Missed Connections

I never read the "Missed Connections" personal ads on Craigslist. But the other day a friend told me I need to check it out. This is what I found:

Late night worker in gas station on Russell - m4m - 30 (Missoula)

You were outside talking to some people when I got there. I think you are very good looking and have a nice smile. I am pretty sure we have talked before through e-mail but things always come up and we never actually get to meet in person. Just wanted to say I would love to hang out sometime and see where things go! If you think I am talking about you tell me what color jacket you were wearing outside. I only bought a lighter that night. Thanks, hope to hear back from you!

Next Window Please

I worked Graveyard last night and again tonight and I didn't sleep much today. I was thinking of it, but a friend texted me at 4:20 pm and asked if I wanted to hang out. Why not?

On the way home from his place I had a craving for a strawberry milkshake, so I pull into a McDonald's drive thru hoping that on this end of town nobody would recognize me; It could ruin my "True Missoulian" image. We're like that here. Some of us anyway. Years ago I saw our Mayor coming out of a Starbucks that used be downtown but eventually went out of business because locals boycotted it and rallied around the local Break Espresso.

"WHAT!," I said, "Our Mayor at Starbucks?"
"I should have worn my fake nose and glasses," he replied. "Don't tell anyone!"

Which reminds me: While I watching a Seattle Pride Parade years ago, a group of people on a Starbucks float were throwing green T-shirts out to the crowd. The front had the Starbucks logo on it and the back had a pretty rainbow and read, "Seattle Pride!" A local friend I met the night before caught one of them and gave it to me.

"Too big for me," he said. "You should take it."
"No thanks," I said. "I wouldn't wear that around Missoula."
"Why?" he asked. "Is it that bad in Montana? Not a gay friendly place?"
"Oh, no," I said, "It's very gay friendly. I am totally out. Nobody cares if I'm gay, but I would probably get harassed by friends for wearing a Starbucks logo."

And so I'm sneaking through the McDonald's drive thru and pull up to a huge billboard-like menu. I can read the big-print stuff, like "Happy Meals," but even squinting with my glasses on I can barely read the small print.

"Welcome to McDonald's. How can I help you," a pleasant voice from a box says.
"Hey, I'm sorry, but I am having difficulty seeing the menu. Do you sell strawberry milkshakes?"
"Yes, we do," she says.
"How much are they?"
"Let me check . . . $3.70 for a large."
"I'll take it," I say.
"Will that be all Sir?"
"Yes, that will all thanks."
"Okay, just pull around to the first window to pay."
"Cool, see you at the window."

When I get to the first window she repeats the price, I give her my money, she gives me my change, and says, "Thank you. You can pick it up at the next window."
"Thanks," I say, and I get ready to mosey forward.
"Do you want that with a meal?" she asks.
I stop. "Uh, no thank you, I just wanted the milkshake."
She looks at me and smiles and politely waves her hand towards the next window, clearly meaning, "please move on now."
"Thanks," I say. "Have a good night."
"Sorry. Do you want that with a meal?" she asks again.

Huh?

I stop again. "No thanks, I just wanted the milkshake."
She looks at me, her nice smile seemingly fading.
She removes a headset from her ears.

"Excuse me sir? What did you say?"
"I just wanted the milkshake," I repeat.
"Yes," shes says. "You can pick that up at the other window."
"But you asked me if I wanted it with a meal, and I don't, thanks."
"I was talking to the next custumor Sir."

Oh.

I wonder what she'd write about me if she had a "The Drive Through: Working the McDonald's Windows" blog? 

I might think about that while I'm working tonight; It might help tame my impatient-fed temper that's been building up lately.

"Would you like to add another hot dog and fountain drink and get our special?" I ask.
"Huh," I just wanted the beer and cigarettes dude."
"Oh, sorry, I was talking to the guy in line behind you."
"Oh, cool. Have a good night."
"Thanks. You have a great night!"  

Thoughts From The Marsh: What Have We Lost?

4:30 AM:

Walking home from a friend's I decide to stop at the store (about the half-way mark) to get some coffee and visit with my co-graveyard-shift and fellow-employee who works the four nights a week that I don't.

I was surprised to find the manager there instead. I shouldn't have been; she often fills in for employees who need time off for various reasons. She's a good boss.

I buy coffee, we chat, and I head off towards my next homeward bound stop: The cattail marsh, my favorite neighborhood haunt. I'm rarely there at night. Everything's different at night. I like visiting places at all hours, throughout the year, in all conditions, for many years, to become more intricately familiar with them and move past infatuation to true love. I love the cattail marsh.

As I approached I went into stealth mode. Or at least tried my best. I walked deliberately in the wet grass, putting my toe down first -- slowly, softly and cautiously -- then the heel . . . then pausing and listening . . . then repeating with the other foot, and so on . . . as if I smelled elk upwind; as if I were back in Marine Force Recon on patrol. I pretended to be the great gray heron I had observed and photographed in this very marsh a few days prior; nothing moves more patiently. I felt as if I were sneaking back into my childhood home hoping not to wake my mother (but which, of course, along with being in Force Recon, had more severe consequences than waking waterfowl.)

