Time Bomb and The Great Hobo Adventure

Things are beeping in the office. That is always a bad omen. When I was a kid, we didn't have beeping things. We had time bomb. You twisted the top counter-clockwise (I think) and then it ticked..tic..tic..tic...tic...tic.. and made a blow-up noise when the ticking stopped. I am fascinated by the fact that, as a kid, the toy I loved the most was time bomb.

When mom and dad punished my brother and I for opening the chocolate chip package without permission and then lying about it (we didn't lie, it wasn't us and that was confirmed by our oldest brother thirty-five years after the event), we decided to run away from home.

We had been sent to bed without our dinner and we were angry and hungry, a miserable condition for any 8 and 6 year old, respectively. Our first problem was how to escape from the upstairs bedroom. The upstairs bathroom was a dormer and so there was ample roof below it. We decided to exit the bathroom via the window, drop to the roof below, slide down to the porch roof and drop to the ground at the corner closest to the hard-packed earth, and furthest away from the dining room window.


That decided, we each made a hobo pack, since we intended to ride the trains and be hobos. Of course, there wasn't a train track within 5 miles of our house but that part of the plan we would piece together once we were on the run. We decided we would need an extra set of clothes, two pairs of underwear (whitey-tideys), two pairs of socks, and our favorite toys. We didn't need any money because, well duh, we were going to be hobos and they don't need money, they eat beans and drink water from the creek or whatever.

When it came time to pick our favorite toys, my brother chose some dumb action figures and his favorite beloved baseball cards. I chose time bomb. I was the weapons man.

I stuffed time bomb into the top of my pack, which was a flannel shirt with the arms tied together. Flannel shirts look an awful lot like hobo packs. My slightly older brother, whose name now escapes me because I am still mad at him over something, looked at me with the most incredulous eyes and whispered, "You aren't gonna take that stupid toy, are you?"

My feelings were hurt. I knew that there were bad men in the world (didn't know about bad women yet) and I wanted to be prepared. "Mister, you better back away now or I will blow you up...tic..tic...tic...tic..."

Goofus (my brother) wasn't impressed. "That is a dumb toy and you know it."
"It is better than those stupid baseball cards. What are you gonna do? Flick your Sandy Koufax at him?" I angrily whispered back.

Then we heard the booming voice of father from downstairs. "I better not hear another peep from you two or else!" It was the "or else" that was the scariest part of that proclamation. We sat in stony silence for about, oh..say...thirty seconds and began again our silent move to the bathroom...which was directly across from the stairs...and freedom, which was off the porch roof.

Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe, TIC....TIC....TIC....

That darned time bomb, what a dumb toy. We scurried back to the bedroom. A gigantic voice shook the floor, "ONE......TWO....." We waited for THREE for a really long time but all was quiet. We waited even longer. Then we, two little church mice, quietly slipped out of our beds, crawled on our hands and knees to the top of the stairs, and moved like ghosts in the manor to the bathroom. We carefully, oh so carefully, closed the bathroom door and locked it.

As we had crawled past the stairs we heard the sounds of forks on dishes and laughter and merriment and we got even madder and hungrier than before. We are running away! We reject you mother and father and you too, oldest brother. We don't know how you did it. You messed with the timeline, you ate the chocolate chips and lied about it, and now you are sitting there eating dinner and we are STARVING!!!! You connivin' , lyin', Nestle' Chocolate chip stealin' good-for nuthin' jerk!

Once we were in the bathroom, Goofus took over, he had snuck out the bathroom window before and had the whole routine down pat. I was the follower, and was quite frightened when he dropped down onto the steep house roof and wildly slid down the remaining 6 feet to the porch roof. I hesitated.

"Come on!" he whispered. "Come on, what are you, chicken?"

The magic word was spoken- chicken. l was overcome by a tidal wave of reckless courage and soon was sitting on the porch roof with a slightly scraped elbow and my dignity intact. Now for the easy part- the porch roof to the ground. We walked over to the corner and hung over the side, our feet hanging as we slowly inched our way down until we were each holding onto the roof by our fingertips.

"You first." I whispered. "OK" he replied and disappeared from sight. Next thing I knew he was pulling on my feet and I fell in a heap to the ground with Goofus sitting next to me, pointing and laughing.

