Time bandits

     Wednesday while I was on the way back to Grand Rapids, from South Haven, I stopped to get an Arizona Iced-tea (gratuitous product placement) because it is a big bang for the buck. Well, more correctly 99 cents. Digression aside, I went to pay for the beverage and was amazed to find the clerk talking on the phone. This lazy, fat, mouth breathing, moronic window licker could not bother to get off the phone to take about 15 seconds to acknowledge a customer and give me the time of day, while I was contributing to the company that pays her wage. I call people like this a time bandit.

     You know who they are. You work with them, you are friends with them, and maybe you are one. Time bandits are people that exist just to suck up all the minutes that you can spare and some that you cannot. The only true equalizer of all humankind is the hours in the day. We all have only 24 hours per day. Even Dick Cheney cannot finagle a couple extra hours, minutes, or seconds with all his back room shenanigans. I do not want any of my time stolen from me.

    One particular time bandit is the idiot that values the cell phone more than you during a face to face interaction by answering the phone, mid-sentence without excusing themselves by letting you know that they need to take the call. Usually they are using a Bluetooth device. You are in mid sentence and they start talking. About something entirely different than the conversation you are having. At first, you don’t know that they are talking to someone else not talking to you. When you do find out the time they stole is gone….forever…Time cannot be replaced. Most of the time, timebanditting is amorally reprehensible crime.

    One way to rectify this timebanditry is after you are dissed by their lack of concern for your time is to begin a nasty bout of Tourette’s. A few loud f-bombs usually gets their attention shifted back to the more important person in their current situation, you. Nothing like a few well placed oaths to liven up the conversation. Hey, it won’t get your time back, but sometimes paybacks are a bitch.

    Another time bandit is the jackass driving the yellow and black Hummer. I said to my little buddy, Tucker, the new dog, as we were on a little ride, “Did you just see that? That idiot just cut off that other car, and nearly caused an accident, in which we could also be involved” Tuck, of course said nothing because he is a dog, and can’t talk, and was too busy attacking Mr. Skeaker, his squeaky toy.

     Slowing me down while on the expressway is a time bandit maneuver. If you are going to drive like a turtle, stay in the right lane. Better yet, dive on the back roads. Or even better still stay the f… home. If you do not know where you are going in your Hummer, get a GPS, don’t just slam on your brakes and cut someone off to make your exit. Just because you wrongfully believe that the vehicle you are driving can survive going off road, do not take others with you, jackass!!

     Opinionflash, retail Hummers, are not Military Hummers, they are more like a kit car version of that Ferrari you occasionally see driven by a bald fat guy. You both know it is a kit car, but is still looks cool. However, the bald, fat guy will admit that it is a kit car and is not pretending to be Magnum, P.I., whereas Hummer UMC (upper middle class) soccer mom only knows the military from watching Stripes on DVD, but honestly believes this vehicle to be military grade.

     Anyone driving a Hummer, that is not dodging bombs or serving our country in the armed forces is automatically a jackass. You KNOW they are. And of course, this idiotic, time bandit jackass picked the colors of the big crybaby, Cindy Crysby and the Pittsburgh Pipsqueaks, er I mean Penguins. (Those of you that watched the SCF with me last two years know some of the other pet names I have for the Pens, but I am trying to keep this PG-13).Cheese and f-ing rice! This is WINGS country! Get a red Hummer. You would still be a dorkass, but at least the team color would be right.

     Speaking of timebanidtry, let’s look at the biggest of all time bandits, the politicians. Most politicians were schooled to be lawyers, or as I prefer to call them, legal thieves. They are schooled in the art of banditing your time, and charging you a fortune for the privilege of doing it. If you have never been in a legal battle you might think I am being a bit harsh, but having defended myself in the legal system, and having hired a legal thief, on more than one occasion I can say with authority they are. If you have the similar experience or close to it, you would probably agree with me. (Of course not EVERY lawyer is a bad egg, but whatever…Jus’ sayin’)     

     Many of the fat-cat, legal thief, Ritchie Rich’s in our country become political bureaucrats, so they can feed off the teat of the working man. They are time bandits. You may ask why I would think that. If you are asking then you have never had the pleasure of watching the government channel. Not only is the debate and rhetoric ridonlkulous, it is booooring!!! More boring than dump and chase hockey.

