Mark Myers's Blog, page 22
November 18, 2015
The Outhouse Scribe
Today in Portsong, we are mourning the passing of Charles Mabry. Actually, to be completely honest, mourning is a slight exaggeration. It’s more like we’re observing the fact that he died. That might sound a tad awful, but most folks around here would use the same adjective to describe Charles… if you removed the tad.
He lived and died by himself in a lonely, run-down house at the end of Three Pond Road. He had no known kin to miss him. In fact, no one might have found out about his death had a group of boys not been sneaking onto his land to enjoy a little fishing. Noticing an unusually strong smell coming from Charles’ outhouse, the boys dared one another to investigate. One of the lads finally accepted the challenge only to open the door and find the man having expelled his last – literally.
There is no sign of foul play.
Charles died just as he had lived – angry. Evidently he was stuck in the seated position for several days and had scrawled a long list of grievances and complaints on the interior walls of the outhouse (chief among them was boys sneaking across his property.) He also detailed all of the people who had offended him in life – which turned out to be a fairly accurate roster of the entire town. We plan on using it for next year’s census since Milbert Taylor’s goat ate our official roll. Charles even took issue with the sweetest soul in town, old Ms. Floy, who has played the piano at church for sixty years. It seems she wore a hat once in the autumn of 1884 that he swears she stole off his mother’s head. The man might have been bitter, but he sure had a fine memory.
At some point he realized he was never getting up and no one was coming to his aid. He lamented the fact that his legs gave out and stuck him there on the privy, he wished he had spent the extra thirty-seven cents for a more comfortable seat, and he bemoaned the fact that his property would pass into the hands of strangers. Funny, even in this final writing he was blind as to what left him on that perch alone. According to his testament, all of his problems were someone else’s doing and his misfortunes were either dumb luck or intricate plots against him. Poor Charles never lifted a finger to make himself or someone else happy.
He will be buried on Friday in the church graveyard. Old Reverend Crane won’t miss an opportunity to preach, even for a lonely, old sinner like Charles Mabry. The church will be largely empty although some curiosity-seekers will wander by and might stay for the final resting as long as the Reverend keeps it under an hour. Despite his accusations, sweet Ms. Floy will play him into eternity, possibly wearing the very hat that caused him discontent.
What caused Charles Mabry to be such a grumpy old soul? Was he born puckered up or did something chafe him along the way? Did he ever make a baby laugh or send a love note to a sweetheart? We may never know the answer. His life is a lesson to the rest of us: Make someone happy, just one someone happy and you will be happy too.
(If I were musically inclined, I’d put a tune to that.)
-November 18th, 1924
Filed under: Stories From Around Town
November 11, 2015
WANTED: Cone of Silence
With all of the useful technology being invented daily, how has someone not created a real life Cone of Silence? We can map a human genome, bungee jump without a cord, order a pizza with a tweet and yet we have no cone of silence! The cone of silence was largely responsible for keeping the bumbling Secret Agent Maxwell Smart undercover for five seasons and would you believe, three films!
The cone of silence would be something of real use, especially for men. I have said some really stupid things in my life – most men have. Just like my tantrums and trivial diatribes, I save most of my stupidity for my wife and family. Why waste it on people I don’t care about, right? I won’t regale you with the stupid things I’ve said, the book entitled Somehow I’m Still Married is coming out in 2021 (maybe). There is so much stupidity out there for us all to enjoy – and 2016 is an election year! Stupid is multiplied by four during an election year.
Speaking of stupid, why, Dear God, why do you let televangelists create syntactic combinations of lexicals? Seriously? Why couldn’t they be left out of the phonetic pool? There are good people living authentic lives of love that would be attractive to the lost and searching and they have trouble getting their message out. And then, one day, some dope decides red cups are the most important, despicable, and overtly evil thing in the world and everyone pays attention. Seriously? A cup? If that’s the highest priority on your list, you’ve got it pretty good, pal.
Doesn’t he know that Christians are NOT going to boycott their lattes? Seriously, start talking about taking away Starbucks and church attendance goes way down. After all, the carpets in many churches are coffee brown to bring people and their careless stains inside – red cups and all.
Somebody please invent the Cone of Silence – we now have the perfect test subject!
Of course it will need a remote control and someone must be the authority. Would we have an election for that? I can imagine the debates. There is so much needless tripe spewed at political debates that the cone of silence would be in full use while we tried to pick who got to be its master. No, an election wouldn’t work.