I failed. A duck sounded the alarm. Many others repeated it. The geese started honking. Busted. The place instantly became acoustically alive, as if I had turned on a sound switch, which I guess in essence I did. None of them sounded happy. QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! . . .  HONK! HONK! HONK!  I guiltily interpreted it as, "You bug us enough in daylight, damn it; leave us the fuck alone; let us rest for God's sake; get the hell out of here!"

As photogenically, semi-tame as these ducks may be, they obviously retain their instinctive alertness and responses derived from evolving as prey to others. I didn't feel too much a loser; foxes are stealthy above and beyond human ability, yet even they fail stalks an estimated 80 percent of the time. Far easier to attack from above, like an eagle, or from below, like a bass. (The biggest northern pike I ever caught was fishing late at night with a lure that imitates a duckling, temptingly and titillatingly swimming above large hungry shadows.)

I wish I could hone my predatory and evasive evolutionary instincts as well as a mallard. I try. But then again, I live in a safe, heated house down the road and, while perhaps not as much as most Americans, I am nevertheless detached and often obliviously blinded to the real world around me -- around us. Nowadays we're only prey to societal-created obligations, expectations, stresses, and the mostly all-around bullshit we call the modern world. We pretend to be free while enslaved. In gaining comfort and average-length-of-life-spans we've lost a lot. I want some of it back.

Just the previous morning I sat several hours on a wet, cold bed of pine needles atop a ridge in a ponderosa forest hoping to see wild turkeys. I saw two. They, too, busted me quickly and disappeared even quicker. They, too, are intuitively attuned to life in the presence of predation.   

Grizzlies used to roam in and around this marsh (fortunately, they still exist just north of here in what little remains of once wild America.) They likely dug beavers out from their dens for snacks back when this tiny remnant of a marsh covered much of this side of town. The Salish once camped along this marsh every spring to gather bitterroots on nearby south-facing hills now covered with homes. That was back when the marsh was part of a larger,  more healthy and intact wild watershed -- before people pulled into a 24-hour convenience store driving fossil-fueled vehicles on pavement to purchase gas, snacks, booze, cigarettes, soda and bottled water at all and any hour they desire.

Convenient indeed; but worth the tradeoffs? Worth the loss?

We humans want to control it all, even those of us who claim otherwise. Roads, houses, buildings; asphalt, concrete, trails; signs, maps, guidebooks; cell phones, GPS units, flashlights; bear spray, safety plans and search and rescue teams. We want safe, sanitized "wild" experiences. As Jack Turner so passionately puts it, we've rendered the wilds an abstract. We've rendered freedom an abstract. Even many hunters I know who feign being "in touch" with the wilds want to alter, shape and control it to suit selfish desires. Many want to eradicate wolves. (They don't want elk to be too wild, to behave and react too much like elk.)

Elk without wolves; ducks without foxes. We're suppressing and denying vital evolutionary innate knowledge and instincts -- not to mention creating a boringly dull and docile world. I want some of it back.

Maybe that's why I feel so damn alive in the presence of wild grizzlies. It's why the cattail marsh felt so alive in the wee hours of this morning -- primordial energy as invigorating as lightning; as powerful as a flood; as intense as a wildfire. It's not always pleasant, but essential for a healthy world. We evade it at our loss, perhaps even our peril.

We say society advances, but what are we leaving behind? What have we lost? 

Such were my thoughts from the marsh early this morning.  

In a few nights I will be selling snacks, booze, cigarettes, soda and bottled water to people driving fossil-fueled vehicles on pavement at all hours of the night -- and right on the edge of this remnant cattail marsh where grizzlies once snacked on beavers and the Salish camped every spring to gather bitterroots on nearby hills. 

What have we lost?

"Are You Insane?"

4:30 AM:

A slow, quiet, pleasant Sunday night now turned early Monday morning. I had completed my numerous chores fairly early; compiled the shift and daily reports; just finished mopping the floors and was anticipating a soon-to-arrive delivery when a car pulls up to the pumps. 

A man comes in and puts a $100 bill on the counter and gruffly demands, "Put $30 on pump two." He seems impatiently hurried.

"Do you by chance have anything smaller than a $100?" I ask. "Unfortunately, I don't have much in the till right now. But I can drop more out of the safe if you can wait a few minutes?"
"I don't have a few minutes," he says. "Just put $30 on pump two."
"I am sorry but I do not have enough in the till right now to give you change," I say.
"You don't have $70 in the till?" he asks.
"No, I do not."
"Why the hell not?"
"We don't keep much in the till this time of day," I explain. "It deters robbers."

He shakes his head in disbelief and says, "What are you a moron?"
"I don't think so," I reply. "But I am stronger in some subject areas than others . . . I never did like algebra or calculus . . . I had to take a course called Math for Marines before being accepted into demolitions school . . . I also . . "

He cuts me off.

"I don't have time for this."

He puts the $100 back in his wallet, pulls out a $20, throws it on the counter and says something to me as he begins to leave, but I couldn't quite make it out.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. I assume you want to put $20 on pump two?" I ask.

He stops, turns, looks at me and says, "Clean your ears. Are you deaf and stupid?"
"I cleaned my ears yesterday," I reply. "I used Q-tips, although they aren't actually Q-tips brand, so I suppose I should more accurately say cotton swabs, generic. Anyway, as a matter of fact, my hearing is not so good. I blame the Marine Corps. My son sometimes says, 'Dad, why don't you get a hearing aid?' to which I will reply, 'Why don't you speak correctly,' all in good fun, of course, and we both get a kick out of it and laugh and . . . "

He cuts me off again.

