hype

                                                          Who are "They" kiddin'?

    ROOFTOP – I apologize for the sudden call for a roofsit. I do appreciate you band of brothers and sisters who came to sit with me so readily on this month or so after St. Crispin’s Day. (It gets better from this point on.)

Two things drove me up here this evening. One of ‘em was “sea salt.” When I got home from watching Dennis and Larry’s softball teams play one another for the championship, I was tired and hungry. It’s so confusing when you have to yell for both teams.

    So I finally make it home where I start looking for something to snack on before supper. Atop the fridge I spy a partially eaten bag of HEB Central Market Multigrain Chips. (It’s the chips that were atop the fridge, not me.) I bought the chips a couple of weeks back because the bag was so attractive. You can’t judge green peas by the can, but you can judge chips by the bag. Been my experience.

    Not only did the bag look cool, it had something printed on it that was a big selling factor… for someone. I just bought it because of the nice-looking bag. At the bottom of the bag in large print were the words “Sea Salt.” That didn’t bother me at the time, but a little while ago it touched a nerve.

    How on earth did the origin of salt become a buying incentive? Am I supposed to think – “Not salt from a mine or desert, but salt from the ocean! It has the taste of salt! It’s the best salt money can buy.”

Apparently, it’s not even close to being the best. An acquaintance of mine has one container of salt in the house. It’s called Himalayan Pink Salt. Himalayan pink costs more than other salt because it contains 84 different minerals. And -- get this -- it’s advertised as the PUREST form of salt on the planet. Not only does it have salt in it, but it also has 84 other minerals. Leaving one to wonder, how many minerals are found in less-pure salt? And, how on earth is there any room for salt in the salt?

    Oh, and pink salt is hand gathered from ancient sea salt deposits. It’s an older salt. You add all this stuff up and you’ve got an expensive small chunk of salt. And, people buy it, ‘cause they trust the one who came up with all this info.

    I don’t have a great deal to base this on, but I believe that salt is salt. It comes in one flavor, and three portions. The flavor is “salty.” The portions are: too much, not enough, and about right. Anything other salt “fact” is beyond my Zone of Concern.

Nor do I care to get all wound-up about what is supposed to be the most widely consumed drug in the world  -- Caffeine. Some coffee drinkers purchase only decaf coffee, because they fear caffeine. Truth is, decaf coffee also has caffeine in it. Only uncaffeinated coffee has no caffeine, and there’s no such thing as uncaffeinated coffee. Prunes are an example of an uncaffeinated substance. You don’t have to worry about prunes giving you the shakes. It will likely give you something else, just not the shakes. 

    The FDA does not require companies to list the amount of caffeine in decaf coffee. What they have done is announce that decaf coffee should be 97 percent caffeine free. To eliminate that much caffeine from a coffee bean costs a great deal of money. That’s apparently why the FDA doesn’t require coffee companies to label how much caffeine is in their decaf. 

    Like I said, I don’t choose to worry about the caffeine in my coffee. About three years ago, I read that three to four cups of coffee a day does not hurt the normal person. Look at me. I’m as close to normal as you can get without opening your mouth. After reading the good-coffee-report, I haven’t read anything else on the topic. I refuse to read anything else.

    The only one in our family who drinks decaf is Dennis. If I choose to invite the family over, I must have some decaf on hand… for Dennis. Unfortunately, there has been a time or two when I didn’t care to buy decaf just… for Dennis, so I poured him the real stuff. He didn’t notice. He trusted that it was just good-tasting decaf.

Was I concerned for my brother’s health? Somewhat. From a moral standpoint, I had no concern for my big brother, because over the years, that guy has tricked me a million times. Remember the Fanner Fifty holster? The cardboard football helmet? The oiled baseball glove? Well, a couple of you might. Dennis swindled, hoodwinked and flimflammed me so many times when we were kids.  

He was able to do that because I trusted my big brother more than anyone on the planet… except for Elsie. If Dennis recommended I do something, I did it. A smart person sees that as vulnerability. He was able to swindle me so many times, because I was a trusting dumb person.

Yep, in youth and in adulthood, we make many decisions based on faith. Occasionally, our faith is misplaced. (D’uh.)  Is sea salt better than ordinary ol’ salt? Is Himalayan pink God’s gift to Saltdom? Is coffee slowly killing me?

