Rodney Strange's Blog, page 11

'Blue Screen Of Death'

It's been a while since I've written anything...not that anyone noticed. Nobody came to check on me. Not a single soul shot me a text, or a tweet, or a facebook message. Nothing, zip, zero, nada. I expected as much. I could be nothing but a bloated, rotting corpse by now and no one would even question..."Say, I wonder what ever happened to that Rusty Goat guy?"
Quite simply, my laptop died. Yes, the worst death...the BSOD. The blue screen of death! Right in the middle of a Windows 10 update, my trusty companion took its last breath. A horrible way to die, clinging to life support, unable to boot past that message of finality. Your laptop has drawn her last breath. She's dead, Jim! Deader than Twitter, more lifeless than Google Plus. Just a shell of what she used to be. I wept.
I took drastic life-saving measures, but I'm not a computer doctor. Finally, after a week of futile frustration, I tucked her away in a drawer of my desk and...what's this? Buried beneath a pile of discarded cables, cords, and miscellaneous computer debris from years gone by rested my 2002 model HP Pavilion. Would she work? Why had I banished her to the junk drawer a decade ago? I couldn't even remember. Dusting her off and finally locating a power cord that seemed to work, I eagerly pressed the power button. Nothing. I giggled the cord and she glimmered briefly. Ah yes, the cord had a short...I propped it up with a TV remote and angled the power cord at a sharp ninety degrees and she sprung to life. The sound of life came to my ears. A hard disk from the bowels deep within her whirled. The immense heat from the machine struggling to come to life was alarming. After fifteen minutes, she loaded, the sounds from her insides ceased. She sat peacefully before me, willing to answer my call to action. I opened Google Chrome...fifteen minutes later, it loaded. Well...damn!
A week later the package from Amazon arrived. I opened the box and gingerly lifted the one gig RAM card and a brand new battery to eye level. Would this bring my old classic laptop back to life? She had been running on 500 megabytes of RAM, which was sufficient back at the turn of the century. Nowadays, that won't even load Chrome, or Facebook, for that matter. After a successful RAM transplant, I booted her up and, yes...she sprung to life. An hour later, with a fully charged battery, I sat down in my easy chair with my old friend, eager to move forward with my life. Google Chrome loaded instantly with a warning, 'You are using Windows XP, buddy! Don't expect miracles!' After a few hours of research, I came to the dismal conclusion that, even with the additional RAM, the old processor running my Pavilion was not capable of much more than casually surfing the internet...which was what she was built for, after all. Words, in a Scottish accent, rang in my ears...
"She's giving us all she's got, Captain, but she's eighty years old in computer years. It's like putting Romo back in as quarterback!"
The other night I retrieved my dead laptop from the junk drawer and powered her up. The dreaded blue screen appeared as I knew it would. Just start pushing buttons, I told myself. Frantically and recklessly, I began. It was the F9 that unexpectedly brought me to a message, 'Do you want to boot with the last known good configuration?' Well, duh! Thirty minutes later the familiar little Windows flute sounded alerting me that the machine had come to life! I snatched her up from the coffee table a embraced her, cradling her in my lap. Wait...what's this? She had reverted back to Windows 7. I was okay with that. Wait...what's this? There was nothing...NOTHING on my machine. GONE were my pics, my saved blogs...my book I had been working on...ALL GONE! Well...damn!
The world has not ended, in fact, I needed this breather to regenerate...and to reflect. I discovered freedom during those weeks my life was void of the cyber world. I was amazed at how many chores I accomplished around the house. Without a computer running my life, I found balance. I finally repaired that sticking bathroom door. I cooked fabulous meals. I changed out that old shower head. Wow, was that ever awesome! I watched more Netflix. I visited my mom. I rearranged the living room. I went to the movies. I hung up new curtains in my bedroom, replacing the ones I bought back in the '90's. Yep, I had discovered life all over again. And it was good.
So I reflect. I question whether I want to go forward. I have pounded this endeavor into the ground, this futile attempt to carve out a niche for myself as a writer. I've worked tirelessly and relentlessly on my goal to share my thoughts with the world. As I mentioned, not too many people seem to care one way or another...it's not like anyone really missed me those few weeks. And you know what? I didn't miss you, either. True statement.
Quite simply, I had decided during my hiatus that I would stop writing these blogs. Blogging was popular a year ago, not so much now. Much has changed since then. Even social media has waned in popularity. We seek out other adventures...like Netflix. I really like Netflix! I could be catching up on 'The 100' right now instead of spinning tales of my own. I could be putting up the Christmas tree. And so...I reflect. Will I move forward with 'The Rusty Goat?' I reflect on when this all started, how it came to be, and where it will go next. If there is a next. If I decide to write another post, I shall share those reflections with you. Will I write another blog? I don't know. Will anyone read it? I'll not waste too much time fretting over that. Now, where did I put that Christmas tree?

'I Go Back'

