Pollyanna has momentarily left the building....

I am human. I am imperfect. I have done things i'm not overly proud of. That doesn't mean I can back my F-150 up to the landfill, broom them all out and be done.  No, errors live with us.  I/we have to strive for better.

I am bothered by when one is judged as 'butt-hurt'.  Is it a bad thing to want good? If I must color myself thin-skinned, huffy, touchy, so be it.  I make no apologies for seeking good.

Nelle Belles Diner. A trip back to 1960-something.  I have smoked too long, shouldn't, I know, scroll to human.  Ostracize if you must, puff puff. Nelle Belles is a real place, in a real small suburban town, and if you walked into the place, I swear you'd look for James Dean, John Wayne or Red Skelton.  In a sense, they're there.

Smoking is allowed, puff puff.  As I downed my same ole same ole breakfast - two old ladies (my age, ha) were sitting, gabbing, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and watching Captain, Kangaroo.. ok, no, they weren't watching CK, but, it instantly drew me back to as if it were my mother and her sister sitting there. A simpler time.

The Depression had come and gone - but forever not forgotten.  Coin purses served as a reminder - as did the noisily scraping, cleaning of the plate as the fork gathered up every last tidbit. Every time I eat, I do the same, and the noise is as if I were sitting next to my grandfather and his delight with encapturing the last morsels.

Nelle Belles is 1960.  Oldies 94.9 plays in the background inside, Oldies 101 the Fox in the Parking lot. Double the chances to catch one really fine, fun song.  Everyone knows first names.  Last names unimportant, ceptin' when visitations and weddings happen.  Regular's personal coffee cups are washed and put away on a shelf until the customer's next visit.

Laughter dominates. Business transactions happen - tree limbs to be chopped, a cracked section of sidewalk to be fixed, boards replaced on a deck, yada - all, 'notarized' with a handshake. Tenderloins are bigger'na football, omelettes are outta this world and I'll be darned if your coffee cup, water glass ever gets less than half filled.

People are nice. To anyone.  To everyone. It's 1960, again.

"In the nineties, everybody wants to talk about their rights and privileges.  Twenty-five years ago, people talked about their obligations and responsibilities."  Lou Holtz

At Nelle Belles, fairly close to the door (within 'thieving distance') is a taped up gallon jar with a slot on top for seeking donations for one down on their luck.  I meant to read it on the way out, forgot. Probably an assist to aid a customer and their medical bills.  It's 1960, no one will ever swipe it.

Us.  We 'kids of the 60's', yes, questioned much.  "Why?" we replied when asked to do something.  Good and bad came from this.  Parental authority questioned, in the 50's, brought a belt or a switch.. in the 60's, that changed to squirming of mom and pop. Sure, there are probably hippies somewhere still in their parent's basement playing pong with hair by now certainly to the floor - but, at least the mortgages are surely paid, and there's no great threat to society.

Much good 'work' was done against racism, for elderly parents, for those in poverty, Native Americans, equal work equal pay for women.

"Thanks."  (One of Nelle Belles employ just filled up my water glass.  One has to watch it.  Once I became so entranced with my newspaper, i hadn't noticed that my almost empty milk glass had been refilled, I tiltled it fastly for the 'last swig', and unwittingly drenched myself, the newspaper, the entire booth by taking 'a sip'. Lesson learned.)

Back to now.  Not wholly, but somehow, the question of authority in the 60's has slipped, transitioned into assault authority.  Not all, sure, but some.  This past weekend, at the Fall Festival of our small town, young gents in the back of a pickup truck road around and around "The Square" with a 6 foot by 4 foot flag expousing "F*CK (enter political figure here.)" AND, trust me, I know this can and does happen by both parties.  How did we get here though? The moral fibers of our flag are in dire need of a Betsy Ross restitch.

I was on the back deck at work with a female coworker.  A gent who'd never been to the clubhouse was visiting with us, and I bet 7 times he dropped F-bombs.  Color me butt-hurt if you like. I felt sorry for the coworker. He did apologize, but that's kinda like spitting in one's face, saying "sorry" and wiping it off with a washrag. (Victor? You've dropped F-bombs in your blog. Very true, so I guess I need to apologize. When done, it's moreso for impact, but your message is very well taken.)