The cone of silence administrator would be such an onerous and powerful position that it would have to be won by some sort of game. That’s it! We could have a huge challenge of The Quiet Game that your mom made you play on car trips and whoever wins becomes the Quiet King and controls the cone of silence for seven years.
The original Quite Kings – The Darling Boys
I am quite sure it would hover over me sometimes, but it would be for my own good and the good of my relationships. I can accept that. There would probably have to be a blimp sized one ready to deploy at anywhere a televangelist got to address a crowd. And wouldn’t that be good? I have faith in the Quiet King. He knows when to push the button.
Speaking of Kings, I seriously doubt the people at Starbucks hates Jesus. And regardless, I know with complete certainty that Jesus loves the people at Starbucks. So if you have to picket, protest the Tall and Grande sizes because there is nothing grande about getting a miniature cup of coffee at those prices, regardless of its color.
Filed under: Humor
November 4, 2015
Love Rejected
It’s late. I’ve been in a deep, refreshing sleep for hours – completely uninterrupted which is close to a miracle for a middle-aged man. I don’t know exactly what time this started, but at some point I feel her scootch close to me. Even though I am asleep I feel her touch as if she has invaded my dream. It is a good touch – soft and gentle, yet unrelenting. But I can’t focus. I am too caught up in the spidery web of slumber and cannot will myself awake to take part in this late night liaison. Part of me wants to though, I admit.
So what should I do? Should I be honest and say, “No, thank you”? To speak would give away cogitation letting on that I was awake. So I do nothing. I feign sleep. I may as well be dead for all of the affection I return.
Only she doesn’t accept my complacency. She forces herself on me and digs her claws into my chest – not too hard, but enough that I feel their sharp tips penetrate the first layer of skin. I wonder if I’m bleeding. I wonder if my blood will stain the opulent 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Then, to offset the roughness of her claws, I feel the gentle pull of her tongue on my nose. I feel the hotness of her breath. Many times I would court this kind of behavior yet at this moment I can’t bring myself to wipe the haze from my mind and accept the love I am receiving.
“Get off me, Liza!” I cry as I push the kitten off of my chest and roll over.
It only takes a second until she is once again snuggled against my sleeping better half. I’ve probably blown it now. The sweet kitten won’t try to nuzzle me again for weeks. Rejection stings.
We’ve all been rejected.
I remember first time my love was spurned like it was yesterday. Her name was Jenny. It was Mrs. Lampton’s second grade class at Cochrane Elementary. Most of my days were spent in the “special chair” next to the teacher facing the other students. I may have been put there for disciplinary reasons, but I like to think I was a kind of a teacher’s assistant. My behavior must have been better this particular day because I was actually facing the teacher in the same row as Jenny. When she went to the front to sharpen her pencil, I opened my desk and found the profound piece of literature I had crafted to woo her. Woo her for what purpose I had no idea, but this was what a man does when he feels this way. Things would work out after the wooing was done. At least that was the scenario my seven year-old mind had constructed.
When she sashayed back down the row, I summoned the courage to hand her my note. It was done! We were practically engaged now. Two lovebirds, ready to do whatever lovebirds do. I smiled smugly and felt total zen-like peace wondering when the love would begin to bloom.
Only it didn’t. I never got a response. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Over the ensuing weeks, I recounted the words I had painstakingly written:
Do you like me?
Check a box YES [] NO []
What could go wrong? That tried and true note is what Jeff told me to write and he got it from his older brothers and they were in middle school! At the very least she could have checked NO and returned it! Then I would know. Now it is 41 years later and I’m stuck wondering what happened to the love I had offered. I don’t remember anything else from second grade except for Trey, the clairvoyant kid who somehow knew exactly when Mrs. Lampton was about to walk back into the room.
I wonder if Jenny is a wife and mother now. Or a high powered attorney with a cold, analytical persona. If they still make old spinsters she’s probably one of those because she spent her life rejecting love. I would stalk her online only I don’t remember her last name and Facebook profiles don’t usually list elementary schools.
Rejected love is still love, regardless of whether it is ill-timed, somewhat demented, or aggressive. If love must be rejected, one should have the courtesy to explain why – even if they are seven!
I don’t want to be like Jenny.
So Liza, I’m sorry. I check YES [] and will make every attempt to accept your love as you can provide it. But since only one of us is nocturnal, let’s shoot for daylight hours.
Filed under: Humor
November 3, 2015
A Very Airmail Christmas 2015: Introducing our honouree…
Kylie loved Christmas and I’m humbled that people will send Christmas cards in her honor.