It's been a tough week for me, just one of those weeks that beats a man down. And when I get beat down so far, I throw a party...a pity party. Weeks like this get me to thinking about how, if I were really honest with myself, truthfully...my whole life has been pretty tough. So, I've moped around for a day or two contemplating that perhaps I should throw in the towel. Give up. Not anything major, mind you, like eating rat poison. No, more along the lines of piling up on the couch, turning on Netflix, and devouring an entire family size bag of Lay's potato chips. If you know me, you know that if it comes to that, I've pretty much given up on life.
We all go through these little bumps in the road and I suppose we all handle it differently. Some drink. I'm not much of a drinker...I've still got a beer in the fridge from 1999. I just haven't had the urge to drink it. Some folks turn to drugs. The last time I laid eyes on any illegal substances was the night Sticky Nikki pulled a baggie out of her panties on some dark country road back in Nineteen Seventy Something. Ah, and there you have it. I just gave it away with that last sentence. When I get down and out, I go back...to Nineteen Seventy Something.
I wrote a book titled 'Nineteen Seventy Something' a few years back. It's a good book if I do say so myself. I wrote it during a pretty tough time in my life, much tougher than this week has been. Looking back, I didn't realize it then, but writing the book was a form of therapy, probably the best therapy I could have gotten. As I wrote what would become a fictionalized account of my early years, I began to realize just how bad those days were...and I never knew it at the time.
I found myself on my own at the age of seventeen with my senior year of high school looming ominously before me. I had a piddly job sacking groceries that brought me a paycheck of around seventy bucks a week. I had a car payment, rent, and all the usual bills, and somehow I had to feed myself with what was left over. If I had a twenty dollar bill in my pocket, I thought I was living in high cotton. More often than not, my money usually ran out a couple of days before payday, and most of those days, supper was a piece of bread or a few saltine crackers and the scrapings from an empty peanut butter jar. Those were the good weeks. There were weeks where I'd have to buy a tire or a starter for my car, or a jar of peanut butter. Then there was the senior ring, a tux for prom, and all those expenses that come with graduation. When the soles of my boots wore through to the pavement, I made insoles out of cardboard. That'd get me by for a few days, and then I'd put more cardboard in my boots. I suppose I could write a book about those times...oh yeah, I did.
Not much of all that made it in the book. When I allowed my memories to rattle loose from their hiding places within the depths of my mind, it wasn't those times that I remembered. It was the good times. Only in later years did I realize that in spite of all the trials and tribulations I endured in the seventies, I looked back on them as the good old days. I asked myself why and the only answer I ever came up with was...because I survived. And I grew up strong!
I was a kid at the end of his teen years, full of hope and dreams, and I never let anything take either of them away. I took life by the horns and held on tight for the ride of a lifetime. I never even considered failure a possibility. I worked forty hours a week and made the A honor roll. I was in the senior play, active in FFA, editor of the school paper, and won second place in state in the UIL journalism competition. I paid off my Plymouth Roadrunner and never missed a payment. I had friends, best friends. I had girlfriends...two at once and they didn't care! I discovered love of such magnitude that few would ever experience in a lifetime. I received a scholarship to college and never missed a day of class. I moved from a shack that had been converted from a chicken coop into a three bedroom, two bath house, charming and quaint...with carpet and air conditioning! I promoted up through the company to become the youngest store manager in its history...then promoted to become the youngest area supervisor ever. I accomplished all this before the age of twenty-one. Not one time did I ever consider giving up...not once.
I've had more tough times since the seventies, lots and lots of them. I call them adventures. The Good Lord grants some folks immense success, financial wealth, enduring love. ageless beauty...me, I've been blessed with lots of adventures. I'm grateful for every one of them. Through it all, I've never lost the hope and dreams...and I've never lost faith. I suppose without those bumps in the road, there'd be no adventures...and no stories to tell. Am I really going to let one lousy week get me down? No...because I go back...
My eyes focused on the girl sitting beside me on the hood of my car out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. She was all I had in this whole world at this exact moment...and I couldn't bear the thought of losing anything more than I'd already lost. My hand drew her face close to mine until our lips touched and I let Sticky Nikki D take my loneliness away, if only for the night. Rising up through the air like the smell of colitas, the wail of the guitars of the Eagles played on the 8-track and the words rang in my ears,

'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device...'

'Just Made This Up'

I caught some flack from a couple of people after I published last week’s blog post. These people, who I associate with on a personal level, seemed concerned that I had implied that I just haphazardly toss my personal life out there for the entire world to enjoy. Of course, that’s not really what they fear. They are scared to death I just might tell a secret about them. So, just for fun, I thought I’d rock the boat a little this week and really tell something that will rattle a few cages…here goes!
I gingerly placed the palm of my hand against her cheek as I peered into her eyes and beyond, far beyond into the very depths of her soul. I watched a tear form in the corner of her eye and I brushed it from her lash with a finger.
“I can hear your heart breaking,” I whispered softly.
She remained silent, pressing her face further into my hand.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” I continued, placing my other hand against her heart ever so lightly, “I’m here now. Please don’t cry.”
Her lips drew closer to mine and I closed my eyes and tasted her sweetness, sensing the passion of her despair.
Well, there you go! That’s about as personal as one can get, don’t you think? I should never share a moment like that with anyone, much less on the internet with, ummm….I’m going to guess around twenty-five thousand will see this week’s blog post. Let’s take a closer look. I did not divulge any descriptions that would give this person’s identity away. What color were her eyes? Her hair? Did this event happen earlier this evening or twenty years ago? Or…did it happen at all!
I am a writer…I write fiction. The above is nothing more. Who I visualized as I wrote is not the same person you saw as you read the blurb. If in the course of writing something I do happen to refer to a true event that passed through my life at some point, I’ll guaran-damn-tee you you’ll never know if it was fact of fiction…even if I wrote it about you. I’m just that good!
When I sat down to write ‘Nineteen Seventy Something,’ I had intended to base the story on my teen years. Page after page, I diluted the truth with embellishments and falsehoods until upon completion; the novel was just a story...fiction. Sure, there are half a dozen people who might recognize a random event within the book, but they’d be hard-pressed to accuse me of letting any skeletons out of the closet.
Let’s face it. Everything is fiction these days. The news…is not the news. It’s embellished and slanted in every which direction to the point that it borderlines fiction. When I studied journalism way back in the day, we were taught that one’s personal opinion was to never bleed into the news story you wrote. Today the news is simply someone’s twisted opinion.
Politicians are perhaps the best storytellers of our time and they produce much fictitious fodder to fuel the media’s fascination with fiction. By the time the general public gets the story, it’s apt to be a fiction double header. We, the American people are often befuddled and bedazzled as we wade through the inaccuracies that bombard us daily.
So who can we trust to tell us something true? Surely scientists wouldn’t fill our heads with fiction! I fear that the scientists of today are more storytellers than their predecessors. Recently scientists proclaimed that as much as fifty percent of the earth’s water is older than the sun. But wait…doesn’t that nullify the ‘Big Bang Theory?’ Scientists overload us daily with new revelations, many of them unbelievable and likely most of them mere fiction.
Famed physicist and devout atheist Stephen Hawkins tells us we no longer have any reason to believe that a God exists. We now have enough scientific evidence to support the hows and whys of the universe that we can put the Supreme Creator theory to rest. He says, and I quote, “In my opinion, there is no aspect of reality beyond the reach of the human mind.”
I’m a simple minded person and there are a lot of realities beyond my reach. The fiction of today’s world tends to confuse my mind. When I search for facts, I turn to the only reliable source of fact in existence today. The Holy Bible, written over a period of two thousand years by forty authors from three continents in three different languages, has not a single contradiction within its pages. That WOWs me!
Gotta go…I see a smokin’ hot blonde coming down my road in a shiny black Camaro! Haha! Can’t believe everything I tell you?