I'm complaining and I hate that. I'm sorry.

""You know what makes me sick to my stomach? When I hear grown people say that kids have changed. Kids haven't changed. Kids don't know anything about anything. We've changed as adults. We demand less of kids. We expect less of kids. We make their lives easier instead of preparing them for what life is truly about. We're the ones that have changed." Frank Martin, South Carolina Basketball Coach.

So, I guess in many aspects, we are to blame.

I miss honesty.  I  miss "self-reported" wrong.  I miss the child, parent teacher conference where the folded arms, furrowed brows and toe-tapping are pointed at the child.

Pollyanna still lives at Nelle Belles.  1960 is not so far detached to have wonderful memories.

"Another cup of coffee?"... "No thanks, but mebbe could I get a cup to go?  It can be kinda brutal out there."  "Sure."

Again, I'm far, far from perfect, but I'm also not afraid to admit my butt hurts.  It's my butt and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to, you would cry to if it happened to you. (And again, I don't fear being called butt hurt one simply due to the sometimes sad state of society.)

Before 'foul' is called and a penalty flag thrown, yes, I'm very aware and fully support Freedom of Speech.  Is it a crime to add "please use discretion?"  I hope not.

There is MUCH good out there.  1960 good.  2021 good. May good win out.

Love, Victurd

4am. Hello darkness my old friend....

The reasons are many... MANY reasons why one is up at 4am.  You?  I've noticed:

Colicky baby....  Gotta pee....  Shoulder hurts..   Hungry..  Unfinished worrying..  Went to bed too early...  Gotta pee, again... The eyes open, by the time one can find a clock to see whatintheheck time it is, you gotta pee again, so now you're awake.. so might as well get up.

Wall Street Journal says "Most people who wake up at 4 a.m. do it because they have to—farmers, flight attendants, currency traders and postal workers. Others rise before dawn because they want to."  Then, it says they want you to subscribe to read the rest so ix-nay that one.

A study by the University of Westminster finds that people who get up early have higher levels of stress hormone than those who have a leisurely morning.  I'm sorry, howinthehell do they study that? "Excuse me there Jane in Scranton, Pennsylvania.. we see that you are up.. could you take a moment, put on your robe and let us come measure your stress hormones?"

CEO's wake up at 4am.  Probably to check their bank account, my guess. 

Some guy decided to wake up at 4am for thirty days straight, then write an article about it. Color me a skeptic.   "While automatic reminders are the rage, I found setting the alarm the night before was an active reminder that I was getting up early to accomplish x, y and z. It didn't take long before I was actually looking forward to it (yes, really!) so I could plan my day." Sure, but it's a safe bet your alarm/stool flushing woke up three people in the house that wanted to sleep.. you have halitosis.. a nifty Cheerio stain on your PJ shirt because you can't focus that damn early, and.. you likely fell asleep in the 3rd inning of the Royal's game that night. (I speak from experience.)

"By waking up early, I was able to accomplish a lot. Once I had gotten certain tasks out of the way in the early morning, I had a renewed focus during the workday and didn't get as overwhelmed."  I bet so, but I also bet your cubicle mate Chuck had to tap you on the shoulder with a pencil every dadgum time you nodded off in the afternoon, and WE SAW YA.. we saw your 5pm commuter butt drift over darn near a full lane on the way home, almost cause a MASSIVE wreck had it not been for the lady in the Toyota behind you that honked and flipped you off. Your positivity reeks of a brown noser seeking an entry management position. Patooey.

FINALLY you realized "Shifting my schedule to account for an earlier wakeup time was a good reminder that “having it all” wasn’t worth it. Yes, there were days where I was able to wake up at 4 a.m., have a productive workday, and then go out at night– but without the recovery time my body needed, my performance suffered the next day."  Uh huh, what I said. There's a lot to be said for watching the 10pm news, downing a glass of wine, catching 30 minutes of Jimmy Kimmel, finally hitting the hay, then rolling over to tap Margaret on the shoulder with 'wanna fool around baby?' Also, the mouth is bigger at 6:45am and you can't miss getting the spoon of Cheerios in that thing.

