Halfway Serious Stories 

I'm Walkin' Here!

  It's been about a year since I've updated this website. Today is September 9, 2011. Please forgive me. 

  Moving right along then. None of my books thus far have turned out to be editorially viable (e.g. no publisher would touch the manuscripts with a ten-foot pole), so I've decided to write and self-publish my memoirs instead.

 This memoir book thing, if and when finished, will be written strictly for posterity. Fifty or a thousand years from now I want someone to know that I did once exist, and did somehow manage to add at least a little something to the collective history of this planet. 

 A memoir is a fancy word for writing down all the bright, halfway bright and stupid things one has managed to get away with in life without one going to jail. A memoir is also a great opportunity to lie, embellish and brag about one's self without feeling guilty. 

 Some people also call this type of book an Autobiography, which, in the same vein, allows one to write down really big whoppers, white lies, and tell half-truths about one's self; so that one's great-great grandchildren will think they were a brave or important person like Wyatt Earp, or Herbert Hoover. 

Anyway, I've going to do this whether anyone likes it or not. So as soon as I finish each chapter I'll post it here on this website so you can come back and be among the first persons to read, enjoy and wonder aloud,

 'Is this freaking guy for real?'  

  Fifty years ago people were lucky to live a few short years into retirement before they dropped dead of some frightening malady. Today, thanks to advances in medicine, science and changes in personal habits, members of America's so-called baby boom generation are expected to live 12-15 years after they reach retirement age; before they drop dead of some frightening malady. 

 Has retirement become just another ho-hum extended phase of a ho-hum  extended lifespan, instead of something we should look forward to with anticipation?; as we grow older, smarter and better looking?

 Perhaps.

  European Sociologists call this first part of retirement the Third Age of Life -- the age of active retirement. In contrast, American Sociologists are currently too busy trying to figure out the long-term effects of extreme makeovers on the twenty something generation to care much about active retirement and aging. We left-ponders will just have to figure it all out for ourselves.

This Third Age I'm talking about is supposed to be that magical time when we are finally free from the mundane obligations presented to us by the Second Age of Life -- the age of life productivity.

 The Third Age is no longer dominated primarily by our work and family. Instead, it's supposed to offer us a newfound freedom to indulge in new lifestyles and activities that add true meaning to the whole of our lives. 

 It's also fairly obvious that the Third Age may be the only time when most people experience the rare combination of relatively good health, financial stability and reduced obligations.  

In short, it's supposed to be party time!

My own self-imposed Third Age mission (should I choose to accept it) is to try to make people laugh, and not take life too serious. This website exists primarily for the benefit of you -- no matter what your age -- the innocent person who may have been surfing by here,  only to be captured into low-web orbit around this place. 

 My aim here is to not provide the same kinds of information you can find for yourself in any number of

 How-To-Retire-And-Be-Deliriously-Happy  

retirement books you'll find languishing on dusty bookstore shelves, or any of the countless Internet websites that target seniors with advertising for those frightening electric scooters, invites to retiree apartment concentration camps, and discounts on plastic-lined underpants. 

   We all tend to experience life from obtuse angles and different (sometimes narrow) points of view. We also have different ways and means to accomplish our ends. So it would be presumptuous (not to mention pretty stupid) of me to assume that everyone's view of life in the Third Age is going to be the same as mine.

 For the most part, I figure this website should provide at least a bit of comic relief from the boredom and even resentment many people experience in the Third Age, as they enter the scary world of retirement; and the even scarier world of people who wear those discounted plastic-lined underpants.

Please be forewarned that the stories and essays you'll find here are not for everyone. I've not even a half-ounce of spiritual belief in anything, and a frenetic bi-polar side that often crosses into fantasy, and sometimes borders on indecency. Some of you may not find this kind of chatter amusing. 

Anyway, have a few laughs with me today and, most of all, lighten up. I hope you enjoy the articles and essays, and I hope you'll take a minute to let your guard down and laugh at yourself -- It's good for you.

- j

And now back to our regularly scheduled drivel.

----------------

Yankee Doodle Went to Town 

As memory serves, we haven't had a good Yankee-bashing session here for awhile. So, in a spirit of unadulterated pettiness toward my fellow carbon-based beings, here are a couple of bashes for your reading pleasure.

