP 5 — COUNTING OUT THE FIRST NUMBER
STEP 6 — COUNTING OUT 10 MORE CARDS (ALWAYS 10!)
STEP 7 — COUNTING THE NUMBER OF CARDS LEFT OVER
STEP 8 — VOILA! VERIFYING THE MATCH!
STEP 9 — A VIDEO EXAMPLE
STEP 1 — CREATING THE PILES
The first step (after shuffling the deck of course, to ensure complete randomness of the cards in the deck) is to create the piles.
To do that you have the entire deck FACE UP in your hand, and you simply count UP from the face value of the first card to 13.
So, if the first card you see is, say, an 8 (of ANY SUIT—Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds, or Spades; it does not matter which), you count UP from 8 to 13, as in, 8,9,10,11,12,13.
That’s your first pile, and you place the ENTIRE pile face DOWN on the table.
Next pile.
If your next number is a 4, you’d count up from 4 to 13 : 4,5,6…13.
And so forth.
As per the drawing below, if your next card is an “Ace”, that counts as 1; a “Jack” is 11; “Queen” = 12; and “King” is 13 all by itself.
Ace = 1; Jack = 11; Queen = 12; and King = 13 by itself
If your next card is a King, that’s 13 all by itself, and you place that card down by itself, on the table just like any other pile.
It’s not exactly unheard of for the entire deck to be counted out, but most of the time, there’s a few cards left over, since, for example, the “next” card could be a “5” but you have only 4 cards left, so, when counting from 5, you’d only get to 8, as in, “5,6,7,8” and there’s not enough to count to 13.
That’s not a problem at all. Having cards left over happens more often than not having any cards left over.
In any case, the leftover cards just get put with the rest of the cards as the trick goes on.
STEP 2 — PICKING UP ALL PILES ( EXCEPT THREE )
If you have, say, 7 piles on the table, PLUS the leftover cards in your hand, you simply REMOVE ALL the piles , except 3.
Leave three piles on the table.
Yes, you MAY shuffle the cards in your hand all you want. That has no effect on the trick.
STEP 3 — TURNING OVER TWO PILES
Of the three piles remaining on the table, turn over the ENTIRE PILE(NOT just the “top” card) of TWO piles.
STEP 4 — TOTALING THE TWO PILES TO GET FIRST NUMBER
The next step is to count the TOTAL of the two cards at the top of the TWO OVERTURNED PILES.
So, if the top card on one pile is , say, 3, and the other card is 4, the total would obviously be 7
If the two cards were 5 and 9, the total would be 13, and so forth.
STEP 5 — COUNTING OUT THE FIRST TOTAL
Now, simply count out the 7 cards (or 9, or whatever your total was) onto a new separate pile on the table.
STEP 6 — COUNTING OUT 10 MORE CARDS (ALWAYS 10!)
Regardless of that total whether that be 7 or 9 or 15 or whatever, you ALWAYS count out TEN MORE! Always 10!
STEP 7 — COUNTING THE NUMBER OF CARDS LEFT OVER
Count the cards you have left in your hand.
Whatever that number is, THAT is the number (Face Value) of the card at the BOTTOM of the one, lone UN-overturned pile on the table.
STEP 8 — VOILA! VERIFYING THE MATCH!
Now, turn over the ENTIRE STACK of that last pile.
That card will match the number of cards you had left over when you counted out all the cards, as instructed.
One introductory note on this post is that there is an album that is not listed in this post, but it’s title is so cool (at least, for me it is) that it absolutely warrants a mention, and that is the album entitled, “The Smoker You Drink, The Player You Get”, by Joe Walsh. In addition to containing the iconic tune, “Rocky Mountain Way”, there is some truth to the album’s title : The smoker you drink, the player you DO get!”
Anyway…
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. THE LIST IS NOT “ALL-ENCOMPASSING”
II. NO SPECIAL SEQUENCE
III. THE MAIN CRITERION—FOUR, OR MORE, INSTRUMENTS
—A. OPPOSITE MINDSET #1—PUNK ROCK
—B. OPPOSITE MINDSET #2—DIRE STRAITS
IV. THE “MISSING” SONGS ON EACH ALBUM
V. THE LIST
I. The List is Not “All-Encompassing”
The list is by no means complete, but I had to stop somewhere, otherwise I could have went on for probably another 25 to 30 albums.
As soon as I typed in Number 50, I realized there were at least two more albums I wanted to add, but I didn’t want to re-title the post with an unorthodox number with something like “My 52 All-Time Favorite Albums”, and then 53, 54, 57, 65, and so forth, as I endlessly kept thinking of more albums to add.
So, there are more albums I could’ve added, but I had to establish an arbitrary figure to finalize the list, and stick with it; and 50 was that magic number.