    More importantly, did we really need to sit on this roof to better address life’s complexities? Some would think not. But, who are you gonna believe? Me, or a person who not only looks, but also sounds normal? – Uh, strike that last part. – Next time.
                                                                                          end
mark@rooftopwriter.com

Sundays

 Old Church and Sunday Glooms

    For most of my life, Sunday was my least favorite day of the week. Mom considered the day sacred as all get out, to the point where we had to go to church twice that day. It was a practice that was never explained to me, at least not to my satisfaction… as if anyone cared about the fifth child of seven being satisfied.

The argument for a morning and evening service on Sundays had to do with the rule that you’re supposed to attend church any time the doors are open. Truth is, the doors were never left wide open at the church building. So, technically, I should’ve been able to say, “Oops, the doors are shut, Mother. That means we must go home and watch Walt Disney World.”

    I could’ve argued that point as accurately as the guy who decided we had to go to church twice in one day, but kids didn’t argue all that much back then. When Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me…” He meant we had to really SUFFER before we could come to Him. That was pretty much the implication of the message as it related to us.

    Back then, Sunday was known as the day of rest. God rested on the seventh day, so we were supposed to rest on the first day of the week. Another one of those things that confused the daylights out of kids. Well, at least it did to me.

    In Texas, as in many states back in The Day, to rest on Sunday meant that stores should not be opened. Laws were passed to make it a crime for certain stores to remain open on Sundays. They were called Blue Laws. The laws were called “Blue” because… I have no idea. (Even scholars can’t agree on the reasoning.)

    The blue laws evolved over the years. Man didn’t evolve, but his laws did. After awhile, stores could open, but they could only sell certain essentials. They could sell bread, but not toothbrushes. Hammers, but no nails. An ear of corn, but not a pot to cook it in. Most stores just stayed closed on Sundays, ‘cause it got too complicated to figure out what was lawful to sell.

Nowadays you can sell just about anything on a Sunday, except beer from a liquor store, or a car from an auto dealership that was open on Saturday. If you sell cars, you must pick either Saturday or Sunday to be open, but not both… in Texas. I don’t know what they do in the normal world.

Today, stores that close on Sunday are the exception, not the rule. “Chick Fil A” and “Hobby Lobby” come to mind. The owners of those establishments are well respected among religious groups all over the country for their decision to close on Sundays.

However, when churches let out around noonish on Sunday, people leave the parking lot and head for Luby’s or Whataburger or Golden Corral. We may respect the daylights out of Chick Fil A, but, at the same time, we are a reasonable people. Eating out Sunday is part of the church-going experience.

    This is just some of the stuff that gets people upset with religion. People might agree on “faith,” but we will never all agree on the methods for expressing our faith. With that in mind, I have likely upset many readers by giving my view on faith vs religion. The topic is not only controversial, it’s way too serious for me. Last week I wrote about “Shoes” and this week I’m writing about religion. So, before closing, I’m going to take the religion out of Sunday, and tell you the main reason for my dread of Sundays past.

    There was a time when I always had to do schoolwork on a Sunday night. I was not among the few, the chosen that finished their homework Friday night, so they’d have the rest of the weekend free. That was pretty much lunacy to me.

It took me 12 years to get a high school diploma and seven years to get a couple of degrees. I mention that as a way of bragging and as a way of expressing that for 19 years worth of Sundays, I worried about schoolwork that was due on Monday. On each one of those non-summer Sunday nights, I started my homework at around 7:30, but I dreaded it the entire day. I carried dread around like a refrigerator full of hammers.

After my school days, guess what? I became a teacher. That gave me 26 more years worth of Sundays where I had to prepare lessons, grade papers, study up on the Electoral College and Marbury vs Madison and the Federalist Papers, just so I could give the impression to some teenagers that I knew what I was talking about. I was a good actor.

Magically, when  I retired, Sundays became the best of days. I actually enjoy going to church now that I don’t have to. And, Kay and I usually go out to eat after church. How good is that?

During Sunday afternoon I’ll watch football in season and non-sports stuff when football is over.  At some point I’ll take a nap. And, get this -- There’s seldom anything I really need to do to prepare for Monday.