4am, to me, in the real world means... what if the newspaper delivery guy oversleeps?  Howabout the school guy that schedules subs for the sick teachers of the day?   What time do donut-makers go to bed?  My Facebook friends on the West Coast with the 'green light on."  Are they goin' or comin'?  A 4am unexplained house noise is hella scarier than a 7am house noise.  It's dark at 4am. One can go get the newspaper in their undies (provided the paper guy hasn't overslept.)

4am is a very good time to write a very stupid blog.

4am, when retired, is also a very good time to set ones alarm to.. oh, let's say December 24th, then, hop back in bed for a long, long nap.

And in the naked light, I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence

Cheerio... and love, Victurd

I remember.......

Sitting on the back deck.  Calm.  Serene. Then, a horrendous shrieking noise coming from the woods.  Continued. It was a horrendous sound for some time.  Really difficult to listen to from afar, imagine being in the center of it all. Then, silence.  Nature had happened.  That bastard.

Traffic.  Traffic whirls.

Loss.  One less car.

Traffic still whirls.  Nature, that bastard.

Loss affects us all.  I cannot, however, fathom the loss of a spouse.. I cannot fathom the loss of a child.

Traffic still whirls.  Nature, that bastard.

Life is seemingly about love and hurt, with day-to-day in between.  Life rolls pretty darn good, day-to-day with love front and center.  Loss can and does happen, then it's day-to-day with a large dose of hurt.

There are certainly those way more qualified than I on how to respond to that, how to assist.. The preacher, the counselor, God, the Bible, a best friend... I know of nothing more than one foot in front of the other.

When loss has happened, for the short term, we, in traffic, may pickup the phone and call that loved one we shoulda called long ago. We make that promise to remind our self "it can all change in a heartbeat", make plans on how we're gonna do this, do that, differently. We do, then day-to-day can get in the way.

We absolutely don't take people for granted, we just forget the day will come they're no longer there any more.

We cannot beat ourselves up when loss happens.  "I should have told them..... I wanted to tell them how much I valued them and never did..."  Sometimes even "we were kinda on the outs, I feel HORRIBLE" happens.  Can't allow it to make you feel horrible.  Life, nature happens. There is no perfect man or woman.

Yesterday, someone was basically pleading online "my child had a wreck, they're fine, but the car's frame is bent and we didn't have collision, what can we do?"  Not much.

Same in life.  We get bent out of shape.  WHY?  I allow much, to bend me out of shape.  When half of America spews hate for half of America (and yes, I'm aware that goes both ways.)  Arrogance.  I allow that to bend me out of shape.

Typing down a stupid road, but it's a road that happens nonetheless.  Yeah, traffic.

I have a buddy. A good friend, but I can't tellya his middle name, what year he graduated, his mom or dad's name, all of his sibling's names.. yada.  Still, a good buddy.  EVERY time he sees me, or any of the gang where we occasionally gather, it's "I love ya man"

Traffic whirls.

I should have this on 'auto-paste' (for ease of copying and pasting) because I've typed it hundreds of times - I am not preaching.  I write to me, for me, hitchhikers welcome.

We can certainly tell people how thankful we are they are our friend... your friendship means so much... We can also forget to.

All too often we hear "I never told him/her I love 'em."

Well, now we can.

Day-to-day with hurt will go on to infinity, and yes, seemingly day-to-day with love will never end.  Sadly, it does.  Nature can be a bastard.

Traffic would go smoother.  Waking up would be a tad easier... if we simply knew, the last thing we said to someone was "I love ya."  It's "you'll never know how much I appreciate your friendship"...."I feel so honored to be your friend"... "I'm glad we're together and got to do this today" ALL ROLLED UP INTO ONE.

I am aware, saying "love" is very difficult for some, and that's ok.  Simply express it the best you can with your smile.. your eyes.. your handshake... fist bump..

Love ya

Watch him folks, he's a thoroughly dangerous man...

Which translates to, turn left here if you still have one iota of respect for me, cause sometimes, I get a little carried away.

The following is a mish mash, mainly because I can't think of one dadgum topic to write about, so, below is everything that's crossed my brain, hence, the above warning.