II. No Special Sequence
Moreover, the albums are not listed in any particular order, since, when I started this list, I just looked through my album collection at random and just made a mental note to mention them if the album qualified for the list, and they got typed into the post pretty much in the same order that they were initially collected randomly.
Additionally, even if I attempted to create a “special” sequence, it wouldn’t be valid for very long, since my tastes or preferences might change (however minutely) every single day : Today’s Number 24, might be Number 19 tomorrow; or, tomorrow’s Number 15, might be Number 21 the day after.
It’s all based on my mood at the time I’m asked to prioritize the list.
III. The Main Criterion—Four, Or More, Instruments
Also, worthy of mention is one of the most important elements in the criteria used in qualifying an album for this list is that ( not counting thevocalist ), the band can NOT be a “three-piece group with only guitar, bass and drums” (e.g., garage bands, punk bands, many will use the term “classic rock” bands) —unless the compositions are noticeably exceptional, in some way; and there are, I think, two albums on this list that qualify under that exception.
Guitar-Only Bands
The only two albums that fit that description but still made the “First 50” list are Nazareth’s “Expect No Mercy“ (#33) and RobinTrower’s “Bridge of Sighs“( #35).
Otherwise, you’re not going to find any albums by Tom Petty; Georgia Satellites; metal bands such as Van Halen, Metallica, or Iron Maiden;, Stevie Ray Vaughn; DEFINITELY zero punk, and any bands that garage bands love to focus on.
Unfortunately, the exact opposite sentiment emanates from the instrumentally-limited viewpoints of, at least, two mindsets.
A. OPPOSITE MINDSET #1—PUNK ROCK
First was the punk genre, as a whole. Specifically, I forget which band it was, but the entire group had deliberately donned T-shirts that had printed on them, the words, “Fuck Pink Floyd!”
It might’ve been the Sex Pistols, or The Clash, but either way, even if I never saw that photograph, I would have INSTANTLY disliked their music because :
[1] the singing was nauseating ( it sounded far more UN-educated than “angry”, but when you combine them both, you can smell the sewage leak from miles away). The sewage vapors steaming up from the vocal tracks made my eyes water;
[2] the chord structures were deliberately limited to essentially a “three-chord” limit; and not only was virtuosity not required, it was, by design, opposed; and
[3] the lyrics, like the singing, sounded like they came from an un-educated teenage mind, which is fine if they’re singing about things like teenage crushes on girls, or their favorite cars they want to buy and drive, or being angry about having a curfew, or things along those lines that are typically teen-oriented. But politics (which much of punk music sang about)? No thanks. If teens were smart, societies would grant them the right to vote, but they don’t. So, I’m not interested in listening to the lyrical rants of an angry 12-year-old who’s well-intended discontent is obviously missing some key facts that would change his opinion if he knew those details. In this case, ignorance is NOT “bliss”, and hearing somebody literally scream that ignorance with horrible vocals and mundanely-simplistic chord structures blared at maximum volume, is like being in the sonic equivalent of Edgar Alan Poe’s “The Pit And The Pendulum” as every nauseating note brings the razor-sharp edge of the blade closer to our torsos.
B. OPPOSITE MINDSET #2—DIRE STRAITS
Although I admit I did hear some keyboards (albeit not exactly of virtuoso caliber ) in their later albums, my initial impression (from what the radio stations played) was that they were “anti”-keyboard, or, at least, anti-creative is some way.
Specifically, for example, back in 1978, when Dire Straits released “The Sultans of Swing“, there’s a lyric in the middle of the song that states :
They don’t give a damn about any trumpet playin’ band. It ain’t what they call Rock and Roll
Well if that’s the case, that’s a shame, because my philosophy is exactly the opposite of theirs.
First of all, I suspect that such thinking (that any group that is NOT limited to just three instruments —bass, drums and guitar—“isn’t” Rock And Roll) is really a manifestation of a “sour grapes” mindset : an insecurity-based inferiority complex masquerading as contempt for those who are either better-trained in music theory and/or technique , or, simply just “naturals” at music.
Many great songwriters are self-taught and playing proficiently and writing great compositions is simply a natural by-product of their innate talents, versus many wannabee musicians who actually take official lessons (perhaps years of them) and still find themselves nowhere near as talented as the naturals are.
It’s sort of like a 5′ 2″ kid with short legs working hard at sprinting every single day in preparation for a marathon race, only to watch a crowd of 6′-tall runners who run only three times a week, and with very little effort, pass him up as though he was “standing still”.
If we wanted, he could continue to waste his time, and still keep running every day, but he’ll never catch up with the much-taller naturals—so he’ll show contempt for “them”, when it’s really contempt for his own inadequacies, which he can’t bear to reveal to anyone, lest that results in unbearable embarrassment.