     I should not be surprised that their time banditry is not just limited to debate on laws banning cigarettes, taking away guns, and making a 45 minute flight to Detroit take three times as long, because of the TSA and the intrinsic lunacy that is government intrusion in the guise of safety. Safety is an income generating catch phrase. Can anyone say “selective enforcement zone?” I should not be surprised, but I always am.

     I heard on the radio, from Huge, or JR the JA, that the congress of our very own US of A is thinking about passing a law to ban chewing tobacco from the minor league baseball. WTF? Why? The time bandits wish to eliminate this because it condones unhealthy behavior, by guys playing games that are considered role models. Children, like dogs, model behavior and do what they are allowed to get away with. Sports figures as evidenced by Eldrick, Ben Rothlesburger, and most recently Lawrence Taylor, are not role models. Nor should they be. Parents need to parent, and be the role models, but I digress. They also want to eliminate the jock scratch on the mound and in the dug-out.

     Hey all you polijacksses stop banditing my time by poking your piggy snouts into things like baseball. Baseball is a business, and it has a commissioner. Get the f… out of the way and let the commissioner figure out how to regulate baseball. It will still be, for the most, part a sport you can nap by, but leave it alone.

     Polijacksses are not very good at doing anything that requires thinking out side of the box or compromising for the common good, or even representing the populace and constituency that elected their sorry asses in the first place. I have heard that every time a polijackass speaks, one million brain cells die. Mine, yours, and theirs. That’s a lot of brain cells. I can ill afford that with my affinity for Crown and Coke! Maybe wrapping your head in aluminum foil covered with duct tape can protect you grey matter when the polijackassey pontificte. Maybe.

     We have seen how effective polijacksses are at trying to institute a national health care system, something EVERY other first world non commie country has gotten a handle on. Surprisingly, these other countries did not have to institute death camps, nor sacrifice an inordinate amount of quality to make these programs work. Why not figure out how to get more people working, have fewer houses lost to foreclosure and get extricated from the new Viet Nam over in the Middle East.

     But let us not forget the other time bandit out there. I know I am guilty of this particular brand of time banditry. However, I am working on changing this behavior. People that leave long-winded rambling voice messages bandit time as well. Make it simple. I am trying to get to the point that all I leave is my name, number, and if applicable company name. I have also heard that congress is currently debating on passing a law to limit the number of words allowed on a voice mail message. I know the debate will be timebanditry of titanic proportions. It is a good thing I have lots of aluminum foil and duct tape.  

Just another day in paradise

I’m Dreaming even though I’m grieving…

     “Grief is messy.” (Quote from We are Marshall, the movie). We all face loss. We all grieve differently. We all have pain and how we respond to the loss is an individual thing. The loss of a loved one is different for all of us. People, places, pets, dreams, and things in our lives come and go. Each of these losses affects us in both positive and negative ways. I try not to dwell on the negative, but am not always successful.

    Today I heard that a friend of mine passed away. It was not a surprise, he had cancer and it was only a matter of time. I respected and admired him, for many reasons. While I cannot do him justice in an epitaph, I can share his impact on my life. And, really, when it all comes down; it is how we are remembered by those that know and love us that is our worldly immortality.

     His greatest strengths were integrity, and honesty. He was happily married. He was a sailor. He was working on a retirement cottage. Then boom!!! Cancer! When I heard the news from my friends Arlene and George, all I thought was why? Why Mike? He gave so much, and took so little. He also was a dreamer. ost of my days with him revolved around work, but he did like to share his dreams.
     The death of a friend is hard and in the past few months I have lost a few friends to the afterlife. However, loss is nothing new to me, or any of us. We just have to cope with it and repair our hearts and move on. Life is for the living. It takes time. It is messy. But we move on. Grief may not seem like it will ever be gone, that it will linger like the stale beer and taste of defeat after a WINGS playoff loss. However, the sun will rise, the days will pass and life will get better. We will survive, the loss will always be there, but we will survive.