Haven't blogged for over a week for two reasons, one, no ideas as mentioned above, and two, I spilled coffee on my laptop, thereby eliminating the use of the entire row qwertyuiop..... hch maks lannng v dffcl ...

hch maks lannng v dffcl , btw, is "which makes planning very difficult" when you try to type without using the letters from the row qwertyuiop.

So, is this where I enter "a needle pulling thread Victor?". No.  Ain't.  So, I dug DEEP DEEP into my savings account and purchased a Chromebook ($44.99, shipping included), life, be peachy again.

Mish mash, not to be confused with "splish splash" cause I ain't even got a tub.

I awakened to what I wore in a dream.  I was on the golf course.  With, a former co-worker, a fraternity brother, another i couldn't identify, and me...wearing only a t shirt and boxer briefs.  It was the 3rd hole before I realized it.  I just hit my driver, actually inbounds, something I rarely do, when I looked down and realized I'd forgotten to put on my shorts.  The former co-worker was female, I was embarrassed like crazy, tossed my driver, ran, hollered to fraternity brother "Hey _____, grab my driver for me I'll be right back" and I prayed that my boxer briefs weren't 'streaky' so to speak.  Got home, put on shorts, realized I guess I haven't gone to church enough of late, oh well, happens.

Breakfast out this morning.  Mom and pop place I adore.  It's an old house, converted.  The bad part is, if you gotta use the restroom, you have to go outside, enter the back door, go THROUGH the kitchen, down the stairs, and do it in reverse to return.  So, needle?  NO.  So, needless to say, one has to ANNOUNCE "Hey I'm going to pee (or poop)" so they don't think you walked out the front door and they toss your plate away that has one full sausage patty and a halfa piece of toast on it. And, we all know, women are the only ones that ever announce when they have to pee, or otherwise.  Ever notice that?  It's twue, it's reawwy twue!

So, AND NO, not a needle pulling thread.  So, I had to go kinda bad this morning.  Gobbled food fast, paid, did the ole buttocks squeeze out the door (don't tell me you ain't never done the buttocks squeeze).  To QT. QT has 4, court em, 4 stalls, ALWAYS an open one.

Got there, wasn't. So, what does one do in that case?  You lean against the wall, combine the buttock squeeze with the pee pee dance, and you (pray and) await an open stall.

FINALLY, one opened.  So, AND AGAIN NO, are you like me in that you feel the noises one's body makes while you-know-ing are disgusting?  I am.  Oh, sure, I'm ok at home where it's just me and me... but put me amidst four folks who are also #2'ing, it's embarrassing.  So...one awaits for someone to enter the main door (then push/grunt). Or,  a urinal flushes (then push/grunt). Or, your neighbor unrolls some TP (push/grunt)

And, one prays gut noise don't slip out.  I'll take half a damn hour to poop, timing the grunts with normal bathroom noises, so as not to be embarrassed by "Hey, did you hear that guy grunt in the 3rd stall, he musta had a big ole bowl of chili!!!!"..which, actually happened to me once when a couple smartalec teenagers were just outside, and I guess I earned it.

Done with that, I flush... Open the door and there is some guy up agin the wall doing the pee pee dance, buttock squeeze.  Poor feller.

Let's start at the very beginning
A very good place to fart
When you read you begin with A-be-see (not qwertyuiop)
When you sing you begin with do-re-mi

Do-re-mi, do-re-mi
The first three notes just happen to be
Do-re-mi, do-re-mi

Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti
Let's see if I can make it easy

Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun
Me, a name I call myself
Far, a long, long way to run
Sew, a needle pulling thread (YAY, you did it!)
La, a note to follow Sew
Tea, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to Do (oh-oh-oh)

Or, as Homer Simpson would say "DOH" as in , "Victor, this has been a really shitty blog."

I agree and humbly apologize, but don't say I didn't warn ya.

Love, Victurd, which, has nothing to do with QT, grunts or skid marks.

De fence.....

Fence.. interesting (to me anyways).

Honestly, when I opened this page, started writing... .well actually, before that.  From 4am until 4:30am my eyes weren't wholly open, so... around 4:32am, I was perusing Facebook - and was reading a post - thought to myself "that person has a fence around their life.. in some ways they share their life, in others, there's a security fence around it."