We got up, dusted ourselves off, checked the packs that were strung with our belts to our backs, and began to walk to the front yard and the sidewalk heading out of town (figuratively speaking- our sidewalk went down the street and met another sidewalk which travelled awhile and met another sidewalk and then another and another).

Once we made it to the sidewalk, it was time to plan again. We huddled under a streetlight in front of our neighbor's house. It was dark and a chilling Autumn wind blew in our faces. The world suddenly loomed large. There WERE bad men out there, in the dark, in the cold, hiding behind the hobo fires, ready to slit our throats.

"Which way?", I asked.
"I dunno, I guess we will go up the street. Did you bring your time bomb?"

My time bomb? MY TIME BOMB? It was a DUMB TOY!

"Ummmmmm...nooooooo, I was afraid it would start ticking again so I put it under my pillow."
"Oh great, now we have no weapons." Goofus was clearly upset. "We will have to go back inside."
"How are we gonna get back up on that roof, huh? We ran away. We have no where to go. We can't go back" I was flabbergasted. Who was chicken now?

"We will walk right through the front door,up the stairs and to bed." He was matter-of-fact about a certain whippin' we were soon to get. "You can run away if you want, but I'm going back to bed." That was his final word.

So we walked across our very familiar and safe front yard to our very familiar and safe front door, opened it, walked inside our very familiar and safe home, said "goodnight!" in stereo to the shocked faces sitting at the dinner table, walked up the stairs, climbed in our beds, and waited for sounds of heavy feet on the stairs. They never came. I listened while my tummy rumbled. I listened while my mind tumbled. Goofus fell asleep.

I was wide-awake, adrenalin still flowing, my little heart still pounding. I was amazed at our incredible journey. We had run away. We had taken righteous action! We stood up to the despotism of unfair parents! We had won a moral victory! We swam into new, uncharted waters!

Then I realized I had to pee. I quietly tiptoed to the bathroom door. It was locked.

I casually walked back to my bed, twisted the cap on my time bomb, and placed it underneath my sleeping brother's bed...

tic....tic....tic...

Who Will be the Next News Anchor Star?

We were watching the cross dressers on Larry King and then it was time for Anderson Cooper 360. There was supposed to be a special report about our Marines in Iraq, but it was postponed by the Utah mine story- breaking news - nothing new on finding them, alive or dead breaking news - the owner of the mine lets reporters go inside so he can keep the camera focused on his side of the story - breaking news - Soledad O'Brien will be our host tonight.

The Internet transmits the story faster to us. We already had checked the net and learned of the drill bit either missed the mark or the microphone was broken. We already know the cave-in was either caused by an earthquake or caused an earthquake. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

We already learned there was either enough oxygen for everyone to survive or not enough for anyone to survive. We already learned the part-owner, Mr. Murray, is either a very caring boss or so uncaring the he would fire the first miner who complained about safety. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

We have already learned that this type of mining, the removal of columns that supports the mine ceiling is either very safe or the most dangerous type of mining known to man. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

So far, for all the special coverage and breaking news, the miners are stilled trapped in a tomb of coal and rubble and their chances for survival depend upon who the reporters talk to.

Not wanting to disparage the families of those men who suffer while they wait the good or terrible news, depending on who the reporters talk to, but I would like to see the story of our Marines in Iraq. I would like to see a story of our troops in Afghanistan. I saw one recently, from BBC World news and learned more about the difficulties there than from all the American television reports combined.

What is it about American News that prefers the controversy of opinions over the reporting of facts? Why is our country so celebrity driven that our news reports are more about the news anchor being right there to show us how awesome he or she is?

I liked Anderson Cooper because he showed true heart in New Orleans. He was real. Then the media execs labeled him as the voice of the people, guaranteeing he will have his own show on prime time with a totally cool televisiobn set. Now we spend more time watching him host the show than the stories he is supposed to be reporting about.

Hey Lou Dobbs, you listening? Get off your ass and go out and report the news instead of interrupting your own reporters with your own opinion. I can say that, they can't.

Hey Chris Matthews, stop being so rude to your guests and get your camera and producer and go play hardball in the streets of Baghdad. Hey Wolf Blitzer, get out of your situation room and find real situations and report on them. You guys are a disgrace to good journalism.