Originally posted on From The Koala Tree:
For the last three Christmases my friend Rebecca has organised something called A Very Airmail Christmas. Started in 2012 to fulfil a patient’s wish that everyone would send a Christmas card to a stranger, we have continued doing this in honour of a different person each year. This year we will be doing it in honour of a young lady who loved Christmas. Coincidentally I was introduced to this incredible girl by the foundation set up in the legacy of last year’s honouree, Anna Basso. You may know her as Smiley Kylie. I will pass over to Kylie’s father now, to let him introduce you to her…
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Kylie Myers was a sweet and talented girl who loved art, her friends, music, and all things related to the stage. At the age of ten, she blew everyone away with her performance as Annie and set her sights on a Broadway future.
During the…
View original 1,145 more words
Filed under: Humor
October 28, 2015
Glaring Weakness is my Strength
I spent the weekend at my college homecoming with the friends of my youth. We were young bucks together – brothers, champions on fields and in the ladies’ hearts. True legends of the university, soon to conquer the world. At least that’s how we remember it.
Back in the Day
Back then, the talk was of girls, sports, parties, and well… girls. This time we mostly talked of the good old days, recent medical procedures, new aches, chronic pains, and family. Our waists are bigger and our hairlines have shifted. Every one of us is slower but wiser. I found it hysterical to go to dinner in this college town when no one had to mooch because we actually have money.
It was so good to see these guys. They have faithfully followed my family’s journey through cancer and the loss of Kylie and been a great source of encouragement to me. I needed this weekend to thank them, hug them, be with them and reconnect. This is the first time I’ve been able to go. Life got in the way for far too long.
I can’t tell you how many times one of my old friends told me how much they admire my strength. I’m humbled by that statement… humbled and slightly embarrassed. I have heard it before and I want to let you in on a little secret:
I’m the weakest guy you know.
I’m not strong unless strength is simply resisting the urge to stay in a fetal position all day long.
I argue that strength is not the mere act of putting one foot after the other, staggering like a drunk with no foreseeable direction.
There is no strength in speaking or writing about the little girl I miss so much – that is only desperation, if anything. I am desperate to make sure she isn’t blotted out from my feeble memory or yours.
I saw strength – strength that fought the beast to the very end armed with nothing more than a smile. This strength you think you see in me is an illusion. It is more fear than strength. And I will tell you what I tell anyone who gives me that compliment:
You would do the same thing.
If you were faced with the same dilemma and your son or daughter were stuck in a hospital bed, you would do whatever necessary to move one hour into the next. You would do anything for one smile. If you had to shepherd your family past a devastating loss, you would do the same things I have done, probably better. I pray you never have to do so, because then you will know what weakness truly is.
Here we are now
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I had downloaded several podcast for the trip. On the way home I chose a series from Your Move with Andy Stanley, who does both leadership podcasts and sermons. I freely admit that I thought this selection was more about leadership because I have steered clear of most preaching since February. The series was about being stuck in circumstances that seem to leave no way out. Very relevant, but he got me – it was taken straight out of the Bible. I listened anyway and the verse that hit me was 2 Corinthians 12:9
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Since I’ve been embarrassed about being called strong when I feel so weak, I had to pause the sound and ponder that one. It only took a minute for me to realize that what people see in my weakness is a reflection of perfect strength – but it isn’t me! That is a mirage. No, somehow my ineptitude and weakness mirrors the potent strength of an all-powerful God. And aren’t I an unlikely surface? With my flaws, dirt, and cracks it would seem impossible to see a reflection at all – much less his!
How does this work? Especially now. Now, in this time where I doubt God, I fear God, and I question God more than any other time in my life, he somehow uses me now to show himself strong. This is the mystery of God. Like so many things I’ve encountered in the recent past, there is no explaining him. There is also, at times, no understanding him.
But please understand this: I am weak. I don’t know where I’m going. I have no idea what to do. I move forward only because I am compelled to move away from the pain behind me. This is weakness.
Glaring weakness is my strength.
Filed under: Kylie
October 21, 2015
Workers of the World UNITE!
I never understood the purpose for labor unions. I always thought they were mainly the reason for inflated car prices and jobs moving overseas. I’ve seen several movies about them where they are portrayed as corrupt fronts for mafia crime. Who needs that? The internet seems to agree with their general seediness – so it has to be true.