'Asking For Directions'

Last week's blog post was a super-downer, depressing, soul troubling article so not like my typical writing. There were things I felt I needed to say...and I did. Not sure if anyone actually read that post. In fact, truthfully I don't know if anyone reads any of my blogs...and with that thought in mind, I decided to twist off this week and not write about the sad state of the world. Oh sure, there were a couple dozen more shootings in Chicago that barely made the news this week. Then there's World War III breaking out over in the Middle East...and there's the antics of our government, which you all know I don't even waste my breath talking about.
This week I want to take a break from all that and just tell you about the day I got lost. I know the first thing that passed through the minds of my female readers when they read that last sentence was, "And you're a man and wouldn't ask for directions." You are wrong, Chicklets! I did ask...and that is the story I wish to tell.
It was a beautiful fall-like Saturday morning that I sat out on my adventure to the city. My daughter's volleyball team had a game scheduled at LCHS in Lubbock, Texas . I had glanced at the schedule hanging on the fridge several times throughout the week, and in my mind, which is not always the right mind, I knew exactly where she was playing...a private Christian school in the center of Lubbock, right over by the K-mart. I had judged that it would take me forty minutes to get from here to there, and right on schedule that Saturday morning, I stepped out of the house at nine-fifteen. The clock on the dash of my pickup read nine-fifty five as I pulled into the parking lot. I switched the key off and stepped out onto the asphalt. That's when the eerie feeling swept over me. As I glanced around the empty parking lot, a wave of fear rushed through my body as I came to the realization I might not be at the right school. I glanced at a sign looming before me, 'Trinity Christian School.' I whipped my not-so-smart ten-year-old phone from its holster and stared at the time. I had three minutes to find the right school.
Frantically I pulled out of the parking lot, and in a panic, swerved into the next parking lot I saw...a convenience store! Someone in that store would surely know where LCHS was! As I leaped from my vehicle, a postal worker exited the store. As hurried as I was at the moment, I immediately noticed she was unlike any postal worker I had ever seen. A long and lean little filly, her blonde hair in a ponytail, her official USPS issued shirt unbuttoned one button too many, and shorts far too short to be official licensed by the Post Office...she took my breath away just watching her saunter across the pavement toward her little square postal jeep.
"Excuse me, miss...um, Postal Officer!"
She paused and a broad smile spread across her face as I approached. I explained that I was lost and now sort of late to a volleyball game and could she tell me where in Lubbock, Texas LCHS was? She whipped her enormous iPhone 6 out from where I did not know, as her shorts could not possibly have pockets big enough to hold that thing.
"Let's just google it!" she exclaimed, drawing her body closer to mine to share her screen with me. My heartbeat picked up a notch just watching her slender fingers type on the screen.
"Um, I think it would have to be Lubbock Cooper High School. It's about fifteen minutes from here."
I protested that I really was under the impression that I was looking for a Christian school...didn't she know of one with those same initials? Yes, she replied, there was a Lubbock Christain High School, but she had no clue where it might be. I hesitantly thanked her for her help, and with one more glance over my shoulder to eye those long, tan legs, I bounced back into my truck, briefly pondering how it could be possible a mail carrier would not know where anything was.
Thirty minutes later, I again began my fruitless search for the elusive LCHS, having wasted precious time and gas driving out to the Cooper High School only to discover that, alas, it was not the right LCHS. Perhaps it was Lubbock Coronado High School, a woman standing outside of Cooper High School had suggested. Frustrated, I had driven back to where I had begun my search. I ventured down the street a bit farther...ten miles, eventually passing a sign that read, 'Lubbock Christain University.' I held my hand to my forehead and sighed. The initials did not match up! LCU was not LCHS. Nevertheless, I pulled into the campus, all but abandoned on this fallish Saturday morning. I spotted a jogger on the sidewalk and rolled my window down and gave her a shout. She continued, oblivious to me, her headphones drowning out my voice. I desperately tapped my horn...and she stopped.
As she came toward my vehicle, I could see she was young, attractive, athletic, and bra-less. She stooped and stuck her head through the passenger window, her arms crossed, resting on the door. My eyes unavoidably focused on what could have been two very distinctly protruding marbles beneath her thin tank top. OMG, don't stare at those, I told myself silently, averting my eyes to...OMG, hairy armpits! Don't stare at those either! I forced my line of sight upward toward her face where I saw the most beautiful smile and the greenest green eyes staring back at me.
"Sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for LCHS?"
"Oh, it's right over there," she pointed her finger toward what appeared to be a stadium, "Just head toward those lights at the football field!"
"I did mention it was volleyball, not football?"
She giggled and spread her arms wide, armpit hairs blowing in the breeze, "Yes silly! The school sits right beside the football field."
Then she was gone. I watched her jog away, admiring her lime green Nike shorts, then turned the truck toward the lights.
Minutes later I scurried into the gym, making my way toward the rest of the parents of our volleyball team.
"Well it's about time!" several of the mothers chastised me.
"I liked to have never found this place. How much have I missed?" I questioned as I stared at my not-so-smartphone, which told me it was just past eleven.
"About fifteen minutes. You know these games never start on time." One of the mothers responded, "You want some advice? Ask directions! Ask a woman! We'll never steer you wrong."
I nodded in faux agreement, my eyes focusing on my daughter on the court below. She glanced up into the stands, spotting her dad, and the faintest smile crossed her face. A huge sigh escaped from within me...I had made her game. Beyond the walls of that gymnasium, far from the city limits of Lubbock, past the boundaries of where I call home...the world may be crumbling beneath our feet. But at that exact moment, there was nothing more important than watching my daughter play volleyball.