So, my dread of Sundays has vanished with age. My age. I’m dreadless, yet, full of guilt. Guilt for having it so good. That’s a part of my religious upbringing. It ties into that “Suffer the children…” thing. That’s hard to get out of your mind, you know that?
end
mark@rooftopwriter.com   

Crossfit

Thank you, Oprah

Over the last few years, Kay and I have had 2614 conversations about exercising. We’re both for it. We just don’t want to do it. In fact, the only sensible way to get me to exercise is to hire a drill instructor with a sawed-off baseball bat.

Well, I’m here to tell you, that last week Kay found something that would actually succeed in getting us to exercise. It is called crossfit training. I had to look it up. Here is one of 276 definitions that I found with Google.

“Crossfit: A fitness program that combines a wide variety of functional movements into a timed or scored workout. It involves pull-ups, squats, push-ups, weightlifting, gymnastics, running, rowing, and a host of other movements.”

Oh yeah! I can see me doing this. 

Six of those movements have unhappy words in them -- Pull, squat, push, lift, nastics, and run. The rowing part sounds fun. The worst part of the definition reads “A host of other movements?” That’s scary as all get out. And, more frightening still is the part that mentions being “timed and scored.” In other words, it involves humiliation.

If I don’t humiliate myself at least once a day, it means I never got out of bed. With crossfit training, my humiliation will be posted on a board so that all can see my name at the bottom of the list. “Hey, Frank, how did Ol’ Dragass do this week?”

YET, get this, I was still willing to go along with Kay’s idea… up until Oprah Winfrey was featured on one of the national news channels.

Every national news program has a segment on health, while all their commercials are ads for drug companies. But, their health segments are usually about mammograms. Occasionally, they’ll have a segment on obesity. On this particular broadcast, they used Oprah as an example of someone who lost a lot of weight, but gained it back.

Oprah? She’s the richest and most influential entertainer/financier in the country. The woman can afford to find a chef able to make rice cakes that have the taste and texture of bacon, and who could make a hot fudge sundae out of salmon berries.

Oprah could hire six guys to exercise for her. All she would have to do is lie there on the weight-bench while they rapidly moved all of her appropriate body parts. She could tell the exercise guys, “No matter how cruelly I beg you, no matter how terribly I may scream, do not stop for, oh, 40 minutes.” (Portion borrowed from ‘Young Frankenstein.’)
.
Oprah changed my whole attitude on dieting and fitness. If Oprah can’t stay fit, what makes me think I can? Let’s face it, staying healthy is a lifetime commitment. You can’t just reach a goal and think it’s all over. Oprah reached her goal. She wheeled out a red wagon filled with 60 pounds of fat to show how much she lost. Now, even with Spanx Power Skinny Britches Open Bust Mid-thigh Bodysuit she can’t re-position all of her regained weight.

And, I don’t fault her for that. In fact I thank her. Thanks, Oprah, for the inspiration that allowed me to accept an almost reasonable weight loss prgram. I call it, “my new long-haul weight loss and exercise program.”

As of last week, I’ve been trying to stay away from an overabundance of carbohydrates. I’m not doing without. I’m just doing with less. Eat a little less, and cut down on nighttime snacking. Don’t completely cut out late snacks at night. Just keep cutting back, until, after a year or two, I’m only eating one peanut M&M.

I’m also tempted to quit taking my restless-leg pills. I don’t know what my feet do when I’m sleeping, but when I’m awake, they become dancing feet. I just can’t sit still. You can elbow me, pinch me, put a gun to my head, but it won’t matter. I know, because Kay’s tried ‘em all.  

I think my rapid leg movement is sufficient exercise for a person my age and weight. And, by cutting back on food, I’m a success waiting to happen. As for Oprah, she just bought 10 percent ownership in Weight Watchers. She said she’s a large fan.

I can just see her attending one of those celebrity banquets where they’re serving steak and lobster. Oprah, will say, “No thank you. If you’ll kindly find a microwave, I’ll be having this Mini Salisbury Steak Wrap.”

Apparently, if it were easy to stay healthy, we’d all look and feel great. Truth is, I think it’s mostly genetic. Some people have a gene that makes them appreciate exercise and moderate eating. Me? I have the gene that causes dancing feet. And, I can’t even dance.

End
Markhayter@suddenlink.net

neutrinos

A wonderment of science

I’ve always enjoyed science. I was the only Hayter kid to ever ask Santa for a microscope, telescope and chemistry set. Santa doled ‘em out to me over a period of about eight Christmases.