Hey television network execs, get your simple minds out of the overnight ratings reports and give us the news. That's all we want. We deserve better. If you want to keep us wathcing, you will have to go back to the basics- report the news - and stop promoting your shows, especially you, Wolf Blitzer.

My father has always said, "You can always turn the tv off." And we will. We don't need celebrity reporters reading us the news on the inernet. You guys will be out of a job. And the only ones you will be able to blame is your inconsiderate selves. Thanks to you, newspapers will never go out of business.

And that's all the news that's fit to print today.

Rant of the Week - The Underwear Conspiracy

When I was a youngling in a land long ago, called Levittown by some, Cardboard City, USA by others, there was only one type of underwear boys had- tidy whiteys. Didn't matter whether it was Fruit of the Loom, Haines, or JC Penney, they were all white and snug around the family jewels.

After gym class, the boys would change (some would actually shower first) back into their clothes and for a moment or two, the locker room was a sea of white underwear. Perhaps it was consistent with the fashion of those days when the only color found on the tennis court was white, you either bought black or white converse sneakers, and wore a white headband when jogging. Schools required white uniforms for gym class and white was the only color that came out of toothpaste. Even Diana Ross had white polka dots on her dress. Or maybe it was Dionne Warwick. I will have to check on this.

Then one day, some fashion designer thought it would be sexy to put men in bikini briefs, with pretty patterns and colorful designs. Most men, straight men anyway, avoided the briefs like the plague. A few brave, some would say stupid, women bought their men bikini briefs for Christmas. Ha ha honey, aren't these a hoot? Will you model them for me? yeah baby, as soon as you strip naked and dance on the roof of the car during rush hour.

Soon, meaning after ten or twenty years because time flies, there were more kinds of underwear than you could shake your stick at- boxers, boxer briefs, thongs, gay thongs (don't tell me you don't know what they are), sack holders, smackeries, tootle-oo I see u thrus, and other assortments of embarrassing styles in every color imaginable. Some even had lips printed on them and others, cute sayings like "snake holder". The shelves overrunneth like a big pee in a small cup while stuck on Interstate 80 in a blizzard.

So when in all this advancement did our celebrity-ordained fashion designers decide to eliminate elastic waistbands that last no longer than one washing? Is it just another Chinese conspiracy to infect the world with poor quality merchandise? Was anti-freeze used in the manufacture of our man panties? Should we be worried we are keeping our privates locked up in the toxic vault? But most importantly, what happened to real elastic that stuck to your waist like Lindsey Lohan on a Vodka and Tonic?

OK, I admit that my waist has become rounder than it was in eighth grade gym class. I admit that with a good shave and a blonde wig, I could be mistaken for a very pregnant (and scary ugly)woman. I will agree that placing underwear on a bowling ball adequately describes a similar morning ritual of mine. But fresh out of the wrapper, and snug on the bellyorb, the elastic seems to work. But wash that underwear just once and the damn thing is hanging down to your ankles.

There is a solution. Mini-belts. Sewn into the elastic band of the underwear, these small belts could be adjusted in order to keep those undie tops close to the navel. Mini-belts could be in complimentary colors and even advertise products like Pet Food, Cough Syrup, Toothpaste, and Castleberry's Corned Beef Hash.

I know the elastic manufacturers are making a killing, using one undie's worth of elastic for 4 pair and then investing their savings into Real Estate and Alaskan politicians. I think it is an outrage that my colorful boxer briefs take the belly slide every time. I want my tightly secure underwear back. Execute a Chinese Minister if that is what it takes. Call for a special prosecutor, get Gonzales on the stand! Find the truth, nothing but the truth. The Empire is crumbling and no one has a decent pair of undies to sell. Someone needs to get to the bottom of this conspiracy.

Or..I could go back to the gym. The undies seemed to fit the last time I was there.