'Changes Coming On'

 

Author's note: I first posted this blog almost one year ago. If you've been paying attention lately, you'll know that nothing has changed for the better. In fact, one of the most googled terms last week was 'World War III.' So, what are we doing here? From what little I can believe from the mainstream media, it appears that one year later, it is we who have become the aggressor and over what? Some unfounded notion that Russia might sway our presidential election via cyber hacking? Those of you who really, really believe that it's not being swayed by folks closer to home...raise your hands. That's what I thought. So, what's the real reason we are now banging our own war drums? What is the ulterior motive behind our threat to go head to head with Russia? What is so important that we would risk the lives of our service men and women with an altercation with Russia? Really...what is really at stake here? It's time we ask ourselves that question, and perhaps it's time to dig a deep hole out back and stock it with ten years of bottled water and our bug-out gear. We are talking Russia here. Russia... 

 

I can feel the changes coming on...can't you? Oh, well yeah, the time change thing is coming...that's a definite change. Fall will soon fall behind and those merciless north winds will chill us to the bone. Before we can wipe our noses, Black Friday will come and go and we'll all be frantic and frayed as the Christmas season pounces on us whether we're ready or not. Yes, those changes are coming...but that's not the changes I'm talking about here.
Unless you've been living in a cave out in the Arkansas Ozarks, you surely know the changes I speak of. We are living in historic times, times such as those our grandfathers told us about. Those who survived those times survived to tell the stories. There were some stories they never told. They could not bring themselves to tell the story, nor could they find it within their being to allow us to hear it. And now our time has come. There will come a day when there will be stories we won't want to tell.
Russia. I am old enough to recall the drills at school. Nuclear drills...in the event of a nuclear attack, we knew what to do. First graders we were, and we knew to scurry into the hallways, sit on the floor and put our heads in our laps with our arms covering our heads. We were then to wait quietly for an atomic bomb to kill us all. There has never been a time since those days that I thought Russia was our friend.
And today we have Russia, accompanied by Iran, beating the war drums. Is their mission to wipe out ISIS? I don't think so, but if in the course of accomplishing their mission they do manage that...I'll give them a star. We sure as heck haven't made a dent in their 'Je-Had' operation. But no, that is not the intended purpose of the storm settling over in that neck of the woods. Our ruler has sent in 'less than fifty' of our very best and I'm not sure what his intended purpose is either. Sure glad I'm not one of the chosen few, though.
Meanwhile, as if they don't have enough on their plate, Russia has reportedly parked several of their subs and ships directly over the massive network of fiber optic cables that connect the world. If I were running something, I'd be asking what their plans are to take out our satellites hovering overhead. I'm sure they've got a plan there, as well. They are cruising just miles off the Alaskan border and just as Sarah Palin promised, are supposedly constructing a base in her back yard, up in the Artic Circle. Why? I dunno, I'm just a country boy.
Then there's China, who has blatantly stated they have no problems going to war with us. Have no clue what we've done to piss them off. Unlike Russia, the Chinese don't have to overthrow rebels and take over countries...they just build their own. They don't seem to be fond of us taking a sightseeing tour of their new man-made lands. I don't know what they have in mind with this endeavor, but I'd bet the farm they aren't planning to grow rice out there on those islands.
So, we have Russia, Iran, and China...then there's always North Korea, and we know their cracker ain't got a whole lot of salt. (Let them try to translate that!) We shouldn't forget about those 'Men in Black' who are going to need somewhere to go once Russia runs them out of Syria. You know us, we'll take anybody!
I've spent some time thinking about it, and if I should get to choose who would come take our country over, I pick Russia. I think they'd still let me read my bible...and drink. China might not be so bad as long as I don't have to learn to speak Chinese or eat rice. Now if I have to choose between ISIS and our very own government taking us over...wow, that's a tough decision. I don't spend much time worrying over that...pretty sure they won't let me pick.
It is my own personal life that I most feel the changes coming on, though. Perhaps because of all the worldly turmoil that is surely bound to affect me sooner or later. I've always been one to ride a dead horse. I've had the same job for over twenty years. Only stayed fifteen years at the job before that. I've lived in the same house in the same town for longer than some of you have been around. Folgers coffee and a dunkin' stick for breakfast for as long as I can remember. And a chocolate chip cookie before snuggling up to a cold pillow in my bed. Suddenly I yearn for change. Perhaps the time has come. There are things I wish to do before my world changes. The changes are destined to come and I believe, as I sit her on this Saturday night, I shall begin by setting the clocks back. If only we could go back and change the changes coming on.