     Mike had the dream of working with the Habitat For Humanity. He accomplished that feat. He worked with Habitat to share his knowledge and help those with less fortunate circumstances. His dream was achieved. The loss of life is difficult, and so is the loss of a dream. Sometimes, the loss of a dream is more life changing than death, because the accomplishment of a dream affirms your life.

     Hence, what I will take from our interactions is his determination to follow his dreams He accomplished many things in his life and I learned a thing or ten during the time I spent with him. While I did not see him in the last year or so, I am paying respect to him in this blog. He may be gone, but he will not be forgotten.

     When we were kids we all had dreams of some day when we grow up. It seemed like every body was always asking, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” everyone had their answer, and many times we were told, “Oh, no! You don’t want to do, or be that.” This response from the elders was not just because you replied, “I want to be a slacker.”

     When I was 3, my earliest memory of my childhood, I wanted to be a Popsicle man. I wanted to ride that bike with the bells, and have the adoration of the neighborhood. A small kid has small dreams. Then I decided that the guy that drove the ice-cream truck was a better gig. The Doppler Effect of Popeye the Sailorman as the ice-cream man slowly drive through the streets still makes me smile. While I never attained that dream, I still remember that it lived and I did eat a ton of popsicles. And as I recall, the guy that drove the truck looked like he was about 80 years old…maybe there is still hope.

     Then I wanted to be a super hero. I loved Batman. I wore my Batman costume for about 3 weeks straight. May be it was only thirty minutes, but who’s counting? For the record, my batman costume was the Adam West variety, not the Dark Knight type. It was a short lived dream because, although ADHD was not a diagnosis or a catchphrase way back then, I had a short attention span.

    Then my dream was to be an archeologist. I loved dinosaurs. I knew all the dinos. Well, at least a few, like tyrannosaurus, triceratops, brontosaurus…I am sure there were at least two or three other dinos that had been discovered back then, but really who cares…those three were and are the best of the best! I carried this dream around like a snuggle blanket for at least a couple weeks. This dream died as well, but I moved on.

     When I was about 7 years old and 46 pounds soaking wet, I started following the LIONS and hence my next dream was to be the greatest tight end to play football. 88 was my hero. (Charlie Sanders) I was too small and the LIONS have continued to break my heart. I still dream of the day that they win the Superbowl. (Although they did win the Suh per bowl as I wrote about in my blog a few month ago.) So this dream is still partially active, and I may live to….yeah riiight…

     In my teens my dream was to be Hooper from Jaws. (Hooper was an oceanographer from Woods Hole Institute. BTW I did not want to be the Hopper in the book by Peter Benchley. That Hooper dies; I wanted to be Hopper from the movie, because that Hooper lives.) My knick name in seventh grade was Jaws. I talked about Jaws all the time. At the time my father worked for The Hartford Ins. Co. they sponsored *The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau.* I may still have one of those Orange caps.

     This dream actually lasted thru my teens and prompted me to, upon graduation from EKHS, move to California to go to San Jose State and become a marine biologist or an oceanographer. However, I never even enrolled in college in California probably because I smoked pot, got drunk, and watched a double feature of Cheech and Chong at a drive-in movie. There may be other reasons, but I can’t quite remember much of those six months other than the pot, booze and something about a drinking game involving pink elephant cards. (that’s why they call it dope) Concurrently, in my later teens, like every other boy I dreamed of getting laid. Mission accomplished. Dream completed. Jus sayin’

     When the Hopper dream died and while I was attending GRCC (then GRJC) I wanted to be a revolutionary. I wanted to change the world. I listened to Pink Floyd and Rush. I wanted to change the world with revolution in a good way, whatever that really means…After all, I was the Vice President of the conservation club. I did not attain that high status by anything I did with the club. Well, other than say, when they told us at my second meeting that the current VP had resigned, that I would be more than happy to take his place. I may have accomplished more but I still liked smoking pot.