You might be a 'Certified New England Yankee' if:

New England Neighbors

  This month will be twenty-six years since we moved from the place where we used to live to the place where we now live, in rural New England.  

 The place where we used to live is not located in rural New England, but is located some ways north of Little Duck Key, Florida, and way east of Medicine Bow, Wyoming.

To be specific, our present home is located in the quaint and charming artist's haven of Peterborough, New Hampshire. The town population is 5,281, which does not include the homeless guy who sleeps in the public gazebo down on Depot Square.

 Among other things, Peterborough claims the title of being the only town in America that ends with a preposition. That's entirely because of the large wooden signs posted on both approaches to town that state:

Welcome to Peterborough. A Good Town To Live in.

   Oh! Before I get too far, I've an apology to offer. If you're a regular gazette reader (I think we still have a few left), you know that I often refer jokingly to the state where I live as the 'State of New Hamster'.

 I shouldn't do that. 

  Anyway, what I want to talk about today is not a state thing. It's a regional thing. It has to do with the entire body of land and people in our United States that people commonly call New England and Yankees, respectively. 

  To be even more specific, what I want to talk about today is New England Yankee Neighbors. In rural New England a neighbor is not the same as a typical neighbor you might have, say, in Duluth, Minnesota. 

  In New England a neighbor is 'that guy who bought the Barrett place', or 'the couple that lives on the Sotheby Farm'. In rural New England all inhabitants are referred to by the name of the person or family who used to own the property in the year 1621.  

 The age-old practice of gentryism survives in New England to this day. If your ancestors didn't arrive on the good ship Mayflower (a moving truck by that name doesn't count), you can expect a bumpy ride on the neighbor-mobile for at least the first twenty-five years or so of your 'stay.' 

 To wit. Last week I was down in the cellar playing with my model trains when I thought I heard a muffled knock at the door.

I scurried up the steps and opened the front door. 

There was no one there.

 So I went to the side door.

 There was no one there, either.

 Back door.

 Same thing. 

Finally, in desperation, I went back down into the cellar and swung open the heavy bulkhead doors.

"Thought I'd tell 'ya. 'Yer shed's on fire."

I looked past a giant sequoia in a checkered Woolrich, only to discover that the giant was correct.

"Holy shit!"

After the fire department people had all departed, the checkered tree was still standing approximately where he had first greeted me, next to the smoking ruins of my little shed.

 I said, "Hey! Thanks for telling me about that fire. It could have been a lot worse."

He replied, "May be."

I asked, "Where did you come from. I don't see your car?"

He replied, "Over thea", pointing to the house directly across the street, about thirty yards away.

I said, "Well thanks, neighbor!"

I stuck out my hand and added, "My name's John, but my friends all call me Jocko."

 He did not offer a hand in return, but managed to answer in an almost inaudible voice, "People call me Mister Cunningham." 

I added nervously, "Yeah! I recall you now. We chatted about ten years ago when your septic overflowed during that bitter cold spell. Remember?"

He replied, "No."

I said cheerily, "Well, thanks again.. and don't be a stranger for another twenty-one years."

As he padded back across the street to his little white clapboard house I thought I heard him murmur, 

" 'He oughta' be moah damn careful."

The News From Happy Valley

Ice Storm Cripples the Valley 

  Early last evening Wendell 'Slouch' Mac eely, 74, longtime valley resident, slipped and fell on the ice that had accumulated on his front porch. This was due mostly, this reporter thinks, to the fact that Wendell never cleans up anything that falls from the Winter sky until late May, and partly because of a fierce storm that has left the valley coated with several inches of paralyzing ice.

  Unfortunately, when Wendell fell he landed smack on top of his Pekinese dog Brutus, who had to be transported to the Valley Vet Clinic and General Store to be treated for what Doc Aiken described as Canine Trauma. They had a little trouble at first keeping the animal quiet in the back of the dogsled until Mary Cunningham found and administered a dose of emergency dog biscuit, which did the trick.

   Portions of the valley are still without power this morning. At one time or another almost every house was without electricity. The fire department handled three calls during the storm to pump out flooded basements, and also had to use the newly acquired 'jaws of life' thing to rescue Lamont Fisher from his two-holer when the door froze shut with him sitting inside. 