'Walmart Smallmart'

I suppose nearly every small town with a population of ten thousand or so has one. It's always been just down the road a ways, open most of the time that normal people are out and about. After all these years folks tend to take it for granted. I've told lots of stories about ours throughout the years. like for instance, the time I left my reading glasses at home and found myself struggling to find exactly what I was looking for. I picked up a box from the shelf in front of me, squinting my eyes in an attempt to make out the letters swimming before my eyes. I was searching for a particular off-brand sleeping pill and to the best of my recollection, I had found them in the general vicinity in which I stood. Spotting an attractive woman approaching pushing a shopping cart, I cleared my throat and scurried toward her with box in hand.
"Excuse me, but I need some help." I thrust the box toward her. "Could you help me?"
She uttered a shriek as her eyes bulged, "No, no, no...I cannot help you!"
The woman waved her hand menacingly toward me, then turned and quickly disappeared around the corner.
I turned in bewilderment and spied a clerk at the end of the aisle.
"Hi, I'm looking for some sleeping pills..."
"Those are condoms."
I have so many fond memories and found myself speechless when I picked up our weekly newspaper the other day. My eyes grew wide, then moistened. I didn't even reach for my reading glassed as the glaring headline, which took up a third of the front page, burned a vision in my mind I likely will never forget. My mouth gaped open wide while I studied the fourteen letter announcement, 'WALMART CLOSING.'
'How could this be?' My mind raced as panic set in. What will I do if there is no Walmart? Where will I get my Walmart brand sleeping pills? My Walmart brand Rogaine? My Walmart brand acid reflux pills? The REDBOX is at Walmart! That super attractive little clerk that always checks me out while she checks me out is at Walmart! I wiped sweat from my forehead as it all sank in. This is worse than Armageddon!
Word spread like herpes throughout our little podunk community. No longer was talk over coffee about the football team, which isn't as good as last year, or the cotton crop, which isn't as good as last year, either. A feeling of gloom settled in on our little town as we collectively tried to accept the fact that in just a few short weeks...no Walmart. We collectively worried about our older folks who couldn't make the forty minute drive to one of the five Super Walmarts up in the city. We worried about how the lost tax revenue would affect our community and our schools. We worried about the eighty people, all friends, neighbors, and relatives, who would lose their jobs when the store closes. And silently some of us worried about whether we'd ever get a decent night's sleep without those little blue Walmart sleeping pills.
For those of you who weren't around in the dark ages before Walmart, let me enlighten you. Small communities like mine were a bustling hub of shops lining the courthouse square. There were clothing shops, shoe shops, and hardware stores. There were home owned pharmacies manned by pharmacists whom we trusted more than our country doctors. There were 'dime stores' and bakeries and barber shops. These little stores were owned and operated by local folks within our communities. They knew your name, and your daddy's name, as well. They tithed at church. They dutifully paid their city taxes. They supported our schools. They were like family...and you could always bet they'd be there when you needed something.
Then Walmart began invading one community after another, like the black plague. Most small businesses lasted less than six months. Entire towns withered and died. Shop owners dreadfully set out in search of employment, likely forced to move to some strange city to find any kind of job to support their families. Meanwhile, Walmarts grew larger and larger. They sold gasoline, closing most of the service stations throughout our country. They sold groceries, closing mom and pop corner grocers. They opened hair salons and offered tax preparation services. They sold tires and sewing supplies. They developed photos and sold Subway sandwiches. They opened banks inside their stores and they sold eyeglasses.
They came. They pillaged. They destroyed and devastated. They took the profits from small communities like mine and went to the cities to build bigger stores. And then they left. Walmart owed us more than that. They will pack and leave like a thief in the night and I venture an uneducated guess that they will walk away from at least a half million dollars in weekly sales just in our community alone. I suppose when you're as big as Walmart, that's just pocket change.
Walmart finds itself struggling. The company has made some bad choices. Perhaps they tried too hard to scavenge every single penny from our paychecks Perhaps we grew wise to the farce of their claim to 'Everyday Low Prices' for they abandoned that policy years ago. Perhaps we grew weary of trudging what seems like miles across their parking lots and through their gigantic stores to buy a gallon of milk. Perhaps we have grown fond of shopping online with Amazon and having our merchandise delivered at our doorstep.
Nothing is forever...not even Walmart. Our town wasn't the first to lose a Walmart, nor will it be the last. Walmart knows it must downsize to survive and this is only the beginning. As the dust settles in our little podunk west Texas town, I find hope as I try to suppress the excitement that is beginning to build inside me. I pray our community will weather the storm and will overcome this setback. I pray that soon our courthouse square will once again bustle with activity as local business people venture back, claiming the business left behind by a fading giant. I hope our town will reclaim what was theirs all along! Walmart? Pshaw! Smallmarts on every street corner...Smallmarts everywhere!

 

'The Anti-Aging America'

 