Emergency Management Update from Diffle County

May-June, that time of year when all light follies must dance to the side stage and the work that feeds the family takes center stage. There isn't much writing to think upon, ideas are scattered by our daily Quixotic quest for the almighty dollar. Here is a small update from our local community center

In Diffle County, the boys at Sustenance Township decided to hold an emergency management meeting. There was quite a fuss at the beginning because one person forgot their official hat and another fruited his beer-again. After a heated discussion on which firetruck would best block the bridge to New Jersey - thereby successfully stopping the million person exodus from the Big Apple, we settled down to more serious problems- re-seeding the population should the big one hit the pavement 2 hours East of us.

Father Figure (FF) felt we would have no choice but to re-seed, but Jersey Jerk (JJ), who also gave a spirited but fruitless argument over the firetruck (he actually thinks one truck won't stop a million angry New Yorkers), felt there just wouldn't be enough hours in the day to effectively re-seed so many people. Island Bob reminded us that Slim Jimmy the Whitecap had once bragged of impregnating over 2000 women in Queens. Poor Jim was shot, stabbed, castrated, drowned, and robbed not long after his pronouncement and the case is still unsolved-too many suspects and no witnesses.

It was Mr. America (MA) who came up with the idea that we eventually agreed upon. We would have to create a bank for our gifts. Sample cups (very, very small ones) were ordered and soon we will all be filling and freezing. Except for me - I have been shooting blanks for some time. But I may still fill a few cups, just for the spirit of the event.

The next item of business concerned sewage disposal for a million people. MA made a motion to rent 10,000 Port-a-Johns should a nuclear terrorist attack (God forbid) occur. I mentioned that we would be competing with every other Township and County in three states for the Portable bathrooms. It might be necessary to allow refugees to set up tents in our yards and share our own septic systems and wells. JJ was worried that mowing our lawns would then become difficult, if not impossible. Island Bob suggested floating large barges on the Franklin family pond. MA again came up with the solution- slit trenches in Henry's cornfield. Another vote was taken and Henry's field was designated the slit disposal site. There was no agreement on who was going to tell Henry.

JJ brought up the idea of charging refugees an entrance fee. We could set up debit machines, cash drawers, ATM's and provide employment for toll-takers at the Township border. JJ offered to keep an accounting of the revenue since he has the latest quick books program. The motion failed to get a second because Henry had just arrived in the parking lot. He didn't look too happy. The meeting was quickly adjourned as the boys headed out the back door, leaving me to lock up- and face Henry. "We may have to reconsider using Henry's farm!", I heard one of them yell just before the door slammed.

On the National level, the FBI foiled a dangerous plan to blow up JFK airport and another serious threat to our society is safely behind bars- Paris Hilton. The word from inside? She is being very cooperative and especially enjoys the water boarding.

I think it's time to break out the John Deere and mow the lawn. The next Emergency Management Meeting will be held sometime after we are done harvesting Henry's corn.

-Ed.

Who Do You Write For?

I've been writing stories, in one way or another, since I was in third grade. My teacher that year was Mrs. Steiber, a yellow-haired older woman with an eagle eye for writing talent. Or so she told me and I believed her. She encouraged me to write, write, and write some more. I did that, because I appreciated the attention she gave me. Sometimes it was hard to get attention at home, what with three brothers flying around the house.

The second influence on my writing came from my Eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Dobush, who was equally impressed with my ability to turn Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet into blank verse poetry and her own ability to lose the original piece. We didn't make copies back then, teachers had to get permission to just use the school xerox machine. I wrote it and never saw it again.

I've had other great influences, lovers who saw something in me that I had forgotten might be hiding there. My mother is an inspiration with her own writing, her return to college and her determination to get a Doctorate in English. Now she is Dr. Mom. My father has a great work ethic, a responsible man who did what needed doing to put food on the table and clothing on our backs. He was a teacher for over 20 years and he taught his students with passion, dignity, and respect . I still run into my dad's old students and I see this love that shines through in their eyes for him.

I first wrote poems and short stories. I discovered a deep love for music and turned my attentions to songwriting. I learned the craft, then gave it up for love and stupidity. I returned to it at the age of 39, and wrote many songs I am deeply proud of. My influences were varied, but mostly it was one dear friend and lover who convinced me to explore my writing, allowing me to dream again. I am forever thankful for her encouragement. Almost ten years now, I have had the music passion burning within, even managed to release a CD. But the dream of musical success, as defined by the music industry, is a reality reserved for young'uns. It is their turn to chase the golden cow.