"You're an idiot," he says.

He heads out the door and toward the pumps. I go around the counter and follow him outside.

"So I assume you want $20 on pump two?" I ask again.
"Isn't that fucking obvious, you moron," he says.
"The only thing obvious to me is what a miserable asshole you seem to be," I reply.

I hold out his $20 to him and say, "Here's your money back, why don't you just leave now."

He gives me an incredulous look.

"Excuse me?"
"You can leave now," I say again. "Get out of here."
"Do you know who I am?" he asks. "Do you know Mr. Store Owner?" 

(Mr. Store Owner, of course, is not the store owners real name, but his real name is reflected in the store's name and I have agreed with my boss to not mention such details. Besides, Mr. Store Owner is actually now Mr. Previous Store Owner, having sold his stores to Mr. New Store Owner who has kept Mr. Previous Store Owners real name on the stores.)

"No, I do not know who you are," I reply. "But you seem like an arrogant asshole. I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Owner, but I hear he is a great guy."

He moves closer to me, somewhat aggressively.

"Are you insane?" he asks.
"Maybe," I reply.

He glares at me for a bit, backs off, and says, "Your boss is going to hear about this!"
"Yes, she will," I reply. "I will be telling her about it when she arrives later in the morning."

Which I did.

Her response:
"Dave, don't worry about it. I don't expect you to put up with that kind of thing."

I have a good boss.

A Civics Lesson

According to an enlightened and angry custumor, the current President of the United States of America is a "communist" because "he raised gas prices" to more than $2.00 per gallon. He is also a "Muslim" and "Socialist."  Apparently, our President dabbles in a variety of religious and political beliefs. 

Melodative, Stimulative

1:45 AM: A young guy comes up to the counter with a six pack of Coors Light.

Young Guy: "What rhymes with innovative?"
Me: "Um . . . give me a moment . . . Irritated? Constapative? Laxatative?  . . . I guess any word that ends in 'tive,' even if you just make it up. Why do you ask, are you writing a rap or something?"
Young Guy: "Yes."
Me: "Really?"
Young Guy: "Yes. Want to hear what I've got so far?"
Me: "Sure! Why not?"

He proceeds to rap. I wish I could recall it all, but it was kind of quick. There was, indeed, a lot of words that rhymed with innovative. Here's a few phrases I did catch, I think:

"Yo yo, mo fo . . .
Haters gonna hate . . .
Hate is their fate . . .
I Ain't gonna procrastinate . . .
Ain't gonna manipulate . . .
(He may have said "Ain't gonna masturbate," but not sure.)
I'm gonna stay fresh and innovate . . .
'Cause I'm creative . . . and innovative . . . "

Apparently, that is where he got hung up and his mellifluousative, melodative tune came to a sudden end.

Young Guy: "What do you think so far?"
Me: "Nice! So far so good. It's definitely innovative . . . and creative . . . not hated . . . I find it stimulative."
Young Guy: "Stimulative?"
Me: "Yeah, stimulative!"
Young Guy: "That's a good one!"
Me: "It's all yours."
Young Guy: Thanks dude!"

An Irrational Night

"It can be of no practical use to know that Pi is irrational, but if we can know, it surely would be intolerable not to know." 
                              -- Edward Charles Titchmarsh

Saturday, March 14, 2015:

It was π (Pi) day, celebrating the mathematical constant approximated as 3.14159265359.

This year's event had particular significance because the day, written as 3/14/15, contained all the first five digits of Pi.

To winnow the significance down to seconds, some say the times 9:26:53 (am and pm) were particularly special moments because they could be expressed as 3/14/15 9:26:53, containing the first 10 digits of Pi.

But here's where the Pi fight came in: Others argue that 9:26:54 was the more significant time, because the 11th digit of Pi is 5, so when expressed in only 10 digits, the 10th digit 3 should be rounded up to 4, hence, it would be expressed as 3.141592654, best represented at 3/14/15 9:26:54.

I sided with the rounded team since pies are generally round (with Pi as the ratio of their circumference to their diameter.) 

Regardless, everything at the store -- every purchase rang up; every exchange of money; every calculation; every number added, subtracted and multiplied; every number recorded in the shift and daily reports . . . everything seemed to come up Pi.

Nothing is more American than pie, and at the store we sell All American Pies. They're rectangular, not round, but better than cake. Between 9:25:53 pm and 9:25:54 pm I rapidly and piggishly ate a blackberry pie, a lemon pie, a cherry pie and approximately 14.1 percent of an apple pie.

It was an odd night; everything and everybody seemed unusually irrational.

Opening the Floodgates: The Meaning of Matthew

Matthew Shepard, 1976-1998

The other night a custumor came in who, by appearance alone, let loose in me a flood of powerful emotions. He looks just like Matthew Shepard.

A brief summary: Matthew was a 21-year-old University of Wyoming student who, on the night of October 6, 1998, was brutally beaten, tortured and left tied to an old fence post near Laramie, Wyoming. Six days later he died in a hospital from head injuries. He was murdered by Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson who are now serving two consecutive life sentences in prison.

