My Go To Is to Go, Too
I’m Already Tired, I Gotta Retire Too?
Postaday for June 11th: I Am a Rock. Is it easy for you to ask for help when you need it, or do you prefer to rely only on yourself? Why?
I have talked to my therapist at length. No, I don’t like asking people for help. Let’s ask Dale.
Hey, Dale. Turn off the TV for a second.
Can’t. Crudites are up by two, top of the eighth.
Crudites?
That’s a baseball team you invented because you haven’t decided where I live yet.
I thought I made you a Mets fan.
Did you? I don’t remember that.
Well, nevermind. Let me ask you a question.
Go ahead. Damn it, Manless! You bum!
Is it easy for you to ask people for help?
Buck-o, I get on my knees every day and ask God to help Manless get cancer. Ace pitcher, my ass.
No, but seriously. Like, do you ever ask Loretta for help.
Uh, I don’t know, do I? Every time you write about me, she ain’t around.
Well, now’s your chance. Let’s do some character building. Tell me about a time you asked Loretta for help.
Damn it!
Dale.
Sorry. What do you want me to do?
Was there ever a time when you needed Loretta to help you with something, like, when you had to check your machismo at the door and ask her to get you through an ordeal?
You mean other than last week when Gonzales broke his ankle pinch hitting for Lopez?
Well, that’s not exactly—
—Cause let me tell you, I was nearly in tears.
Yeah, but, what about—
I’m sitting right here, in this chair, and even the play-by-play guys got his mouth shut for a change, the camera zoomed in on Gonzales while we wait for the skipper to trot on out there. And you could see it, in his eyes, him thinking he’s two years past retirement as it is, maybe he gets a place in Arizona, or Miami. And Loretta walks in, and she goes Dale, you’re awful quiet, and I look at her, she ain’t the gal she used to be, but she’s still a decent broad, and I’m just lookin’ at her, like I’m that damned manager, and this chair and my sunken chest and how my knees hurt when I get up in the morning and it takes longer to chew on a steak than it used to, and you can’t smile at people on the bus causer they’ll either mace ya or ask ya to sign some petition to save the baby seals from getting evicted, or whatever, and Loretta’s not the kinda dame you ask to do menial things, I mean, I’m the man of the house but I can get up to get my own beer, you know, but there I am, and there she is, and she’s closer to the ice box anyway, so maybe this one time I ask her and she can hear it in my voice how sad I am, and maybe we have a moment, and it’s nothing like when we were kids but it’s something, and then later in the middle of the night she’ll lean over and she’ll whisper, let’s move to Phoenix and I won’t think it’s a stupid idea this time, I’ll think its her way of trying to take care of me, make sure I’m okay.
Uh, oh. Um. Yeah. So, uh… did you?
Did I what?
Ask her for the beer?
Nah. She’s my wife, not my maid.
I see.
Besides, I ask her to get me one, she starts counting them. I don’t need that kinda help, do I, buck-o?
No, I guess not.
Platonic Canine
Postaday for June 10th: A Dog Named Bob. You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob
Bob’s kinda shaky these days, but he still tries. I open the blinds in the morning and he opens one eye against the light. Then I unlock the door and he gets up. It takes him a while, but he manages it, and I hold the door for him the whole time. Once I didn’t– I was in a hurry to get the mail, and when I came back, he was back in his spot like nothing happened. And when I filled his bowl, he didn’t move. And when I opened the door later, he didn’t move. Finally I had to resort to giving him a few burnt pancakes with too much syrup, and he gave me a lick on my hand. His way of forgiving me. Ever since then, I hold the door until he makes it out.
He’s shaky but he still surprises me. We went out one morning to see of the circulars had arrived, and a bluejay swooped down to give me some hassle. Arthritis, blind in one eye, muzzle gone to white, but Bob let out a woof and was in the air, swatting that asshole down like it was nothing. “What the hell, Bob! You ain’t no cat!” He just sort of panted the way dogs do with their tongues to show you a grin.
A walk out to get the mail in morning, Bob watering the one tree in the yard, leaves a deposit in a spot right next to the trashcan so it’s easy for me to dispose of. A walk in the evening to water the same tree, no deposit this time, just me and Bob looking at those mountains way off yonder. Was a day when that was all we could see. Now we see it over the top of houses, that new neighborhood they built in the valley.