With the chemistry set, I learned to turn water blue. That’s about it. The telescope had trouble locating the moon. The microscope had three separate lenses. Only the lowest power lens worked. It was great, too. The things I found crawling around on grass and twigs and leaves would scare you to death. No telling how many tiny worms I ingested in my childhood.

Oh yeah, back to bragging --I was also the only Hayter kid to ever make a barometer. I’ll try to work that piece of information into the article’s ending. Barometer. Not sure it’s possible.

Regardless, with my obvious interest in science, one would think I would now be a scientist. Well, life is a rocky road, my friend. Too soon, I discovered that it takes more than an interest in science to pass physics. It wasn’t that I was dumb. I was smart as a nail. Unfortunately, in order to pass chemistry and physics you have to know a lot of math. I’m good at adding and multiplying; stuff like that, but there is some other stuff in math that is really complicated.

At any rate, I never lost interest in science. In fact I recently read an entire article about two guys who won the Nobel Prize in Physics. It was a long article, too. The winners were Takaaki Kajita of Poland and Arthur McDonald from Canada. -- Take that back. Takaaki is from Japan. McDonald is still a Canadian.

The gentlemen managed to prove something of which I knew nothing. So surprising. Instead of just coming out and telling you what they discovered, let me milk this a bit. I don’t know if you’re aware, but every second we are bombarded by trillions of neutrinos. Duck! Here comes another 10 trillion.

When a neutrinos hit you, they don’t stick around to fester. In fact, the things go right through you, and then continue on their way through the earth. They’re able to penetrate stuff, because they’re pretty much nothing. At least that’s what scientists thought before the Canadian and Pole came along. I mean Canadian and Japanese physicists.

McDonald and Kajita got the Nobel Prize in Physics because they discovered that neutrinos are more than nothing. They proved that neutrinos actually have mass... substance. Big whoop. That’s what I said when I read it. “Big whoop!” But, it is big because of what neutrinos are. Hold onto your socks.

Neutrinos are what are leftover when energy is spent. After an atomic bomb explosion, or while electricity is turning your fan blade, or lighting your room. Or the energy expended each time your heart beats, or your car engine is running. The biggest source of neutrinos anywhere around here is – drum roll – THE SUN. The sun burns hydrogen at a massive rate, so it’s sending the earth a manure load of neutrinos every second.

This is a picture of the sun taken through the earth
using "neutrino light" with the cameraq lens opened for about a year and a half.
Now, that's scary!

The thing that makes this such a big whoop, is the fact that we now have proof that energy doesn’t disappear when it’s through energizing. Its power becomes neutralized. It’s still a particle. I just has not power.

That’s where it got its name. Remember Enrico Fermi? Well, some of his grandkids do. He was an Italian physicist who worked on splitting atoms. When he mathematically proved the existence of neutrinos, he named them neutrinos, which is Italian for “Little Neutral Ones.” Isn’t that cute?

And do you know what else the Canadian and Japanese physicists proved? There are three types of neutrinos, and the guys discovered that each type of neutrino can switch back and forth to each of the other types. That means absolutely nothing to me, but I’ll bet there are people in this world who can take that info and do something with it. Like make an invisible man or shape-shifter, or a band aid that will actually stay stuck to your finger.

All of this is going to lead to something. Einstein and a few other smart people theorized, that all of the mass and energy in the universe has not increased or depleted one iota since creation. Mac and Kaj PROVED that energy has substance even after its power is sapped… and according to Einstein, mass can make energy. So, as energy burns up, mass still exists to make more energy. (Wow. For a second I almost understood that.)

Isn’t science a wonderment? I think if I had had just bit more encouragement in school, I could’ve become a scientist. In the fourth grade, we were assigned a science project. While other kids parents were making volcanoes and simulating earthquakes, I made a barometer out of a milk bottle, a balloon and a straw. And, get this, I didn’t even know what a barometer was. Not just anybody can do that. (There for a minute I didn’t think I could stick the barometer back into this thing. What did I tell you? Smart as a nail.)

end

Butterfly exlosion

Exiled to the roof

Netted basket filled with green chrysalises

ROOFTOP – What a day it’s been. And, you wanna know something? It’s not over. Not by a long shot.