The heads of the police, fire and highway departments (Horace Peterman) met this morning to brief town officials (Jo Anne Gautier-Simpson ) on the status of emergency operations, as power crews (Jamie Stretch Sistare) continued working hard laying extension cords to restore power to both houses, and the old stone barn.

  Chester Whitfield, who doesn't live in town anymore since he was arrested for vagrancy six times last month, stated to this reporter, 

  "We'll get through this crisis 'cause we Happy Valleyians are a hardy bunch. We stick together. I mean that. We stick together. Ah ya!"

In other news:

 The annual Happy Valley Residents' Meeting and Chowda' Cook-Off, scheduled for February 14th,  has been postponed.  It turns out Mary Cunningham, who is in charge of stoking the town house wood pellet stove prior to the meeting, accidentally got the bags mixed up and stoked it with rabbit pellets instead of wood pellets.

 Everyone in town except Horace Peterman agreed that the smell was not conducive to a fruitful and productive residents' meeting. Horace stated to this reporter, "Don't understand what all the fuss is about. Aahh ya! Smells just like my place." 

The meeting has been postponed until early Spring, when we can have the windows opened up some.

Lost and Found

 Did anyone find a lime-green tutu in the vicinity of Yen-Yen's Bar & Grille late last Saturday night, or early Sunday morning? If so, please see that it gets returned to Harvey Langerstein at 25 Elm street. He needs it for the upcoming Lion's Club Pabst Gala. Reward $2.50 (less if you've worn it)

Hobbies

 This week, I think, is Better Mental Health Week here in America, so I'm going to do my part to promote it by asking a question:

 When you complain that your life is dull and boring and meaningless, why do people automatically suggest you take up a hobby? 

Excuse me. Are they nuts!

 A hobby is at best a throttled compulsive obsession. At worst, it's a 20-ride bus pass to your local mental health clinic via the almshouse. 

 Mental healthcare professionals know all about this strange hobby business but are most reluctant to discuss the subject, except on an hourly fee basis. I recently asked my therapist if he thought it would help if I took up a hobby to occupy my spare time.

 I said, "I like model trains!"

He replied, "That's not a good idea. In your case Jocko, I was going to suggest that perhaps you should get a job."

 I know it's a bad habit that I need to work on, but I never follow the advice of friends, neighbors, experts or professionals. I can't help it. They're always wrong! 

Right then and there I decided to join the lunatic fringe. I would get myself a hobby. 

 I was walking by a downtown pawnshop one day a few weeks later, where I noticed a strange object hanging in the display window. I went inside and asked the clerk, "What the heck is that silver thing hanging in your front window?"

He replied, "It's a glockenspiel."

I asked, "What do you do with it?"

He said, "Have you ever watched the Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day? It's a musical instrument."

I replied, "Looks sorta' like a Marimba that someone left out in the rain too long. How does one play a glockenspiel?" 

He said, "You carry it in this belt holster, and you strike the metal bars with this glock."

 The clerk dismounted the bulky instrument from its perch, picked up the metal lollipop and started playing. Not only was this guy a decent salesperson, he was also a fair 'glockenspielist'. 

After a powerful eight bars of Oh! 'Dem Golden Slippers, followed by excerpts from a pair of rousing Sousa marches, I was hooked.

"How much is it?", I asked.

He paused, "The old guy who pawned it died last week, so he ain't coming back for it. I can let you have it for 50. Sixty bucks if you want the holster and the music liar." 

"Sold!", I replied excitedly. "I'll take the holster, but I'm already a pretty decent liar. How about $55."

  I want to tell you, this new hobby of mine returned instant dividends. I strapped on the belt holster and carried my new glockenspiel the better part of two miles through city streets. Everywhere I went car horns honked, and people offered shouts of encouragement.

 Spurred on by this newfound attention, I decided to stop in front of Mitchell's Pharmacy to play an encore performance. Among the large throng of well-wishers and music lovers who had gathered to listen, I also met two courteous men in dark blue uniforms, and a woman who said her name was Ms.Tulley from the Department of Social Services, and did I have a minute to chat with her?