When I look back on my 40's, I will always see the heart of my music. Sadly, I will also see a man who wasn't faithful, was self-absorbed, and poorly played with too many hearts. I had become a lousy musician of life. I see pain and sadness when I look back. The music has been blended with truth of character, and has become food for history to devour.

Full circle can come around very fast, once you've had that long talk with God and a few short words with Jesus. You find your birth roots and your childhood focus. Your spirituality has been waiting for you to catch up. So I've come around and discovered my maturity, and a view of the world that I want to write down on paper (computer screen paper). I am finally home and there is a lot to see from my garage roof.

Ask yourself this question: do you think I am writing this blog for you? No. I am writing these stories because they are important to me, to the fulfillment of my soul, as an offering to my God, and for my family and friends to be reminded of moments we share together. This blog is a celebration of life, and a skewer for shrimp. For life has to eat and there is plenty of food on the table.

What this means for the reader is: I am not going to avoid writing about subjects that may offend or appear to be in poor taste. I have a strange work background that has kept food on our table and clothing on our backs. I am a Sewage Enforcement Officer, which means I know all the crappy jokes. If you want to subscribe to a high-brow, New Yorker-style blog, then this is not for you- I am not writing for you, for them, for politicians, media elites, or the actor's guild.

The Mutant Mouse Chronicles are about life in the trenches, underneath the glamour that corporate media blinds you and binds you to. Tim Russert can kiss my ass. So can Wolf Blitzer. So can Rush Limbaugh and all the other media darlings. You are being force fed baby food peas on tiny spoons designed perfectly for your brain-mouths. Someone has to throw larger portions at you, with all the fat and nasty oils. If you can handle that, then I am writing for you too.

The great explorer Magellan, when asked what was his hardest decision replied that it was whether to go with the wind or against it. I went with the wind for many, lonely, wasted years. Once I turned to face the wind, I found the going much harder. But I found I wasn't walking alone. For many of us, and increasingly so, the wind is rising and the walking more difficult. We will just have to hold hands and pull each other forward. That is what TMMC is about- going against the wind and getting somewhere worthwhile. We are going to work harder- fools that we are.

If you can't handle portajohns and the people who clean them. If you can't handle the homeless in the streets of Nashville, begging for money while riding a Trek, if you can't handle anything that just might dirty your store-bought dress, then TMMC is not for you-but you should expect to be written about because TMMC is written about you. All of humanity is open for review here. We don't care whether we have 2 or 2 hundred million subscribers. This blog will remain true to its ideal.

Next Blog: The Story of Two Nashvilles

In the beginning there were...

mutant mice. That is how we are taught to begin our lives. Father is having a party and we must not disturb him and his friends as they laugh and drink merry in the kitchen. We are told to be quiet as a mouse. We go to Sunday School and are reminded we must be quiet as a church mouse. I have never seen a church mouse. They must be very quiet. We go to kindergarten and we are told to be silent (like a mouse?) and raise our hands if we wish to speak. The training has begun.

Life runs along at a sprinters pace but we think we are in a long, quiet marathon. All through our school years, in one social situation after another, in our work and even in our lovemaking, we are reminded by our training to be like mice. Lily Tomlin once said, "Even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat."

A grown up mouse now and aging fast, I find my envy for a cat's life to be somewhat emancipating . Some folks, despite lines of thread our social fabric weaves around them, still romp deliciously naked through the park. Their soft fur glistens in the winter sun. They are the kitten cats of this world. They do not raise their hand and ask permission to dance in the falling snow. Their sly grin tells all- they have found the secret tonic of life and are drinking and spitting it out all over you and me. Oh for a drop of that elixir!

I want to write about them, about you, about me, about all the things we already know, and don't know why we know. The Japanese have a word for it. Well, sorta. It doesn't translate well- nantonaku- that which simply exists around us. A subtlety of nuances that glimmer like spirit bubbles through a haunted house. I am chasing them, and you, and everyone I love and a few I mostly admire.

So with deep respect for our cultural heritage, genetic underpinnings, and distinctive social cracker conditioning I offer, for your consideration, "The Mutant Mouse Chronicles." Enjoy the cheese.

bon appetit.

-Rick