Okay, I do see the historical need for child labor laws and protection for workers in dangerous industries such as mining and longshoremen. I have no idea what a longshoreman is, but I want to be one because would be awesome on a business card:
Mark Myers
Longshoreman
But seriously, bakers need a union?
While we’re at it, check these out:
The International Union of Allied Novelty and Production Workers (protecting against heinous rubber chicken incidents since 1957)
Jockey’s Guild (working hard in the fight against hemorrhoids and saddle sores)
Programmers Guild (mostly an online dating site for COBOL users – like Ashley Madison, all they need is a few women.)
Don’t even get me started with pro sports unions! Seriously? Those pampered athletes have no clue what the working class goes through (unless you weigh over 250 and can bench press much more than that – then you know everything, sir and I apologize for disparaging your very necessary collective bargaining organization.)
I didn’t think there was a reason for organized labor until today. Now I know. I have been trod upon by big business and I’m not going to take it any longer. I am calling for an all-out strike of my industry. No longer will we accept adverse working conditions and subhuman treatment. We won’t be subjected to an unproductive environment that demeans our very existence. For too long we have moiled and toiled, sweated blood, and sold our souls for the common good of no one other than The Man. It is time for a change.
I see the rights ascribed to the worker by this fine country. They are pasted on the breakroom walls.
We demand those RIGHTS!
No longer shall we be ignored, broken, and pushed aside.
We demand PROPER WORKING CONDITIONS!
We demand FAIRNESS!
We demand JUSTICE!
We demand that the coffee maker be fixed before we return the office!
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Sad little empty cup
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Okay, forget all that other stuff and please, please, please fix the coffee maker. PLEASE!
Filed under: Humor
October 14, 2015
20 Questions for Vegas
My wife and I spent the weekend in Vegas, BABY!
It’s not what you think. We aren’t really the Vegas type. There was a charity event we were invited to attend and it was filled with lovely people doing amazing work. That part of our trip was truly a beautiful experience.
Our First Red Carpet… ever!
Other parts were more alarming to my sense of dignity. In fact, I wondered how the people we met at the event reconciled their existence in Las Vegas with the rest of what I saw until I was told that the average citizen never goes down to the strip unless they work there. It may be the reason for the city, but it is also the reason residents avoid the city.
Despite all of its perverse charm, the people watching in Las Vegas is exquisite. So many questions churn in the mind as you take in the experience. In no particular order, I present my top 20 questions:
Dear old man, what is the allure of playing slots alone the entire hour my wife and I are eating lunch?
What must I do to get my bathrobe put in a rotating display case in a casino?
To the kid with the cardboard sign, Help Me Buy Weed – do you think we all didn’t see that on the internet and if you have a connection, why do you need my change?
Who shops at Victoria’s Secret… in the airport?
Vegas fashion
Can you make one retail store without slot machines?
To the parents playing blackjack while their two children slept in strollers… Really?
How can I pay a cabby when all of your ATM’s only dispense $100 bills?
How many regrets come out of the tattoo parlor in the hotel/casino lobby?
If you could harness the collective ego of the young men strutting down the strip, could you power the entire city?
Young ladies, are the hotel lobbies really the suitable place for you to audition to be showgirls?
They make the women tall in Vegas
How many psychologists specializing in ways to pull money out of my pocket are employed by the city?
What happened to the cheap food and free buffets?
Did the drunk buying diamonds for his wife, girlfriend, or current table partner at the jewelry store in the casino lobby really think his purchase through?
Is the richest guy in Vegas a casino owner or a plastic surgeon?
I never thought I’d be able to cross “selfie with a lady wearing a kiddie pool” off my bucket list.
How were normal-looking, middle aged people still living the night before when we were checking out to catch our red-eye flight home?
Is an ill-fitted, expensive dress really fashion or is it just another in a long list of poor choices?
If you need that many security guards, are you running a casino or a debtors prison?
Is a Vegas hotel lobby at 5 am the closest thing to a zombie apocalypse?
When do they clean anything in a casino?
Did I just pass Elvis at the Bellagio fountains?
If you’ve had the pleasure of experiencing Vegas, did you have any questions I left out?
Filed under: Humor
October 7, 2015
An Admiration of Breasts
Like a pimply-faced teenager, I find myself once again consumed with breasts. It has been nearly 35 years since I went from a jostling, happy 12 year-old to a smug, confused teenager who finally noticed there was a difference between his buddies and the girl next door. Ah, Dawn Holstead. For so many years, Dawn played the same sports and games the rest of we boys did. She pretty much dressed like us and besides having longer hair, she looked a great deal like us. Since it was the 70’s, even shaggy hair wasn’t a great differentiator.