 My new hobby was fun. The only small problem was that I had no musical talent whatever. After two months of steady practice the only tune I could play on the thing was the theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  Undaunted, I decided that if I had no talent for music, then so be it. I would just have to find an auxiliary hobby to occupy my time. As luck would have it, I almost instantly found one.

You're looking at the founder and executive director of the:

 Glockenspiel Hurlers of America

 We've already signed up over 8 million members, and the organization is growing exponentially. I won't ask you to guess what goes on at our meetings, but I will say that a glockenspiel is a moderately heavy musical instrument. Consequently, the average person can't hurl it far. 

 As organizational policymaker and executive main squeeze, I've ordered a gross of red, white and blue T-shirts to sell to new members. On the back of the shirt is emblazoned our organizational buzz:

Kiss Me! I'm a 'Glock Jock'

 The moral of this long and tedious story is this: 

If you're bored with life, take my shrink's advice and forget about hobbies. You could try working the overnight shift at Wal-Mart instead. 

Although I've no actual firsthand experience to back this up, I've been told by experts that paychecks are highly collectible.

-j

World News

Polaris Interruptus

  Thirteen days ago, what has tentatively been described by officials as a 'large and unexpected shift' in the earth's internal magnetic field, triggered a calamity of unprecedented global magnitude and scale. 

Topping the list of serious problems: 

  Devices powered by electric motors that travel more than 5,000 feet above sea level are rendered unstable, with a tendency to run backwards.

  Since early last Tuesday morning all of the earth's 234,478 low-orbiting satellites have gone quiet, which has placed a major kink in worldwide electronic communications.

  Robert T. Scamalot, a spokesperson for the government of Nigeria states, "We are most sorry but we are temporarily unable to continue global financial services at this time. Rich and greedy Americans must now help us in our time of need.  You are pleased to rush a cashier's check for $8,000,000, made payable to the Nigeria Electronic Criminals Benevolent Association', immediately to our country by way of land-based mail. Thank you, please." 

   When asked exactly what he thinks may have caused the global malady, Dr. Werner Van Hosen, Chief Scientist for The National Atmospheric Agency replied to this reporter, 

  "That's a funny one. We'll probably have a look at it after lunch."

   In Washington, the Obama Administration has declared a state of emergency. Intra-city travel by automobile in the nation's capitol has been limited to registered Democrats, lobbyists, emergency and police vehicles only. The nation's rail and bus services are operating at 110% of capacity.

  In another recent development, the Fifth Rumsfeld Brigade of the Army National Guard was dispatched to restore order to the rural hamlet of Pie Town, New Mexico (Pop. 45) late this afternoon. The town is located at an elevation of 4,999.5 feet

  Shortly after 1 PM MST today a crazed motorist allegedly opened fire on several town residents with what has been allegedly described by eyewitnesses as a Boston Cream Pie Gun Thing. 

  The motorist allegedly aimed and discharged the device from the roof of his electrically-driven Saab vehicle. The allegedly mentally unstable man and his vehicle had been stalled in gridlock traffic along U.S. Highway 60. 

  Forty-four Pie Town residents and a Springer Spaniel named 'Muffy-Jean' were rushed to Socorro Generalized Hospital suffering acute indigestion after being struck by what bystanders describe as 'fluffy brown and white projectile matter'.

   Pie Town was inundated earlier this morning when a contingent of protestors from the Save Vermont From the Environmental Bullies Coalition, driving 'anti-green' electric vehicles, changed polarity at the top of the hill on the west side of town, and then rolled back into the town square; where they collided with an Oregon-bound contingent of protesters who were returning from the annual Save the Spotted Barfly Convention and Beer Brawl, which was held this year at Billy-Bob's Steak House in Wichita Falls, Texas.

   All in all, it was not a good day for Pie Town.

   However, there's a bright side to this unfolding global story. Hammond Sandowsky, Chief Mechanic for Montana's Deer Creek Fun n' Sun Amusement Park, comments:

  "Yessah! Business been a' real good since we get to start the Big Sky Coaster at the low end."

  "That last hill's a real doozey now!"

From the Movies

The first person to identify the movie from which these dialog clips have been swiped will receive (via chartered bus freight) a .005 oz. tube of Uncle Manny's Disinfecting Beard Straightening Cream:

"It's over the ocean to Scranton Pennsylvania?"