You might notice that there are no exclamation marks in that intro. That’s ‘cause we’re supposed to be quiet up here this evening, while the birthing process takes place in the house. I was getting way too demonstrative to suit Kay. Her word – demonstrative. I don’t even think it’s the right word.

You may know me well enough to realize I’m not talking about birthing a real baby. That usually happens on the carport. No, it’s butterfly hatching that’s going on inside the house. Kay gets way too protective of her butterfly collection. She received the current collection of caterpillars from the same girl who gave us our first monarch caterpillar. Shannon. On this occasion, Shannon gave Kay 16 caterpillars. Shannon thought she could spare them, ‘cause she still has over fifty… inside her house! (Opps. I raised my voice.)

Each caterpillar in Kay’s collection entered the chrysalis stage about 10 days ago. Today, six of ‘em hatched. Not a boy among ‘em. I helped Kay take the first one outside. That’s when I apparently got too “demonstrative” for her. She can’t tolerate excessive demonstrativeness.

I’ve christened each of the newborns. Thus far, we’ve had Bookey, Cuepie, Dolchifina, Elsie, Fatima and Gertrude. All but Fatima are Protestants. I only got to see phone photos of them, ‘cause of my behavior… as if my being “demonstrative” is going to ruin the lives of a half dozen butterflies.

The remaining nine chrysalises (chrysali?) are getting darker, so they may hatch tomorrow. All but two of ‘em are camped inside an upside-down webbed basket. (That is the first appearance of that sentence in any language.) Two of the nine caterpillars escaped the netting. One formed a chrysalis on the underside of a shelf. The other roosted on the underside of one of the mini-blinds. What an idiot! It may well be our only boy.

For the purpose of shaming me, Kay enlisted the help of Michael, the kid next door, to help her release the last hatched. She told me that Michael was very gentle with the newborn. Like Michael is better than me. Why don’t you just knee me in the nards? -- Scratch that. Kay does not favor my use of testicular slang.  That’s what she said, “I do not favor…” La tee dah.

So, after that blow by blow account, you’ve probably guessed that I’ve been on the roof a good while. Butterflies don’t just appear and then fly off, you know. They’ve got to hang around until their butterfly-hearts pump enough butterfly-blood to their wings inorder to give them rigidities. (I’m pretty sure that’s a word, ‘cause spell-check let it slide. Rigidities.)

Kay took Beverly out too early. The poor thing slowly crawled from Kay’s finger to a milkweed plant. It was my idea for the early release. I was eager to get the show on the road. It was shortly after that I decided to hide up here. Can’t get into any trouble up here with you guys.

So, here we sit. Instead of witnessing the wonders of butterfly birth, we’re sitting up here on this metal roof somewhere between a kitchen vent and the satellite dish.

Speaking of which, what do you do with a satellite dish after you quit using it? DISH network never brought the subject up when we cancelled our service. It may have been an oversight… making me fear to remove the thing, I’ll probably get visited by two guys with black suits and dark sunglasses. “Okay, Mac, we can do this the hard way, or you can just tell us what you did with the dish.” The word “torture” would be thrown around a time or two.

Truth is, I’d have to give Kay up. I just do not do well under torture. Even the thought of torture. – “Oh, yeah, it was my wife. I begged her not to do it. But nooooo. She told me to get out of her way and quit being demonstrative.”

I don’t know if we’re sophisticated enough to possess a satellite dish. I have seen houses that still have those gigantic dishes, like the ones used around Hanger 51. The kind that can receive signals from the Zeta Prostatis Galaxy. The big dishes won’t receive TV signals anymore. Probably. But, they are great leaf catchers. Surely there’s some parts of the monstrosities that can be salvaged.

But then, what do I know about salvage? I can’t even salvage my image as head-of-the-house. I’m up here on the roof with you guys, ‘cause I apparently know nothing about birthing butterflies. I’ll have her know that I was the midwife of Annette, our firstborn monarch. Where was Kay during that birthing process? Out of town! (Oops. We’re yelling again. Hold it down, would you?)

I hope you realize I’m joking about not being the man of the house. Pretty much joking. Somewhat joking. I’m in charge, all right. But, I’ve found it best to pick my battles. I don’t mind giving in on this one, ‘cause the battle coming up involves the possible cancellation of HBO.