Then one day, I noticed she was…different. It was like something grew overnight. Yes, Dawn had started her inevitable change into a woman. Things got really dicey after that. Her ascent into womanhood was very inconvenient in the neighborhood because she decided to go all out and be a girly-girl instead of our fourth man. Two-on-two basketball became one-on-one with someone sitting out. We didn’t have even teams for football anymore so Tommy had to be all-time quarterback and we needed extra invisible men for baseball. So while I was glad to have an attractive neighbor with breasts, it kinda stunk on the playground.
One of the most embarrassing things I ever did revolved around breasts. It was totally innocent. Seriously! I promise! I was in the most awkward of all teenage hangouts – the school cafeteria. Being the new kid, I was pretty excited to have recently made friends with the popular and gorgeous Tracy Brinks. One day in the lunch line, Tracy turned around to say hello to me wearing a mohair sweater. What should the new kid desperate to impress do? He should compliment her clothes, of course. Only he should not reach out his hand to touch said clothes. Yup. I innocently reached out to give a tactile compliment to her sweater and found my hand resting squarely on her breast… in the lunch room… in front of the whole high school. I swear I had no intention of doing it. Really, I didn’t. It was so incredibly awkward. Tracy earned sainthood that day in my eyes because she didn’t have me hauled to the principal’s office. Of course, I couldn’t look her in the eye for months.
And now, in my middle age, I find myself admiring breasts again. It isn’t for the same reasons I did in my youth. It’s not the size, shape, or elasticity that intrigue me nor is this a rousing game of Real or Fake. No, it is not visual this time around. What I can’t get out of my head is the way they dominate the conversation in October. God Bless the Breast, you can’t get away from them. Pink is everywhere. Everywhere! Cheerleaders aside, think you’ll get away from them by watching an NFL game? Think again! Breasts have left the sideline and are now bouncing on the playing field with socks, sweat towels, and wristbands. When I was a teen I would have probably been slapped for complimenting a girl’s tatas and now soccer moms in minivans sport bumper stickers asking me to save them. October 15th now stands to surpass Christmas as the favorite day for pre-pubescent boys since it has been declared No Bra Day.
Kudos to this young man for his interest in breast cancer awareness.
While I admittedly do admire the breast, my true admiration is for the marketing genius who wrangled the breasts out of their bras and into the social consciousness.
Say what you want about the current state of the foundation involved, they did an incredible job of creating awareness for breast cancer. For whatever reason, our childhood cancer counterparts haven’t seemed to rival their acumen. More people are going gold in September now and there is a trend toward more awareness of the leading killer of children. But even before October started I was asked by three stores if I wanted to buy a pink bag or donate a dollar to research. Wait, September is our month!
Good for you breasts, not only do you command 21% of public research dollars according the National Cancer Institute (compared to the children’s 3.8%), you pull in a much larger percentage of the private money as well.
I am not here to compare cancers. Any cancer is bad cancer – they all deserve research and I pray we find a cure for each and every one. But as a parent who has lost a child to cancer, I can’t help but notice the disparity between the pink and gold movements. We say we value our children, but do we?
The Captain of the SS Cancer sees the iceberg and cries out “Women and children first”, but for some reason the lifeboat is stuffed with breasts and we’ve not saved room for the drowning children who will never mature to grow them!
I wonder why? Is it because women have them and men think of them every 4.6 seconds on average? Is it because adults don’t typically get childhood cancers so those in power only focus on what affects their own lives? Or is it because one foundation grabbed society by the shorts and made them focus on breasts while children seem to have literally hundreds of disconnected organizations shouting different messages?
I don’t know. I’m not bright enough to figure this one out. I’m new to this cancer thing. After all, we only had ten months from diagnosis to my daughter’s death. I didn’t have time to think about awareness and funding. I only thought about the fight for her survival. Yet I can’t help but wonder if someone had organized a similar unified, organized campaign twenty years ago for childhood cancer, would it have yielded a more effective treatment for Kylie? Likewise, if our national priority truly was for children as our future, would she have one?
So Go Pink and Yay Breasts. I assure you, I have always been a big fan. But somehow can’t we figure out a way to be gold too? The children who nursed on them are counting on us.
Filed under: Humor
September 30, 2015
Can You Smell Maturity?
September 23, 2015
Free Awkward Hugs