     I stopped smoking pot long enough to change in the world way back then by standing on the corner of a downtown street with a NO NUKES sign. AND THEN Ronald Reagan gets all the credit for ending the cold war. I am counting that as a mission accomplished. Dream fulfilled. (Hey, if GWB can say *mission accomplished* and have the war linger on for the better part of a decade, I can get SOME credit for the end of the cold war!!!)

     Then my dream was to travel and kick back and see the world. Live in a van, be a bum. Well, maybe more like a high functioning slacker, because I stopped smoking all that pot. I did that for about 3 weeks one summer. I really liked it. Dream sort of attained.

     In my mid-twenties I wanted to get rich. I wanted to be a Millionaire before I was thirty. I discovered AMWAY. Back when it was still called Amway. Now it is some other thing, but god knows what it is. If anyone ever wants to help you set up a business, show you a business idea, or is a business man/woman looking to set up a new “branch” or whatever in your town, it is probably Amway, or some kind of MLM. BTW Amway, or whatever it goes by now is not a pyramid scheme. A pyramid scheme is corporate America. Jus sayin’.

     Then I got divorced. Not really my dream, but whatever…so I tended bar did construction and started the Renaissance Man. Business. For thirteen years it was awesome. One year was really bad, but hey I’ll take those odds any day. Well, not always so awesome, but my dream my rules. Being self employed is good more than bad and the numbers I just stated prove it..

     During this period I resurrected the living in the van dream. Because I was self employed I cold go where ever and do what ever as long as I fulfilled my obligations. I played Guitar on the street, and did some carpentry to supplement my existence. I lived and played in Saugatuck and Key West, but mostly Saugatuck. I saw the WINGS win the cup and end a 42 year cup drought. I lived on my sail boat. When the van died I lived in a garage or crashed on a couch. When I ended up living in a 4x 8 utility trailer sleeping on the boat bunk cushions and staying in a storage locker I decided the dream had lived long enough. However I did become mildly famous…LIVIN’ THE DREAM!!!

     Then I met Roxanne and got married. I had kids and a wife and wanted to get rich again. I wanted to buy an island and be Brucellini… (Bruce and Mussolini) This dream was kind of a mixture of the change the world, if only my own little world and my followers (read family) and the Amway dream, however, it turned out that the Amway dream had more of an upside than the excavation and development business, because I lost it all. The house, cars, trucks, equipment, money all gone. but the worst of it all is I lost my dreams. My friend George says sometimes it is ok just to survive... True dat …He has been a big help thru surviving that loss of the dream. And my wife not putting a knife in my chest while I was sleeping helped a ton as well.

     I do not know what my next dream is. Well, maybe I do….Currently, the Mega millions Jackpot is like Donald Trump lotto millions. Guess it would be an easier dream to accomplish if I bought a ticket or two. Maybe my blog will become more than my mildly famous days…maybe my book will sell… a guy can dream…We all should dream big or dream small, but just dream, baby!

     I hope all of Mike’s remaining dreams are attained in the afterlife. In tribute to Mike I will continue to dream on.