There are some witnesses who say McKinney pretended to be gay to lure Matthew away from a bar and rob him. Others say the crime was drug-related and based more on greed than homophobia. McKinney's girlfriend first said McKinney became enraged when Matthew made "sexual advances" towards him, but she later recanted her story. In a well-researched article for The Advocate, a national gay right magazine, Aaron Hidling wrote that investigators had "amassed enough anecdotal evidence to build a persuasive case that Shepard's sexuality was, if not incidental, certainly less central than popular consensus had lead us to believe."  But Dave O'malley, the Larmie policeman who led the murder investigation, said: "I feel comfortable in my own heart that they did what they did to Matt because they had hatred towards him for being gay."

Fred Phelps, the hateful leader of the Westboro Babtist Church, certainly believed Matthew died because he was gay, and seemed to credit God for the murder; he organized a picket at Shepard's funeral of ignorant church members holding signs with statements such as, "God Hates Fags!" (Although Phelps is now dead, his Westboro group still maintains a despicable website depicting a photo of Matthew surrounded by flames stating "how many days Matthew Shepard has been in hell.")  In one of the most thoughtful, well-executed anti-protests ever conceived, Matthew's friends dressed as angels at his funeral and surrounded the Westboro protesters, blocking them with giant outstretched wings. (The organizer, Romaine Patterson, has since formed an organization called Angel Action.)

Matthew's murder rallied activists all over the world to raise awareness of abuse and mistreatment of gay people and push for hate crime legislation. Matthew's parents, Dennis and Judy Shepard, became (and remain) prominent gay-rights activists and led a successful battle for passage of the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act (commonly called the Matthew Shepard Act) which was signed into law by President Obama on October 28, 2009.

There was a time I did not understand or support "hate crime" legislation. After all, a crime is a crime; assault and murder are already illegal. I've since changed my mind. When a certain segment of people are targeted for and become victims because of who and what they are, such as being gay, it keeps others fearful of being and expressing who and what they are; at times it can keep people afraid of even going out in public. It suppresses freedom and liberty. It is a form of terrorism. The aftermath of Matthew's Shepard's murder helped me understand that better. 

Judy Shepard also formed the Matthew Shepard Foundation. There have been numerous books, plays, songs and films made about Matthew's murder and the aftermath. (I recently read a powerfully moving book called, "The Meaning of Matthew: My Son's Murder in Laramie and a World Transformed," published in 2009, and written by Judy Shepard -- a remarkably strong and courageous person.) 

Sadly and unfortunately, it sometimes takes tragedy to create awareness and action.

I first learned of Matthew Shepard the day he died when I returned from an elk hunt in the wilds of Montana. I was still closeted and married — fighting, denying and suppressing my attraction to men, often leading a secret, shameful double life. The news hit me hard, on several fronts; at one point in my life, I had been the stereotypical homophobe who hated in others what I hated in myself. I broke down sobbing. My wife (now my former wife who remains my best friend) was a bit surprised it hit me has hard is it did. Now she understands.

These floodgates of emotion opened up again when Matthew's look-alike came into the store the other night to buy beer. He looked at me kind of funny.

"Wow, you look like Matthew Shepard," I told him.
"I get that all the time," he said.
"I hope you take it as a compliment; Matthew Shepard was a beautiful man," I replied.
"Thank you," he said. "It used to bother me, but then I learned about Matthew and now I am pretty proud to look like him."

Such is the meaning of Matthew.

Where Did Our Love Go? (Where Did Our Country Go?)

He's back -- the hateful custumor who blamed President Obama for high-gas prices last summer, looked at me like I was stupid when I said I didn't think a president had much control over gas prices, and then looked at me like I was even more stupid (stupider?) a few months later when he was elated about lower gas prices and I asked if he credited Obama for the drop in costs. (See Feeding the Beast?)

He's back; back to hatefully blaming Obama again.

Why? Because gas recently jumped from to $1.98-9/10 a gallon to $2.09-9/10 a gallon.

(Ever wonder why gas prices usually end in 9/10 of a cent? According to the National Association of Convenience Stores -- yes, there actually is a National Association of Convenience Stores -- it's a mixture of legality, competition, marketing and history. "It really harkens back to 80 years ago when a one-cent change in the price of gas was a big jump and fuels dispensers had become sophisticated enough to measure out precise volumes," the association claims. "Intense price competition plus some regulation has institutionalized the practice to the point where anything other than 0.9 cent pricing is unusual in the United States."  To learn more, click here: NACS.)

Ever wonder why gas prices are going up yet again?  According to the hateful customer, it's Obama's fault.

"I can't stand Obama," the hateful custumor said. "I hate him. I can't wait until that socialist moron is gone and we get our country back. When we get our country back, gas prices will stay down."

He left me wondering, Where did our country go? So I Googled the question. The first four "hits" were links relating to the 1964 hit song by The Supremes, "Where Did Our Love Go?"

It's a good question. 

Semper Fraudatorem

2:15 AM:

A young drunk guy comes in with a bit of blood and a bruise on his face.

"What happened to you?" I ask.
"Oh, I got in a fight at the bar," he says.
"What's the other guy look like?"
"I kicked the dude's ass," he replies. "I was a Marine; I know what I'm doing."
"Well, Semper Fi," I say.
"Huh?"
"Semper Fi!"