"Flames.. Flames.. There are flames on my car!"

"Don't pigs squeal when they die?"

"I left them in a suit that got Martinized. Those photos would have won me a Pulitzer Prize." 

"Tse-Tse flies the size of eagles..."

"Serpentne Shel ! Serpentine!"

Time is Money

Public Notice 

Be it known that the occupant herein is officially growing tired of motorists driving at 80 MPH down this ill-maintained state highway in front of this residence which, not incidentally, lies wholly within a posted 35 MPH town speed zone.

 Specifically, also let it be known that these thoughtless actions precipitated by motorists not only terrify the occupant herein, but systematically endanger said occupant herein's life each time he needs to cross the street to retrieve junk mail from his bent-up mailbox that unknown teenagers riding ATVs have crushed with a baseball bat for the third time this Summer.

 Be it also known that on the way back from his mailbox this morning said occupant herein picked up -- a broken and almost empty 16 oz. 'Labatt's Blue' beer bottle, a non-lickable candy wrapper of unknown flavor, a thing with poop inside, and a long rusty 1/4"-20 stove bolt -- from random areas of his heretofore immaculately groomed front lawn; all of which appeared to said occupant herein to be trash carelessly tossed out of/from passing vehicles by aforementioned speeding motorists, and which have been duly added to a growing pile of like said trash that is currently being temporarily stored under said occupant herein's side porch.

 Also, let it be known that said occupant herein is accumulating the aforementioned collective pile of trash toward the eventful day, sometime in the near future, when he will extract deep and gratifying elephant revenge against all such said speeding motorists who use said occupant herein's lawn as a personal garbage can.

 Thank you, please -- Said Occupant Herein

Happy Burger vs. Mary O'Neil

  What odd set of circumstances do you suppose could touch off a skirmish between a large multi-national corporation and a sweet old woman who dyes her hair blue? 

That's odd all right, you say? But then you probably don't live in a small New England town where oddness is considered normal, and where being normal is considered odd. Small New England towns are also places where the fate of all inhabitants, young and old, can be determined by just one hard or soft-headed individual, and a quirky political process called 'Town Meeting'.

 Several years back at town meeting -- which is always held in late February after most of the town has migrated to Florida --  there was a brouhaha to end all brouhahas.

 As Jocko remembers, it was business as usual that year. The meeting went relatively smooth with almost all town business being attended to in less than three days and two nights.

 As always, there were rolled up sleeping bags piled high in the town house coat closet, and hot meals were offered by the Ladies Ancillary of the First Unitarian Church (Amy Fisher's roasted pork and kidney bean plate); so that meeting participants would not succumb to starvation before they finally got a chance to vote on something.

The hot topic of that year's meeting was Happy Burger coming to town. The old red-brick town house literally groaned under the weight of an overflow crowd that day, with chairs setup in the halls to accommodate the voters. Many more town residents listened to the proceedings on a large loudspeaker Chester Whitfield had installed down in the boiler room.

 The Happy Burger company had purchased a good-sized piece of property west of town along the highway, and then presented a site plan for a hamburger restaurant to the town planning board; whose members quickly rubber-stamped the plan for approval. 

There was only one small hitch in Happy Burger's fast food 'git-a-long. 

The proposed building site was owned by the town, which meant voters would need to approve the sale and disposition of the property.  

Anyway, this snappy official action was mainly because town planning board members must make their decisions based solely upon local zoning laws and state and federal building codes. As long as a proposed structure is safe and legal and at the right place, they don't give a hoot what you build on your property. 

And, more importantly, they don't have to deal with Mary O'Neil. 

Mary, a 70-something firebrand with dyed blue hair that sort of scares the heck out of you when she looks straight at you, is a long-time resident who some people say owns most of town west of the Cumquat River.

 When Mary's not tending to her real estate holdings she's also the town's unofficial Environmental Protective Agent.  If you've never heard of that term before don't feel bad. It's a local term, and the lay terminology for it is tree-hugger.

Anyway, just as the meeting was getting up a good head of steam Mary stood up and asked to have the floor. She was reluctantly granted permission to speak by Merv Shinglehouse, the town moderator, and then quickly stationed herself behind the simulated walnut-veneer podium where she and ranted and raved for about 3-1/2 hours. 