I'm going to rob a bank. Not anytime soon, mind you. When I get old, so old that I can no longer take care of myself, I have made plans to rob a bank. It will be the last few glorious moments of freedom for me. There's only one other way for it to go down, and I just cannot go out that way. So, I shall rob a bank.
Robbing a bank is a federal crime. I'll do hard time, day for day of a sentence that will hopefully see me to the end. Fed time is definitely the way to go. I could rob a liquor store and maybe get five years and with good time, would be back out in eighteen months. What's the point in that? They'd make me leave and that's not part of the plan. Not only would I be back out on the streets, too old to care for myself, but I'd have a criminal record as well! So, rob a bank, with a gun, loaded or not...I should get twenty years or so. That should do it.
I've visited a few rest homes and I can't go there. Rest homes, nursing homes, extended care facilities...whatever they're called, is no place to spend your last days. Medicated out of your mind, strapped into a hospital bed, laying in your own pee...nope, I think I'll just go to prison. Prison is free. Old folks homes, not so much. Is there something wrong with this picture?
The presidential candidates are spouting off promise after promise after promise. They want to take care of the refugees, the illegal immigrants, the women who don't want to be pregnant but are. They want to take care of folks who don't like guns and folks who don't like folks who like guns. They promise to take care of under privileged minorities...they've been promising that for a very long time and have yet to make good on those promises. They promise to take care of people who are gay and people who are not of the gender they think they are. They promise to take care of people who don't pay taxes, whether they be rich or poor. And it goes without saying they want to take care of themselves and the rest of those politicians. But they never...never say they want to take care of the old folks. And folks, there are lots of folks getting old really soon.
The first of the baby boomers are now shopping for walkers. There are a few million more right behind them. Millions, or is it billions, of dollars, have been earmarked for refugee resettlement in our country. Not for our elderly, but for refugees who can't properly be identified. Our older American citizens merit nothing more than the right to be tossed haphazardly on a shelf to collect dust, and then only if they can pay for the privilege of dying neglected and abandoned.
America holds the distinction as the nation of the anti-aging. And it's a disgrace to the human civilization. Do you have any idea how many federal laws, how many state laws, and how many judges dictate how we treat our inmates housed in prisons across America. Libraries overflow with laws, mandates, and policies that govern the day to day living arrangements of convicts. The elderly? Naw, just stuff them away somewhere, out of sight and out of mind.
NFL teams are 'taking a knee' to make their statement concerning racial inequality. It gets peoples' attention, even the president of the United States. Is that what it's going to take to draw attention to the plight of our older Americans? Just a random thought, but what do doctors do with those old knees after knee replacement surgery? Maybe we should be asking for our old knees, neatly bagged in Saran Wrap. Okay, I've strayed from the 'take a knee' topic.
We have two of the oldest presidential candidates in modern history running for the top spot in America. Granted, neither one of them will ever have to live out their last days in the filthy bowels of a dilapidated nursing home. They will die peacefully in some hospital bed in their own mansions, laying in their own pee. Or, there is a distinct possibility that one or both could follow my plan of dying in prison, but highly unlikely. The point I wish to make is, whoever winds up in charge of this fiasco may actually be open to listening to our concerns about the lack of quality care for our elderly. It's time we address this issue and there may be no better time to do it than with those who can surely understand where we are coming from...an elderly president. And whichever way the pendulum swings, we're going to have an elderly president before their four-year term expires.
I think it's time for all of us to rally for those who came before us, who birthed us and raised us, who provided for us and who was there for us through thick and thin. Rally for Grandma and old Uncle Ted. Take a knee if need be, for they likely can't get down on their old knees. Take to the streets with signs of protest, voices raised, clutching Grandpa's knee in Saran Wrap tightly against your chest!
But woe, how could we ever pay for quality elderly care, both conservatives and liberals moan! Well, let's charge every prison inmate room and board! Fifty bucks a day! Don't have it? We'll garnish it from your wages when you make parole, just like we do for child support! And every penny shall be designated to provide quality care for our elderly citizens. Or, we could divert the enormous amounts of money some think we should spend on refugees and illegal immigrants. Maybe all that money sent to Iran could have been spent more wisely?
I think there's a bigger picture we need to look at here. If we as American citizens don't insist our politicians place priority on our elderly, there may come a time when, rather than deal with the expense and the hassle of caring for our aged, society may just find it easier to...eliminate them.
"You are no longer of any value. Your time is up. Today you die."
Me? I'm not worried about that. I'll be in prison living the good life...a free ride till the day I die!

 

'Back On My Island'

 

"What do you think about all this mess?"
I glanced up from the gas nozzle to see an elderly stranger peering at me from the other side of a gas pump.
"What mess?" I inquired.
"Charlotte!"
I paused briefly in thought before replying, "I don't know what to think."
There was a hint of sadness in my response.
"Suppose to be a good chance of rain this weekend," I commented as I cast an eye to the sky. It was my way of dismissing a conversation I had not asked for.
Throughout that day, three other people had attempted to strike a conversation on this topic. Each and every time I had sidestepped with the same response. It was the truth. I honestly don't know what I think about it. All I know is that it makes me sad.
I am not one to small talk. I thrive on deep, meaningful conversation. Small talk I find boring, a waste of my time and a waste of words. The weather, the Dallas Cowboys, or who danced with whom on 'Dancing With The Stars'...I choose not to waste verbiage on such trivial and trite topics. Find me an individual who I can communicate with on the same wavelength and I can immerse myself in deep conversation with them for hours. I will pick their brain and harvest their thoughts, storing them away to be analyzed and digested at some future point in time in the privacy of my own mind.
I was aware there was something happening in Charlotte the first night violence kicked off. It was happening right before my eyes as I stared at my computer screen. As the headlines caught my attention, rather than following a link to the news story giving me all the gory details, I scrolled on by, finally clicking a Facebook link entitled, '5 Herbs That Mosquitoes Absolutely, Positively Despise.' I had made an unconscious decision to ignore the horrors that plague the country I call mine. I had retreated...back to my island.
I've reached a stage in my life where I really don't want to dwell on the evils of this world. Perhaps with so many years behind me, I've become aware that there is absolutely nothing I personally can do to change the world in which I live. I leave all that to the millennials. I just want to live in peace. And it's getting almost impossible to do. I do not watch the evening news, in fact, television in general. Every so often, out of boredom, I flip on the TV and as sure as there's a moon up above, I find myself blatantly exposed to two men kissing each other.
Make no mistake, I am very much aware of the happenings of this world around me. At least those which the media chooses to make me aware of. I'd wager that I knew about the killing of five people at a mall in Washington state before ninety-nine percent of you ever found out. As a writer, social media freak, and web developer, I constantly scour the internet for shareable content. I saw the breaking headline before the media had anything to share other than the fact of the attack. But, just as the Charlotte incident, I scrolled on past. It was late in the night and I was tired and it wasn't happening in my front yard, so instead I clicked a link entitled, 'Everything coming to Netflix, Amazon Prime, and HBO Now in October.'
If I were to be so brazenly bold as to give you any insight into my own thoughts, you might discover that I am of the opinion that these constant attacks on the freedoms of the citizens of our nation are merely a tiny part of a much larger picture. If I were to share an opinion, I would tell you that these random acts of violence throughout our great land are not so random at all. Sure, it is random violence occurring in random cities. But, beneath the surface, I believe it is a well-orchestrated plan by some unknown force, with an idiotic media beating the drums ever so loudly to fuel the flames. Well, if I were to share my opinion on such things, that's what I'd tell you.
I think the average American has taken much the same approach as I. We continue to stroll casually through a world that is no longer safe to stroll through. With blinders on our eyes, we yearn for peaceful times in which to raise our children, in which to grow old in. We tell ourselves that we will never be killed as we shop in the mall. We tell ourselves that we will never face a gunman in a dark parking lot some fateful night. We tell ourselves that our neighborhoods will never burn. We convince ourselves that foreigners will never rape our children. We choose to live on our own islands, safe from all that. That's what we try to convince ourselves of, anyway. We will tell ourselves that until the day we die from a bullet wound inflicted by some stranger we never knew.
I've said for years and years...when I get old, I want to live on some island off the coast of Mexico. Give me a pretty senorita, a bottle of tequila, a herd of goats, and a straw hut. Let me just sit in my dilapidated lawn chair watching the sun set below the horizon of the ocean, a tequila sunrise in my hand and a beautiful, brown eyed woman at my side. As some world far, far away goes up in flames...I'll be right where I yearn to be...back on my island.