He looks confused.

"What was your MOS?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Your Military Occupation Specialty . . . what did you do in the Corps?

An awkward pause.

"I'm not allowed to talk about it."
"No? That secretive, hey?"
"Dude, you don't even know."
"I understand. Where did you go to boot camp?"
"I didn't go to boot camp, they sent me right to recon school."
"Really? Wow! You must have been good. Did you go to ARS at Fort Story?"

Another awkward pause.

"Dude, I said I can't talk about it, okay?"
"I can see that," I reply. "Are you 'dual fool' and all that high-speed shit?"
"I can't say," he says.
"I bet you can't. . . If you told me you'd have to kill me?"

He laughs. Sort of.

"I bet you've seen some shit, huh?" 
"Dude, you don't even know!"
"I can't even imagine."

Right about then the f'real machine in the back of the store kicks on, making a loud humming noise as it begins its nightly self-maintenance cycle. He looks towards it.

"What's that?" he asks.
"I think the bullshit meter just went off," I reply.

Another awkward pause.

"Dude, you don't have to believe me."
"I don't."
"Fuck you dude, I'd like to see you try doing what I've done."
"Did Brian Williams cover your unit and see some action with you?" .
"Who?"
"When is the Marine Corps birthday?" 
"Huh? Dude, I had more important things to worry about than birthday parties."
"I see. Can you tell me what Marine won five Navy Crosses?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asks. "What do you know about the Marine Corps?"
"Not much," I say. "I'm trying to learn; that's why I'm asking."
"I told you, dude, I can't talk about it, okay?

He buys a pack of Camel Filters and heads out the hatch (a mere door to him).

Semper fi! 

Super Bowl Hangover: What a Difference a Yard Makes

Post Super Bowl: When all we couch potatoes get to second guess and redicule a man who, during the past 42 years, has coached for six college and five NFL teams and has won an Orange Bowl, two national college championships and a Super Bowl.

This year, Seattle Seahawks coach Pete Carroll took his team to their second Super Bowl in a row. Last year they routed the Denver Broncos; this year they lost to the New England Patriots.

Barely.

For those who missed a spectacular ending here's a summary:  Down by only four points, 20 seconds left in the game, Seattle is less than one yard from a touchdown that would win them their second Super Bowl championship in a row. Instead of giving the ball to the "Beast Mode" Marshawn Lynch, arguably the best running back in the galaxy, according to some, Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson passes to Seattle wide receiver Chris Matthews but it is intercepted by New England cornerback Malcom Butler. Patriots win, 28-24.

Why? Why did Seattle pass instead of run? It seems to be the question of the century. Pete Carroll took full responsibility.

"He's a moron," one grossly overweight drunken custumor told me. "He should be fired."

With the closest NFL teams from Missoula being Denver (896.8 miles) and Seattle (476.5 miles) we seem to have a lot of Seahawks fans in town. Apparently it's a tribe with a large territory.  A lot of them showed up at the store last night. Some were drunk. Some were sad. Some were angry. A few were insanely livid.

"New England cheated."
"The game was rigged."

"Do you think they could keep everyone involved silent if they rigged and fixed the Super Bowl?" I asked a custumor. "How could they do that?"
"Money talks, dude," he said. "New England's coach is friends with the NFL commissioner and Tom Brady's their special pretty boy . . . they let them win; they fixed it."
"But Russell Wilson has God on his side," I reply, "Is the NFL commissioner more powerful than God?
"Fuck yes," he says. "They got money, dude. I have no doubt it was fixed."

Another drunk customer was downright seething. "The most fucked up call in the history of football," he said. "What a fucking idiot." (I presume he meant Pete Carroll.) "Why . . . Why would anyone be so stupid? Why didn't they give it to Marshawn?"
"He was likely trying to fool New England," I replied. "The element of surprise. Catch them off guard, do what they least expect. The Patriots have a pretty solid goal-line defense and were probably expecting them to give it to Marshawn. They probably would have stopped him. If the pass would have worked, everyone would consider it brilliant."
"Oh bullshit," the guy said. "Nobody stops Marshawn. It was fucking stupid. What are you, a football coach now?"
"No," I said, "But Pete Carroll is."
"He's an asshole," the guy said. "A big fucking asshole."

Super Sunday Holiday: The Glorious Crusade on the Gridiron

Super Bowl Sunday! It may as well be a national holiday. It already seems as big, holy and commercialized as Christmas, and there’s no wars that I know over its name – although the truly devout do, indeed, quibble over doctrine; which divine sect to  align with in the Jihad: Russell Wilson or Tom Brady? Seahawks or Patriots? The Legion of Doom or the Homeland Defense?

More importantly: Which commercials will be best? Which commercials will be offensive? Does the snarling wolf in Budweiser's Lost Puppy ad present a false and negative image of wolves? Will Katy Perry stage an inappropriate wardrobe malfunction? Will the media find a new and unique angle for a Super Bowl story that has not already been thoroughly covered in excruciating detail? Will Deflate-gate lead to the fall of an empire? Will a player say something like "You mad bro?" that will be immortalized in memes forever? Will Brady and Belichick reach legendary heights or will a new dynasty of saviors arise?