Putting a spot light on the fact that a musician knows “only three chords or just two drum beats” is such an unpleasant thought to him (much like a corrupt politician who fears his or her corruption being brought to light for public viewing) , that he’ll try to vilify those who know a LOT more— like a flunking punk who bullies straight-A nerds because he’s jealous of the fact that they’re much smarter than he is, by claiming how “stupid it is to be smart “.
Personally, as far as “average versus above-average” bands are concerned, I’d put 1970’s Steely Dan or early jam-band era Chicago(e.g., “I’m a Man”, “25 or 6 to 4” ) ANY DAY plus twice on Sundays against Dire Straits version of “rock and roll”.
As far as I’m concerned, Dire Straits would NEVER win that contest against pre-1980’s Steely Dan or Chicago.
Yes, I’ve heard more than one person praise Mark Knopfler as a pioneer of guitar work, and they might be correct, but I’d have to hear the songs they claim warrant that assessment, since the radio industry refuses to play those particular songs (that showcase those alleged talents) on the public airwaves—i.e., I don’t consider “Walk of Life” or “I Want My MTV” to be among the greatest compositions of any time, much less, of “all” time; and if the “Sultans of Swing” (which, admittedly, did have an interesting lead guitar track ) is their “best” on their debut album, then I’d consider them a one-hit wonder band , and that one “hit” just does not move me enough to justify including them among the greatest in my book.
The point is : the mentality that any group that is NOT limited to “just bass, drums and guitar”, is somehow “not” Rock And Roll, has me shaking my head as I see such a limiting philosophy as a VERY MYOPIC one, for which I have NO RESPECT! NONE!
Thus, for the most part, pretty much every band in this list (not counting the lead vocalist) is a minimum of a four-piece band : drums, bass, guitar, andkeyboards and, in some cases, there’s even a horn section, like Steely Dan, or a flute like Jethro Tull, or a violin, like Kansas or Jean-Luc Ponty.
The Ideal Band
I have always been bored to tears by guitar-only bands, because if you’ve heard the first album, there’s a good chance all the subsequent albums are going to sound the same.
Some might call that a “signaturesound” and actually require it from their favorite bands for them to continue following them; and if that band deviates from that expected “norm”, their fans might frown on that unexpected change in direction.
In contrast, is what I call the “signaturestyle” of perpetual change, where varying (from mild to drastic) changes are not only expected, but, in fact, welcomed.
Case in point :
Led Zeppelin’s drastic change :
FROM : Led Zeppelin II, mostly electricguitar-based compositions, with one or two acoustic-based tunes;
TO : Led Zeppelin III, where there were far more acoustic guitar tunes—there were still at least two electric tunes that come to mind : “Immigrant Song” and the bluesy “Since I’ve Been Loving You“, but I think the acoustic tunes outnumbered the electric ones on Zeppelin III..
Many of Zeppelin’s fans and rock music critics pretty much “frowned” on that very change. If I remember correctly, there was no shortage of executives at Atlantic Records, that weren’t fond of Led Zeppelin III, either—because of those very changes. They wanted “continuity”, whereas Zeppelin wanted variety.
Fortunately, Peter Grant, Zeppelin’s band manager, arranged for Zeppelin to have complete creative control over their compositions—as opposed to having the record company dictate what songs the band would include on their albums.
Again, “Zeppelin IV” was different from III…another change!
IV had two songs that were 100 percent acoustic guitar and vocals (and mandolin—on “Battle Of Evermore”), but no bass or drums on those two songs. A very unorthodox path to follow.
For me, THAT CONSTANT CHANGE was what I LOVED about their catalog—and not hated, like some people did.
Another band that changed drastically was Steely Dan : “Can’t Buy A Thrill” is miles away from “Aja” in terms of the overall sound of the two albums. Couldn’t be more different.
BOTH albums are great, though, but noticeably different—definitely NOT a continuation of the previous albums.
Thus, for the most part, a band MUST ( at the very minimum ) :
[a] have keyboards (in addition to the guitar) , and sax is also a major plus, to make this list; and
[b] change their formula each album, so that the new album does NOT sound like a robotic repeat of the previous album—if there’s THAT many songs that sound the same, try to produce a DOUBLE album (e.g., Zeppelin’s “Physical Graffitti”—which sounds NOTHING LIKE neither the previous studio album “Houses of the Holy”, nor like their subsequent studio album “Presence”. ALL THREE sound completely different from each other).
IV. The “Missing” Songs On Each Album
I think there are only two or three albums on this list where every song on that album is listed with a link.
Otherwise, 98 percent of them list anywhere from “most” of the songs to as few as just “two” of the tracks.
The missing tracks are not listed simply because those songs just didn’t move me enough to be listed in the group.
For example, on one of my top-tier albums, Zeppelin IV, “Black Dog” is not listed, because it just never did anything for me. If, while listening to the album, I am given the opportunity to skip over it, I will do exactly that.
So, if the song wasn’t a favorite of mine, it won’t be listed.
asmrmassage (Melissa)