Kay thinks it’s ridiculous for us to pay $20 a month just so I can watch six episodes of “Game of Thrones” each year. I hate it when she uses logic against me. It boggles the mind how much this girl has advanced under my tutelage. Just makes me want to weep.

end
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Acting mean

I'm not a lecherous old man, and Al's not a preacher, but we play 'em in "Palliate."

I’m sure you would agree that I’m a really nice guy. I can see many of you nodding in

agreement at this very moment. “Nice” is the third best image to project. “Nice and buff” is the best.

Acting nice has come easy for me, because I’ve had such a sheltered life. When I was growing up, Mom dragged us to church twice on Sundays and once every Wednesday night. Yes, that caused me to miss the most epic TV programming ever, but it did make me to appear nice.

The Hayter kids were raised by a hard-working dad and a mother who stayed home caring for us. Part of the “caring” involved a lot of yelling and spanking. If we had been the only neighborhood kids who got spanked, we would’ve turned out so less nice.

At no time did I consider smoking, drinking, carousing or cussing. I think I frolicked once. I might’ve done that. Regardless, I was such a clean-cut person that while working my way through college at a factory, I was teased for being so square… so innocent. It was my first encounter with “raunchy” adults.

I absolutely hated the job. The only thing that made it bearable was the camaraderie with those raunchy men. Their teasing was good-natured, their work ethic admirable, and their thoughtfulness genuine. I didn’t pick up any of their bad language, but I did laugh at some of their crude jokes. There are some jokes, the humor of which, supersede all bounds of propriety. I’m not sure what that means, but it just might justify my reaction to the bawdy jokes.

The work experience left me a tad less naive. I did maintain my niceness, though. That’s very important. In fact, I can think of only two areas where being nice is not helpful. That is in writing and acting.

While writing fiction, I’ve always made my main characters out to be prime examples of morality; and the bad people to be really bad, without cursing. They can murder, pillage and plunder as long as they don’t curse. In other words, I have trouble making my characters real.

The same with acting. I don’t want a role where I have to cuss a lot. I would gladly play a mobster or a serial killer, but I don’t want to be a bad guy who cusses. While it’s only acceptable to be a murderer in a film if you don’t curse while you’re killing someone. That’s because, if you play a character who cusses, the actor must cuss. Easy to separate an actor from the role of murderer, but much harder to separate the actor from a character who swears.

With that in mind, I recently accepted a role as a lecherous, selfish, beer drinking old man who swears a lot. The theme is a good one, though. Something about the plight of caregivers who must take care of cantankerous parents. The director and writer of the script is someone I’ve worked with before. That being said, I’m sure I wasn’t his first choice for the role.

In order to preserve the semblance of niceness, I refused to say any of the “major” curse words. Regardless, my character was a real jerk, who possessed no redeeming quality. At first, it was difficult for me to deliver my lines in convincing manner. But, as time wore on, I got into character and it became less difficult.

And, speaking of beer, I’ve always hated the stuff. The smell was almost as bad as the taste. But, by the time scene 24 ended, I didn’t hate it anymore. I didn’t like it, but I managed to drink it without making a face. In total, I swallowed about a half can of lite beer. I got so tipsy.

My kid brother also had a part in the film. It was Al’s second role as a preacher. I’ve never visualized him as a preacher, but at least two casting directors have.

In his scene, Al was supposed to deliver a short fire-and-brimstone sermon. He was playing the stereotypical, hypocritical preacher who sermonized everyone straight to hell. Well, Al ended up writing his own sermon, and he changed it a bit. He stood in front of the congregation and talked about grace and love and seeking help from God. He even had tears in his eyes at one point.

One of the actors, sitting near me during the sermon, was supposed to appear angered at the preacher. However, after the scene, she told me that she started listening to Al and almost lost sight of the scene. The director even liked Al’s delivery. You see, my kid brother took the opportunity to change his character in a way that, I believe, improved the scene. Mom would’ve given him a big ol’ hug… and she would’ve spanked me.

I grew some as an actor as a result of playing such a jerk. And, I shed a little more of my naivete. Regardless, the filming is complete. All that’s left is the editing. The director hopes to enter “Palliate” at the South by Southwest Festival in Austin.

Realizing that you can make nearly anything sound justifiable, let me say that in scripture we read about some vile occurrences caused by both evil and godly people. God, being God, used honesty in the conveyance of His message. While my character was far removed from morality, he was crucial to the message of the film. That means something to me… but it would in no way keep Mom from giving me a spankin’. It was nearly impossible to justify bad behavior to Elsie.

end

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Jill's bicycle

It's a start -- Whatta start! -- Here's your ears!..  