Which owners will move from the millionaire bracket to the billionaire bracket? Which players will receive $100,000 bonuses?  If the Seahawks prevail will Russell Wilson's meager $817,302 salary soon match Tom Brady's $14.8 million?  With the commissioner of the National Football League, Rodger Goodall, making $44.2 million and the League raking in about $9.5 billion a year will the NFL maintain its nonprofit, tax-exempt status? 

Which team will God side with?

Many of the customers coming into the store last night were stocking up on beer and chips in preparation for the imminent, glorious crusade on the gridiron. Most wore Seahawk hats, shirts or sweatshirts, some wore Patriots merchandise -- all proudly displaying their faith and denominational allegiance.

"A Seattle fan, hey? How do you think they'll do tomorrow?" I'd ask while ringing folks up. Or, "Go Pats, hey? Think they'll pull it off?" 

Various answers: 

"My team's gonna kick ass!"
"Russell is my man!"
"Tom Brady is unstoppable"
"Brady ain't getting through the Legion of Doom!"
"The Patriots cheat."
"Seahawks got it made if Brady don't deflate his footballs."
"Seahawks suck."
"Patriots suck."
"My team's going all the way!"

Soon after the bars closed a heavy-set guy in a Seahawks hoodie came in kind of drunk. 

"Dude, Seattle has the defense, and it's defense that wins games," he said.
"But can't offense win games?" I ask.
"No, dude, it's defense that wins."
"But what if a good offense overcomes the defense, then won't the offense win?"
"Not if the defense stops them, dude . . . it's defense that wins games."
"So defense wins. I will remember that," I say.
"Exactly dude!"
"Thanks."
"Your welcome. It's advice my coach used to tell us."

He told me all about his high school football career when he helped lead the Sentinel Spartans to victory against the Hellgate Knights.

"Coach was right," he said. "We had a hell of a defense, dude, and we won."
"Congratulations," I say. "Sounds like you had an insightful coach."
"Hell yeah," he replies.

I played guard in high school, I tell him. We were pegged the "Cinderella Team" because we had a long winning streak and advanced to the championship after losing our first three games.

"You know what my coach used to tell us?" I ask.
"What?"
"He used to say, 'The team that puts the most points on the scoreboard is the team that will win the game,'" I tell him.

He thinks about it for a moment.

"Dude, that is so totally true!"
"Indeed. Apparently we both had insightful coaches."

He high-fives me before he leaves.

"Happy Superbowl Sunday," I say. "I'll be keeping my eye on Tom Brady's balls!"

The Gooey Diet Pepsi Sticky Syrup Spill

Monday Morning, 6:00 AM:

I've got a small line of people buying pre-work coffee, donuts, newspapers and energy drinks when a woman at the pop machine in the back of the store yells up to me: "You're out of Diet Pepsi!"

Despite the loud pronouncement, she clings onto hope, as I can hear the repeated "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh,"  "click . . . ccchhhhh" . . . as she keeps trying to extract something, anything, perhaps a drop or two, from the fountain spigot. 

"I'll be right with you," I reply.

As the last person in line leaves I see others pulling into the parking lot. The morning rush begins. I hurry back to the woman and tell her I will get some more Diet Pepsi hooked up right away. "It should just take a moment," I tell her. "Thanks for your patience."

"Please hurry," she says. "I need to get to work."

She seems desperate. As I hurry over the little closet of sorts, right next to the swinging-door entrance to the bathroom -- where, behind a black curtain, we keep the Co2 cartridges, regulators, hoses, tubing, fittings, various flavored-syrup boxes and an other inner, behind-the scenes workings of the soda-dispensing world -- I can still hear,  "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh,"  "click . . . ccchhhhh."

I quickly disconnect the BIB (bag-in-box) Connector from the empty box of Diet Pepsi, move it out of the way, pick up a new box, but have difficulty hooking it up. I impatiently struggle. (I figured out later that I was trying to connect the wrong hose -- Coke products are apparently incompatible with Pepsi). The box -- half on the cramped shelf and half under my arm -- slips, hits the floor, and the molasses-like, no-calorie goo spills all over the floor. Or, more precisely: caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid, natural flavor, phenylketonurics and phenylalanine. It's a mess. A sticky mess. Like a mini tar-sands oil spill oozing right out into the narrow entrance to the Men's and Lady's rooms.

I quickly glance out to the register. Another small line is forming. I walk out towards the ongoing "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," sound and politely tell the lady, "I am really sorry, but I can't get that hooked up right now, but we do have some Diet Pepsi in cans and bottles over in the cooler."

She looks distraughtly disappointment, but heads for the coolers. I hurry back up front and ring up the customers. The "click . . . ccchhhhh" lady puts two 20-ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi on the counter. I again apologize and tell her one of the bottles is "on the house" (I actually pay for it when she leaves, but I don't mind, she's a regular and usually very nice.)  She smiles and says "Thank you." 

In the meantime, a guy with big work boots heads in to the use the bathroom and, rather than step over the syrup spill, walks right through it. When he's done in the bathroom, he tracks it all over the store -- a black, Family Circus-like trail weaving up, down and around most every aisle -- apparently indecisively in search of the perfect morning snack while talking loudly on his cell phone.  He finally decides on a poppy seed muffing and brings it to the counter.