I do the same I guess.

Many more happy ways to think of a fence.  Street curbs?  Huh?  Yes, our 'professional whiffle ball league' as a 9 year old.  The curb (far side)on the street infronta our yard served as the left field fence.  We even usedta use a tape measure to attain the distance, write it on the curb with chalk (not to be confused with rock chalk, patooey.) Over the 'fence', homer.  bounces over?  Play it, and watch out for Chevys and Fords in the meantime.

The pristine fence of Municipal Stadium, waaaay back in the day.  Green, green and s'more green. (Is that all there is?)  Yes, that's all there was.  Wowza, you go to Kaufman Stadium today, there's one teenie tiny 'greenspace' within the fence so batters can see the ball better.  Otherwise, there's ads for lawyers, beer, bbq sauce, more fancy colored lights than the Mayor's Christmas tree... etc.... etc.  My uncle would literally rollover in his grave were he to see baseball fences nowadays.

Fences keeps doggies, cattle, much, safe.  We scoff our noses at "Gated Neighborhoods", but truth be known, had we hella money too, we'd be right there with 'em.

Band camp. Farm, golf course.  Fence between.  Many cattle, many golfers.  Peaceful. Then, somehow the fence was broken through.  The cattle experienced freedom, and they chose to use it on the green of hole #2, wondering all the time "what's so damn interesting about this place?"//  They wrecked it.  Bad. Vely deep holes.  Ever tried to putt over a three inch deep impression from a cow hoof? 

So. Recourse.  As in, let's fix this course. Well, fence first, then the course.

Investigators weren't sent in, but had they been, they maybe woulda interviewed six or eight cows.  Agnes the Angus, Henry the Hereford, Charlie the Charolais. That's bull you say?  No, he's in the adjoining pasture, stronger fence, he didn't get out.

Anyways, they cud not get straight answers from the cows. They would not moove, show their hand, er, hoof. Steaks were too high, lotta damage. Still, golf course guys had a beef about this.

So, a needle pulling thread...no, that ain't it.  So, golf course guys sent Farmer Ducky a bill for $1,500, the amount it cost them in labor  to repair the golf green. Farmer Ducky, upon receipt of this bill, had a cow. Well, lotsa cows.  Farmer said to himself "well, them a-holes, with all their Benze's, Audi's, thousand dolla golf bags, they think I'm a simpleton, HA.  Soon after, he penned his own bill, mailed it.

Golf course uppities opened the letter from Farmer Ducky "Fertilization Service to golf course, fee $1,500, payable upon receipt." Pissed they were, just Ducky the farmer thought. The end. I enjoyed Farmer's answer, no off fence.

"There must be some kind of way out of here" said the joker to the thief.  Of course, we all recognize this as Jimi Hendrix's All Along The Watchtower." WHAT? Hendrix didn't write that, Dylan did! "There's too much confusion."  No, had Dylan sung it, THEN there woulda been confusion.  We've NEVER been able to understand his lyrics, it's as if they're blowing in the wind.

The hour is getting late.  Well, this blog idea is anyways, it's still only 5:24am.

Tune in tomorrow.  Farmer Ducky is contemplating erecting a gate 'tween, allowing cows to go steal golf balls so they could later fence them on Facebook Swap and Shop. Golf course guy counters with Reefer Madness, as he brings in an empty fitty-three foot frozen food trailer where he will hock the following (so as to scare the damn cows from ever setting hoof on the course again:

Chuck (on sale to all who feel like throwing their golf clubs.)  Ribs, especially for you high handicappers.  Shank, for all you golfers that enjoy hitting balls in the woods. Rump, for all of you that always finish last in your foursome.

Fences.  Because man, woman, prisoners, pedophiles, lower class folks, cows and golfers can't be trusted. We can't let them in.  We can't let them out.

Fences, the dog's nemesis.  Cat says, hold my catnip and watch this. Time to go, we've reached Wilson Pickett Fence's Midnight Hour.  Sally doesn't want to play golf anyways... all she wants to do is ride around..

Don't let the door hitya in the rump, and be sure to close the gate.  That'd be ducky of you.

Love, Victurd