 

'American As Hotdogs 'n Beer'

Jobs...they come with obligations. When a company hires you, they make an obligation to pay you for your work, right? Your employer is obligated to invest in you, to train you for the position you were hired for. You, the employee, also have obligations you are expected to live up to, for example, give your employer his money's worth. An honest day's work for an honest day's wages. Most everybody will agree this is the primary unspoken agreement between any employer and his employees. Pretty simple, really.
Some jobs come with a few other obligations. You may be required to wear a name badge or a uniform. Some companies may instruct you to dress in business attire, or 'business casual.' They may expect you to shave daily...keep that mustache trimmed, boys and girls! Hair neatly trimmed, nails clean, and ix-nay on the body odor. In other words, the company that employs you may wish for you to be a positive reflection on the organization, for it is you, the employee, that at any given moment on any given day, may find yourself bearing the burden of portraying yourself as a shining example of the company you represent. No, wait...we're talking football here!
The 'take a knee' is old news now. Now before I continue, I want to say something and I'm not sure I can say it in a way that will make you understand, but I'll give it a spin. Throughout the past few years...okay, eight to be exact, I have found myself struggling to force my patriotism into action each and every time the national anthem plays. Yes, it's true. For as long as I can remember, there were times I'd stifle a sniffle and wipe a tear from my eye as that song played at some football game or rodeo. Those were emotions of pride and patriotism, and while I found myself a bit embarrassed at the prospect of folks around me watching a grown man cry, those were tears out of love for my country. Those past eight years? Well, let's just say if I had my way, things wouldn't have gone the way they have. So, there have been times in recent years that my emotions found themselves confused as my eyes focused on the American flag while the Star Spangled Banner played. I have found sadness in my heart for the way my country has turned in recent times. But yet...I've never failed to stand for the national anthem. I do it out of genuine love for my country and respect for all those who stood before me and gave me the freedom to stand and honor my flag. So, in a really warped way, I sorta understand that 'take a knee' thing. But...
I have worked in the public eye for more years than many of you have been around. With each of my jobs came obligations, one being to be a positive public representative of my employer. It's not so uncommon. Bankers, teachers, elected officials (unless they're from Washington DC) and well, preachers, to name a few, are all expected to present themselves in a positive light. It is part of the job. There have been times in the past that I have found myself having issues with the concept. I don't know why since I don't do anything out of line, anyway. I think it is the perception of an employer implying their self-given right of ownership over their employees, but...hey, have ever mentioned that I am sort of a rebel incognito. But I do understand the concept of the expectations of the organizations I represent for a paltry wage. But we're talking football here.
Sports, whether it be football, rodeo, wrestling, or NASCAR, go hand in hand with um...hotdogs and beer and the American flag. When I pay my hard earned money to go see a football game, I want hotdogs and beer and the national anthem kicking things off right. I want to see that American flag waving as thousands of patriotic Americans stand and take in the moment. You see, obligations don't just stop with your employer. Those football players are employees (not working for a paltry wage, BTW) of an organization that built itself on hotdogs and beer and the American flag. Decades were invested in building a loyal following of diehard fans who would pay money they didn't have to experience the thrill of a game that has always...always begun with the national anthem and the red, white, and blue. Those players who wish to express their views need to do it 'off the clock.' I respect them for their beliefs whether I believe them to be in the right or not, but when they're out there on that field, they came to work for...me and you. I don't need someone raining on my parade. I didn't pay my money to be subjected to someone's opinion on whatever injustice they wish to make me aware of. I paid to see some football! Go home and 'take a knee' on your balcony or on some random street corner. When you suit up, do your job from start to finish...and it starts with the national anthem. Just like it's suppose to.
I've been pissed off at the Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones ever since he fired Tom Landry, but, while he fails to say it out loud, he has implied that those who wIsh to remain employed with his organization are expected to do their job, starting with the first note of the national anthem. He stated it in this fashion:
“We respect that so much. That’s the real business. The forum of the NFL and the forum on television is a very significant thing. I’m for it being used in every way we can to support the great, great contributors in our society, and that’s people that have supported America, the flag, and there’s no reason not to go all out right there. And for anybody to use parts of that visibility to do otherwise is really disappointing.” (source: https://goo.gl/wnvuMJ )
Thumbs up, Mr. Jones, and are there any more like you out there?
Football...as American as hotdogs 'n beer, the red-white-and-blue, and the national anthem! And girls wearing red, white, and blue bikinis! Come on, let's just play football...