Last time Jill visited she told me she wanted to buy a bicycle. “One of those three wheelers,” she said.  A three wheeler bicycle would be safer and it has big basket for carrying neat stuff.

 Right from the get-go I got on her bad side. I informed her that a three-wheeler is a tricycle not a bicycle; and that the difference can be determined by the numerical prefix.  Jill called me Mr. Smartypants, and then asked me what you call a bicycle with training wheels. I took that as a sign to get off the topic of wheels.

I kept waiting for Jill to solicit my advice about a bike purchase, but she never did. She kept going on and on about how a new bicycle might be the answer she was looking for. That’s when asked her what the question was that the bicycle might answer. In other words, “Why do you want a bicycle?”

Jill told that she was at a place in her life where she was so bored and lonely. She thought a bicycle might chase away her blues. In other words, she was seeking psychological help from something with a seat and handlebars.

That’s the moment I decided to tell my kid sister the fourth stupidest thing you can ever tell a lonely and bored person. I said, “Jill, loneliness and boredom are not where you are; it’s who you are.” (That’s coming from a guy who could write a book about being bored and lonely.)

Jill came very close to telling me, not WHO I was; but WHAT I was. Boy, did I deserve it. I tried to smooth things over by telling her that I was just trying to get her not to place a great deal of faith in a bicycle being a cure-all.

The good thing about Jill and me is that we don’t hold a grudge for over a week or two. It was right at a week later that Jill called to tell me about her new bicycle. My advice meant nothing to her. In fact, I think it drove her right into the front door of the bicycle store.

As of that moment, I can now say with all confidence that there is no one on this planet who gives two hoots about my advice. Kay still listens to my advice, but she wouldn’t take it if I paid her to. Al won’t even listen to my advice. Virginia would try to make gravy in a coke bottle if I advised her not to.

But, Jill? Jill used to ask me for advice all the time. Not about important stuff, you understand. Stuff like when to change the air filter on your air conditioner; and how you’re not supposed to buy the air conditioner filters made of fiberglass that are so porous you can stick a Popsicle stick through the gaps. And, how you’re supposed to hit the bottom of the pickle jar before trying to open it. Things like that.

But, she will no longer seek my advice. She says she just wants me to be a listener. If she wants to do something I don’t need to make suggestions. If she gets depressed, I don’t need to try to build her up. Don’t talk; just listen.

Ouch. That’s what I’ve been relegated to – the role of silent listener. What a kick in the tenders. That’s what it felt like when I first realized no one wanted to seek my advice. But, in a very short while – about three days – I discovered the relief associated with not being responsible for advice given. It’s like not having to roll up the hose. (Not really, but that came to mind.)

Now, when someone starts telling me about a problem, all I have to do is act like I’m listening.  And, as I get older, I won’t even have to act. Old people can get away with rudeness. – “Look, Shirtstain, your quest for someone who gives a hoot is not yet complete.”

I’m finally at peace with myself. Not with other people. People drive me nuts. But, I have inner peace, ‘cause my advice counts for bat guano.  People can marry the wrong spouse, spoil their kids rotten, open a jar of pickles all wrong… Doesn’t affect me ‘cause I’ve been decommissioned.

To tell the truth, I’m glad Jill bought a bicycle. She e-mailed me a picture of the thing, and it looks cool. Fortunately, it’s a two-wheeler, but only because the big tricycle cost a fortune. Oh, and her bike is baby-blue, with blue rims, a blue and white plaid seat, blue handle bars, yellow spokes, and a blue reed basket. Oh, and it’s a girl’s bike… a real dude magnet.

 Jill told me that when she was riding at the park, a kid yelled at her, “Hey! That’s a girl’s bike!” Jill smiled and nodded. Had she not been in a good mood, she would’ve ridden over and pushed the little snot down. That’s a sign that the bicycle might be improving Jill’s outlook.

The only bad thing I can see in all this is the fact that, now, Kay wants a bicycle. Or as I call it, “a garden hose holder with a seat.” And, do you think she has even pretended to care about my thoughts on the subject? -- You should be shaking your head right now. – Next time.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com