Whomever he is talking to on his phone is apparently a New England Patriots fan as he keeps repeating, "Man, they don't have a prayer against my Hawks! Put your money where your mouth is!" He gives me an odd hand and arm signal that I am guessing means, "That's all, please ring it up while I continue with a phone call that is more important than being aware of the reality around me."

"Excuse me," I say, "I hate to interrupt your conversation. But are you aware that you walked through a puddle of Diet Pepsi syrup and tracked it all over the store?"  

He looks down at his feet, then at his back trail, and appears, at least for a moment, sincerely surprised. He shrugs his shoulders and proceeds talking into his cell about how damn good Russell Wilson and the Seattle defense is . . .

"Wait, Can I See That One More Time?"

A nice-looking college age guy comes in (a regular custumor) wearing a black hoodie and jeans. He appears pretty stoned, which is not unusual for him. He grabs a bag of nacho-flavored Doritos and a bottle of Mountain Dew, brings them up to the register, then asks me if I saw Sunday's AFC Championship game in which the New England Patriots beat the Indianapolis Colts 45-7.

"Yeah, I thought it would be a closer game, but I am glad New England won," I reply.
"Dude! Me too! I LOVE the Patriots!" he says.

He reaches down and pulls the bottom of his sweatshirt up, apparently in an attempt to show me a T-shirt underneath.

"Look what my Dad gave me dude, an old Patriots T-shirt!" he says.

But I see no T-shirt. Just a well-defined chest, a nice, rock-solid set of abs and a sexy "happy trail" disappearing beneath a pair of Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans and belt.

"Nice abs," I say. "Do you work out a lot?"

He looks down, confused.

"Dude, I thought I had my Pats shirt on . . "
"I think you pulled it up with your sweatshirt," I say.

He looks again, then holds the bottom of his T-shirt down while this time managing to just pull his sweatshirt up. It is a nice shirt. Vintage. Red, with an image of a football helmet with the old Patriots logo of .  . . well, a patriot.

"That's pretty cool," I say. "Can I see it again?"

Again he pulls up both his sweatshirt and T-shirt. All I see is a well-defined chest, a nice, rock-solid set of abs and a sexy "happy trail" disappearing beneath a pair of Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans and belt.

"Very nice!" I say.

As he is leaving I ask, "Wait, can I see that one more time?"

He obliges.

Yes, very nice!

Feeding the Beast?

January 18, 2015

Our gas prices dropped below $2.00 a gallon for the first time in six years or so. Customers are thrilled. Most folks who pre-pay inside with cash (which saves 5 cents per gallon) are now coming back in for change, pleasantly surprised they're getting so much more for their money. Many use the savings to buy better beer, higher-quality cigarettes and more lottery tickets.

There's one regular custumor who ranted about high-gas prices last summer and blamed Obama. I told him I didn't think a President had much control over gas prices. He looked at me like I was stupid. A few nights ago he seemed elated about the lower prices, and told me he plans to go back to a "bigger truck." I asked if he thought Obama was responsible for the lower prices. He looked at me like I was stupid.

Maybe it's because I mostly ride a bike, but I'm uneasy about lower gas prices. I can't help but compare it to a crack dealer lowering prices to keep addicts addicted and coming back for more. With lower prices comes less motivation to conserve and find more efficient ways to extract and use fossil fuels, and less incentive to pursue cleaner, alternative sources of energy and reduce C02 and other emissions that are the driving force behind climate change.

Ironically, part of the reason gas prices have dropped is because of less demand resulting from much of the world using more fuel-efficient cars and driving less -- changes inspired, in large part, by high gas prices. Another reason prices have dropped derives from increased production in the United States using new techniques and technologies such as hydraulic fracturing and shale oil extraction -- techniques and technology that increase pollution and C02 emissions and have huge, negative impacts to water quantity, water and air quality, human health and wildlife habitat.

Is that a price worth paying for cheaper gas?

A few days ago I read how sales of large SUVs, trucks and Hummers have increased by as much as 32 percent with lower gas prices. Pay less, use more; Pay less, pollute more.

I chatted with a custumor about this one night. He looked at me like I was stupid.

Maybe it's because I mostly ride a bike, but I think lower gas prices are just fueling addiction and feeding the beast.        

Snow Devil

3:00 AM:

It's about 20 degrees outside, not accounting for a significant wind-chill factor, and the store has been empty for some time when a young man shows up, having walked from his home up in the South Hills. He stomps snow off his boots, removes his hat and gloves, unzips his heavy down jacket and asks, "Can I please use your phone?"

"Of course!"

I hand him my cell phone and he makes a call. This is what I overhear:

"Please come get me . . . no, I don't want to go back. Please? Just come get me."
He asks me our address and relays the information to the person on the other end of the line.
"Thanks, I'll wait here."

"Everything okay?" I ask, after he hangs up and hands my phone back.
"Yes," he says. "My sister is coming to get me."

He bundles back up and goes out front to wait. I look out a few times and see him shivering. After some time, I go outside.

"You are welcome to wait inside," I tell him.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. Will your sister be here soon."
"It will take awhile," he says. "She lives in Hamilton."

Hamilton is about 45 miles south of us, in the heart of the Bitterroot Valley.

"Oh, then yes, come inside and wait where it's warm," I insist.