See more from author Rodney Strange here    

'Blatant Thievery'

Headlines appeared throughout the media last week about Wells Fargo employees fraudulently toying with customers' accounts created a ripple throughout the nation. Not as noticeable a ripple as Hillery's hearing aid nor apparently as news worthy as Kanye West's fashion show, and in fact you may have completely missed it on the news. Briefly, for those of you who snoozed through the thirty-second blurb on the event, let me summarize this immense case of fraud from one of the most trusted financial institutions in the world. Over the course of the past few years, numerous (at least 5,300) employees of Wells Fargo have been opening accounts in your name...yes...yours, without your knowledge. Now the story goes that these unscrupulous banking employees did this to reap monetary incentives, bonuses, and benefits for themselves while charging you...yes...1.5 million of you overdraft and maintenance fees for those accounts you didn't even know you had. But hey, it has all ended well. Those 5,300 dubious employees have lost their jobs and Wells Fargo has been ordered to pay a fine of $185 million which is about 3.3% of the $5.6 billion in net income Wells Fargo pulled in in the second quarter of this year. *Source: http://goo.gl/UhU38h
No, now that you ask, it doesn't look like anybody is going to jail. The financial institution has been duly punished with has is equivalent to your grandma swatting your hand as you reach toward the cookie jar. You...and Wells Fargo learn your lesson, right? Never reach for grandma's cookies while she's watching. Wait patiently until she turns her head. The 5,300 employees are gone with, I'm guessing all the money they bilked from you and 1.5 million others. They'll be just fine as soon as they find another financial institution that will hire them. You and the other 1.5 million? Well, it sucks to be you...
Now, don't try this at home or at your place of employment. You would surely be arrested and charged with embezzlement, money laundering...you'd think maybe theft charges might be warranted. No, the common man is not privy to the perks of the elite banking establishment. If, as you ventured into the lobby of your local bank, you look down and see a twenty dollar bill on the floor, what should you do? NO! You don't put it in your pocket! That's bank robbery, buster. Felony charges! Take it to the nearest bank employee and let them put it in their pocket...that's acceptable.
Blatant thievery is so commonplace in our society today. When we hear of a widespread case such as the Wells Fargo incident, we wipe our foreheads and utter a 'whew, glad it didn't happen to me.' Unfortunately, it is very likely happening to you. You just don't know! Let's take the medical industry, for example. Insurance? Sure it's a necessity and, by the way, a law that you have it. I personally am insured to the gills. I'm swimming in insurance! For what I pay in monthly premiums for health, dental, vision, life, home, liability, and car insurance...I could buy an island. Seriously. But let some catastrophic event crop up in your life, and you'll be glad you have that coverage. Some years ago, my daughter got a fish hook lodged in her neck. The total bill for having that hook removed was fifteen hundred dollars. Thankfully, with my insurance, it only cost me six hundred. Yes, you read that right...to remove a fish hook.
Just last weekend my daughter and I ventured into the eyeglass place. I told the woman behind the counter that we just wanted new lenses in her frames and some contact lenses.
"Oh, and I have vision insurance." I beamed.
"Well, let me pull that up on the computer and see how much more money I can screw you out of," she replied.
Okay, I'm a little hard of hearing and maybe she didn't exactly say that, but after crunching the numbers, she quoted my deductible to be close to the cost of LASIK surgery.
"But I have vision insurance!" I protested, "The lenses are supposed to only cost me ten bucks!"
"Well, I don't know where you got that crazy idea!"
"On the back of this freakin' insurance card!"
Fret not for me. It ended well. I protested loudly, rudely my daughter in fact scolded. But we went down the street to another eyeglass store and walked out with new lenses, a year's worth of contacts, and a warm fuzzy feeling because my vision insurance paid what it was suppose to in their store. I could probably write a book about all the times I've been subjected to blatant thievery. But I've gotten wiser with age. I'll fight tooth and toenail to keep my hard earned money in my pocket. I'll not do business with thieves, whether they be doctors, hospitals, mechanics, or bankers. And yes, unjust taxes.
I'd bet the farm that most of us have done business with Wells Fargo at some point in our lives. I currently have a small loan for some furniture I purchased and you can rest assured that when that next bill comes in the mail, I'll dig out my magnifying glass to see what that fine print really says. I hope they haven't slipped something past me but whether they have or not, I will have to really ponder doing business with them again.
It is always the little man who falls victim to blatant thievery. 'They' think since we are the little man, we must also be...gullible? I think we may prove them right if we allow businesses to continue after such blatant acts of thievery are brought to light. The government slapped Wells Fargo on the wrist and told them to put a dollar in the swear jar, then all was forgiven. But we, especially 1.5 million of us who were subjected to their actions, certainly don't have to do business with them. We don't have to give our money to institutions who thrive on greed!
Of all the plagues that threaten to destroy life as we know it, it is greed that will eventually be the downfall of society as we know it. Keep a wary eye open for those who wish to take all that you have...blatant thievery is all around us! And there is no shame left to bear anymore.