She wanted to tell everyone about the frogs.

 The frogs, she said, were going to die in droves. The frogs were going to strangle themselves. The frogs were going to suffer horrible deaths from the oil scum left behind by thousands of cars that would drive out there to buy Happy Burgers, and in the process leak indescribable fluids into what she said was the frog's 'pristine wetlands home'.

 It was going to be terrible for the frogs.

 Happy Burger had to go!

 Furthermore, she said, after a walking tour of the proposed building site she had also noted an area that was inhabited by pond-skimmers and various other of God's delicate creatures, whose habitat the bulldozers couldn't possibly miss when they broke ground for the new restaurant. 

In addition, she said, there was present on the building site a mound of mysterious 'gooey black stuff' that looked and felt to her like tar. 

.She added, " I had a tongue taste of it, and it was plenty bitter." 

Mary then went on to tell everyone that if the restaurant moved to town, the quaint and charming character of the place would be lost forever. 

"Up in smoke!", she said.

 Why there'd be Happy Burger wrappers strewn helter-skelter all over the fields, and the bright light from the new stoplight would certainly keep anyone from watching even a small part of the lunar eclipse that was going to happen next year.

 She then went on to say that if the town allowed the insurgents to build a 'hamburger joint'  on that land she, for one, was going to move to Jaffreysburg and sell her real estate holdings in town.

That caused Harry Kunkleman, who was then President of the First Savings Bank, to sit up and squirm around some; but he didn't say anything that Jocko can recall would amount to participation in the meeting before he went back to sleep.

Anyway, just as Mary was about to win everyone over to her side old Joe Sylvester stood and cleared his throat,

 "Mary", he said in a loud voice, "You're so full of it 'yer eyes are brown!"

Joe continued, "That land 'yer talkin' about out there ain't wet from the rain. That place is wet from Billy Sullivan dumpin' his septic truck out there for the better part of the last fifteen years. Them frogs is already livin' like pigs in shit!"

 Mary blushed and gagged and nearly fainted (in that order), and then grudgingly ceded the floor to old Joe as she stormed out of the hall, her blue hair flayed in all directions not unlike a misaligned TV antenna.

 After she'd cooled down some Mary returned to the meeting because she'd heard whooping and shouting and cheering and a wild commotion going on inside.

 "What's going on, Joe ", she asked.

Old Joe replied, "While you was out there sulkin' we took the vote on the Happy Burger place. It was 236 for, and 235 against. Did 'ya vote?"

"No", she replied almost inaudibly.

"Ah yah!" he said," 'Ya want fries with that, then?"

Since that fateful meeting day not a lot has changed around here. Happy Burger never came to town for other unexplained reasons, and Mary still takes to the podium at town meeting to rant and rave about the frogs.

 Where would we be without her? 

Science in Action

Lightning Fast Service

Jocko's Internet Service Provider (ISP) claims that if he buys the new and improved Ultra High-Speed Broadband Service starting at only $17.95 per month it will make his Internet data connection lightning fast. This got Jocko to wondering about just how fast is lightning fast. 

Well, in case you decide to try to outrun a lightning bolt sometime, here is why you should probably forget about it. 

According to experts who know about such things there are various stages in a lightning strike. Initially something called a step leader, which is nothing more than a bunch of (positive) charged air, moves down toward the ground at a speed of about 200,000 miles per hour.

 As the step leader approaches the ground another streamer with an opposite (negative) charge runs up into the sky to meet it.

 Once a connection is made between the two streamers the electrical current that causes the brilliant flash we see (the return stroke) moves up into the sky at a speed of about 200,000,000 miles per hour.

 When you consider that the speed of light is approximately 669,600,000 miles per hour, that's just a hair under WARP .3

 Jocko thinks his ISP bullshitth some. 

Beam them up, Scotty!

----

 If you've suffered this long reading this "literature", then don't forget there's a whole bunch more dumb stories on the sidebar (up a few scrolls) that you can click on and read to yourself. Just go ahead and click all you want, and if you run out of things to click on then you're reading too fast and probably need to slow up or down some to get the speed just right. Anyway, thanks for stopping by today. I've got to go pee now.   -j

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