Then it’s me and the circulars, looking for deals. I eat my apple slices and let Bob lick the plate. I watch some baseball, take a nap, Bob takes a nap, the TV takes a nap. Naps are good. Get up and wash the ink of my fingers. Maybe have a bowl of soup. What else are me and Bob going to do all day?
I wish I could hand you a twist to this story, like my wife died or I got some serial killer buried in my back yard, or I won the lottery but there’s no amount of money that can make Bob young again. Sorry about that. Just a little snapshot of an old man and his old dog, the easy chair I spend most of my day in, the worn spot on the rug where Bob spends his.
Either you love dogs or you don’t. If you don’t, you can stop reading now. If you do love dogs, think they’re pretty much the best, let me ask you this question: when you picture old Bob, what kinda dog do you see?
Ronald Bog
Maybe instead of “Photography 101” I should take a blogging course called “Abusing Adobe Lightroom 101.”
My “problem” was that I went out to take pictures of this lake and none were very compelling. So I did what I could for this one. Maybe overdid it. Oh well. I’m wracked with terrible allergies as a result of tromping through cut grass to get this shot, so, let’s blame it all on that!
Avast, Ye Lazy Do-Gooder
Postaday for June 9th: On the Edge. We all have things we need to do to keep an even keel — blogging, exercising, reading, cooking. What’s yours?
Put me on a three master out in the middle of the Atlantic at half-past two in the morning, lightning on the horizon and fifty-foot swells smashing cargo in the hold left and right, and you’ll find me up in the crows’ nest, lashed to the rail and cursing God with every pitch and kick. That wing beneath water belong to no angel, and if she leans out too far she’ll swallow up the next gust, send a shiver up the timber and snap your sheets. Sails turned into sarcophagi but I won’t budge from spot until the mizzen breaks in two and Davy Jone’s lighting candles for another dark party.
Keeping an even keel is one thing. But usually it’s out of whack before I even know it. I’m no prophylactor, me, but then I’m blessed with a mellow life and have little need for balms and calming teas. I get up, walk into my office, do some work, so some writing, play some games, more work, more writing. Maybe I’ll go for a run. Maybe I’ll watch a cheesy horror movie on the Netflix. I’ll have an apple for a snack, a turkey sandwich for my lunch, and when my wife comes home, help her make something nutritious. I go to sleep and I don’t dream about anything.
I dread shipwrecks, but I’m never more productive than when crisis is on the rise and I’m forced to be at my best. Combine that with my otherwise laid-back life and you can see why I don’t need to keep my keel even. I like to walk around and take pictures of flowers while listening to podcasts. I like to browse Reddit or play Hearthstone and do Ken-Ken puzzles while I’m waiting for my opponent to take his turn. I’ve been known, now and again, to sit in a shady spot on a hot day and drink beer and eat potato chips and read really excellent novels. These aren’t palliatives; these are life goals.
My wife’s keel keeper is terrible TV. My brother’s is online slot machines. My dad does woodworking, my mom has her crochet. One guy I know rides his bike everywhere. Another gal I know posts political rants on Facebook. And then there’s marijuana, something I can’t do, even thought it’s legal, because my wife’s a Fed and it’s not legal for her. Are any of these world beaters? Do any of this smack of something deep and utterly human?
Neither do my past-times. Keeping an even keel, then, is just succumbing to an urge for peace. That’s well and good— but sometimes I wonder what irony there is in craving peace too much, too hard. Like running hard to go get more oxygen. Shouting at someone for silence. You see my point. We’re all of us vibrating dots in a petri dish, some of us swimming straighter than the others, are keels nice and even, but even the biggest dish is just so big and there’s always an edge to strike and bounce off of. Maybe the wigglers got it right— they never go anywhere, and never hit a thing.
Street Veins
If nothing else this course has gotten me to take photos I might not have otherwise taken.
Aurora (Hwy 99) at North 130th, from the pedestrian overpass.
Carlsbad Flower, Drops (Photo of the Day)
My contribution to the Postaday Weekly Challenge: Vivid. I originally posted this on my blog on April 13th, but then I got an email today that the photo had won an “award” from Viewbug. Call me cynical, but I’m sure the “award” was more or less arbitrary and just a way to get me to come back to the site. And I will, once I overcome laziness. Nevertheless, I do like this one, and feel I was able to capture what I intended. I’ve always had a thing for water drops.