He comes in and I buy him a cup of hot chocolate. He's quiet at first, then with no provocation on my part he suddenly seems to open up:

"My parents got in a huge fight so I left. I want to go to my sister's house," he explains.
"I am sorry to hear," I say. "I hope it all works out for the best."
"They do it all the time," he says.

We chat for a bit. He seems a very polite, if not shy, and intelligent guy.

"How old are you?" I ask.
"I am 15," he says.
"Oh, wow. You look much older," I say.
"Yeah, I get that all the time."
"What school do you go to?" I ask.
"I am home-schooled," he replies.
"How do you like that?"
"I love it, he says. My parents say it's best, so I won't be influenced by non-Christian beliefs."

Not sure how to respond, I simply say, "Huh . . . Interesting."

"It's much better than public schools," he says.
"How do you know that?" I ask, "If you have never been to public school?"

He returned to silence for awhile, seemed a bit confused, seemed to be mulling it over.

"I guess I don't know for sure," he eventually says. "Good point."
"Well, you seem like a pretty nice and smart guy," I say.
"Thanks."

About the time I am ready to compile the shift and daily reports, his sister pulls in, he goes outside, gets in the car and they head south into the dark. The wind is blowing hard. I see a snow devil dance across the parking lot.

Double Exposure (Repeat Offender?)

Night Flakes

3:30 AM:

In the low 20's and snowing -- big, fluffy, snow-globe-like flakes drifting lazily towards the ground like down feathers. (I think I saw two that were exactly alike, but admittedly didn't have my glasses on and I lost them when they joined the million of other flakes accumulating on the store parking lot.) Luckily, I had my camera inside, so I went in, got it, and come back out. Photography is an obsessive addiction of mine, and since nobody was around I thought it would be fun to try and get some cool images of snowflakes at night.

I took shots of the snow coming down from various angles, then laid down on the parking lot and used macro mode to try and get images of the flakes as they landed. I tried different shutter speeds, apertures and modes but wasn't satisfied with what I was getting. Then I looked at the car.

I had borrowed my former wife's car and had parked it at one of the pumps earlier by request of the snowplow driver, so as it wouldn't be in his way as he cleared our parking lot. The car was still sitting under the brights lights so I thought it might be better to try and get shots of the flakes as they landed on the vehicle. Again, I tried various angles; kneeling, looking down, laying down, looking up . . . and then I heard a car pulling up behind me. I turned around to look. It was a police car.

Without my glasses on I at first thought it was a cop who stops by often (my own form of officer profiling, I suppose, since they're both bald) so I smiled and waved. It wasn't who I thought it was.

The policeman pulled up close and rolled down his window. With a concerned, suspicious and perhaps cautious look and tone he asked, "Can I help you?" 
"No thank you, I'm doing fine," I replied.
"What are you doing?," he asked.
"Just taking photos," I said.

I had to do a bit more explaining before his suspicions seemed to subside.

It wasn't the first time this has happened to me. One cold, rainy, sleepless night in late October, during one of my nights off, I ventured out to take night photos of fall foliage. (See Night Fall: A Visit to Another Graveyard.)  At one point I was laying on my back in a puddle on a sidewalk under a Norway Maple, working on a shot of the underside of golden leaves above with water drops dripping down. . . and then I heard a car pulling up behind me. I turned around to look. It was a police car.

The policeman pulled up close and rolled down his window. With a concerned, suspicious and perhaps cautious look and tone he asked, "Can I help you?"
"No thank you, I'm doing fine," I replied.
"What are you doing?," he asked.
"Just taking photos," I said. 

I had to do a bit more explaining before his suspicions seemed to subside.

A Store Product Review: Hawaiian Kettle Chips, Sweet Maui Onion

If the interpretations of an artist working (most likely under contract) for Pinnacle Foods Group, LLC, of Cherry Hill, New Jersey can be trusted as an accurate portrayal of the native, indigenous Polynesian people of the Hawaiian Islands . . .  Well, for the first time in my life I have a desire to visit Hawaii. Or maybe it's a side affect of the dextrose, hydrolyzed soy, maltodextrin, disodium inosinate and disodium guanylate (among other things) added to the delicious, deep-fried thinly sliced potatoes.

Hawaiian Kettle Chips is a brand of Tim's Cascade Snacks, based out of Algona, Washington, which is a subsidiary of Pinnacle. They taste pretty good. I tried the Sweet Maui Onion flavor; I was drawn to them by the attractive packaging. Sweet, salty, crispy and crunchy. . . I recommend they be accompanied by a fine, dark, robust beverage such as Root Beer. They also go well with hot dogs (depending on how long the hot dogs have been sitting on the roller grill in the back of the store) with a squirt or two of cheese from the nacho cheese dispenser machine.

Not all potato chip makers could pull it off, but some guys look good in malos, made of kapa (a barkcloth made from wauke, mamaki, oloa, `akala, or hau plant fibers). The red Mahiole helmets made of tightly-woven feathers add a rugged, yet refined touch. A fragrant flower lei can be sexy. The outrigger canoes are cool.

Anyway, I like them, and I recommend them. They also come in Original, Luau BBQ, Mango Habanaro and Cracked Pepper and Sea Salt flavors. Personally, I am not at all drawn to the Original or Mango Habanaro flavors.

A nice package isn't everything, but it sure helps.