Taken at The Flower Fields in Carlsbad, CA.
And The View Was Of a Concrete Wall
Postaday for June 8th: Blogger in a Strange Land. What’s the strangest place from which you’ve posted to your blog? When was the last time you were out and about, and suddenly thought, “I need to write about this!”?
Well I’m a wimp. I never blog from anywhere except home sweet home. Not that I am opposed to on-the-go blogging. I just don’t have my act together when I’m out and about. I suppose I could blog with my phone, but… I’m a tactile writer, I take energy and inspiration from the clickety-clack of the keyboard. Sliding my thumbs over a tiny screen, squinting with myopia the whole time, doesn’t inspire.
The closest I’ve ever come to “exotic blogging” would be the time I was in Puerto Rico in the middle of a DBTC effort on 750words.com. DBTC stands for “Don’t Break the Chain” and was inspired by advice Jerry Seinfeld offered on being productive (basically, you pick a daily task, and mark a calendar everytime you complete it. Soon you have a row of Xs, and that should motivate to keep going, so that you don’t break the chain.” 750words.com is a website where you are encouraged to write— you guess it— 750 words, a kind of daily writing warm-up. The website gives you a badge for consecutive days, and I’m a sucker for that sort of thing.
So there I was everyday in our hotel room just outside of Old and New San Juan, desperate for a wifi signal, tapping away on a small portable keyboard that was bluetoothed to my Ipad. I wasn’t blogging back then, just writing, and not anything readable, either. Yes, if it occured to me, I wrote about what we did on the trip. But I’m not one for travel-logging, usually. So moistly I just typed whatever.
I should, though. I should get into off-site blogging. Goodness knows I’ve explored the necessities. I’ve got the aforementioned portable keyboard, and another foldable keyboard, and a few tablets, and that Ipad, and another iPad Mini, and a Chromebook, as well as my work-laptop. Heck, I’m in line to upgrade my phone to one of those bigger Samsung Note behemoths, which is basically a tablet unto itself. There’s no reason not to exoto-blog!
Except, of course, that I don’t take inspiration from being elsewhere. I’m an insular writer, and I work from home, so I don’t need to be out and about, don’t need to decide if I should sacrifice blog time to get things done.
Maybe I should try anyway. On Tuesdays I got to a bar to drink beer with friends. Maybe once I get that giganto-phone I can start going an hour early and see what happens. Hey, whatever I come up with can;t be more than this sad entry! (My apologies for that, by the way).
Home is Where The Beer Is
…and a book and a place to sit and enjoy them.
I was just going to take a picture of my house, but my wife said “That’s too easy. You should take a picture of a lawn chair with a beer and a book.” Which reminded of this photo I posted on Instagram a few years ago.
I was planning on getting all fancy with my DSLR and Lightroom- but sometimes the simple pictures are the best.
Welcome to Bukkhead
Hello! My name is Jason, also known as Bukkhead. (I wish, back then, someone had told me that my chosen web-name would follow me around for the rest of my days. I maybe would have chosen something less awkward.)
Ah, but whatayagonnado. I’ve had my website since as far back as 1995, and have “blogged” on and off since then. Mostly just personal stuff. For a long time, entries formed nothing more interesting than a daily diary. “Today I ate fish. I was not very good. Then I read the paper.” Etc. BORING!
Lately, though, I’ve been trying to get into a blogging “community.” I’m never going to be a world-famous blogger with a million anonymous followers. So why not be a locally-respected writer with a few dozen blogging friends? That’s my goal.
I’ve been at it daily for a few months now- did the Writing 101 thing in April, and loved it, and have been trying to keep up the Postaday prompts as well. This is good practice for me— my first love is fiction writing and getting into a daily habit will help me get past those slump moments when my fingers hover over the keyboard but refuse to move.
So that’s blogger me. If you read my stuff, sometimes I’ll just do a rote wrecking-ball treatment of the prompt. Sometimes I’ll write fiction. Sometimes I’ll let Dale respond if I can’t think of anything personal I want to share. (Dale’s a guy I made up. He likes breaking the fourth wall.)
The real life me is early forties, married, could stand to lose a few pounds, loves running, photography, and surf guitar. That’s just a slice, but I don’t want to bog you down with detritus.
Looking forward to reading your posts, fellow 101ers. 🙂