Just another day in paradise

The new dog in town…

     I am a dog. In a past life I was a dog. In the next life I will probably be a dog. It is another Saturday. I wake up to no Browndog. It is still difficult. They say time heals all wounds and I know it does, but...I still hear his Browndog rapping when I pull in the driveway. I open the door to let him out and then I remember the old boy is gone. He has only been gone for a few weeks, but I have been without a dog for too long.
     When you get home the dog is always so excited to see you. People should all greet each other like dogs. Okay, maybe not the ass-sniffing, but the excitement level. “Oh! Man! you are HOME!!! Love me up!”
     Life goes on. The company I work for is moving into a new office, and I have to go do some things at the new space, but I am feeling like I was over served last night. That last one always seems like a good idea at the time. It was probably not, but oh well. My wife calls me on my cell phone. She says that there is a dog expo at the Delta Plex. She asks me if I want to go. Of course I want to go to the used dog show. I WANT another dog. I am dog and I am a dog person.
     We get to the show and walk in. There are so many dogs to see and so much dog shwag. We find a bunch of dogs. I could take all of them home. It is sad that people can abandon their dogs or their cats. I am not much of a cat person, but animals are part of the family. However, the human animal can be really cruel, and unkind. Just ask those kids at Columbine and all those poor dogs that didn’t come home with us this time.
     I can watch a movie of humans killing each other. I can watch a war movie, or a horror movie. Granted it is just a movie, but still…I feel very little emotion. I cannot watch that commercial about pets that are abandoned. It kills me.
     We check out all the dogs. There are so many sad eyed take ME home looks, it is difficult. We spend time with a couple of puppies. We see one that looked just like ‘Cino, but we cannot get an identical dog to one we just lost a few months ago. We move on. We find a setter mix that is sooo cute, but it is very shy. Too shy. The next dog we get needs to have some PERSONALITY!!
     I find a dog named Jimmy. He is a Sheppard mix. I ask to take him out. He has some weight issues, he is skinny, and needs a bath. I walk him around out back of the show. We bond. He has some personality. He has some love to give. If it were just me, I would take Jimmy home. After all, a dog named for the WINGS starting goalie is not  a bad thing. Unfortunately, he also has some aggression issues. Jimmy is a one person, one dog, dog. We need a dog friendly dog. It is a shame. It looks like we will be dog free for another week, or longer.
     We are about to go home. We have seen all the dogs. We cannot make up our mind. Then my wife finds a black lab puppy. He apparently was almost adopted. A family spent about an hour and a half with him. But then decided they didn’t want him. He was worn out, and sleeping so he was kind of lost in the shuffle. Libby says, “OOOHHHH! He is soooo CUTE!” We spent about 10 minutes with him and knew it was THE DOG.
     He is a lab, so I am in for the LOOOONG puppiness that comes with labs. He looks enough like ‘Cino and ‘Spresso, but he is black. He is smart and already knows how to sit. He will not fill the hole in my heart that was left by ‘Cino and Browndog, but he will be a great addition to the family.
     His name is Tucker. With my proclivity to drop the f-bomb, we may have to change that name.

Just another day in paradise

Seriously, it was the chair.

     We have all been there. The chair makes a farting sound and we instantly look like we just passed gas. We blame it on the chair and say “Seriously, it was the chair.” In mixed company, usually everyone laughs and a few actually believe you. In a group of guys the guys know it was the chair, because you did not lift a leg, and make that *I just farted face.* One thing is sure while passing gas may be noxious, it is not deadly.

    When I used to be a waiter I have, on the rare occasion, passed gas at the table, and walked away quickly, or blamed another person in the area, depending on the customer.In the service industry, with customers near by, most times a measure of flatulence is not endearing. Taking your waiters book and waving it behind your pooper is also a fun way to clear the air, so to speak after a little bombastic buttitus. That is always a good time. There goes that tip. But really, we all fart. And it is not something that we can avoid. I would much rather have some one cut the cheese in my proximity than have them wet talk me. (someone spitting on you while they are talking to you is mega-gross. and possibly deadly! germs disease and viruses, oh my!)

     The passing of gas is a constant. Everybody poops, so everybody farts. EVERYBODY!!! I have actually been woken from sleep, and I am a deep sleeper type, by another’s exemplary anal explosions. Thunderbuttitis is more common than you think, but most of the time you don't know it happens because you are asleep.. The Dutch oven treatment is common as well. (When one of the occupants in a two person sleeping arrangement farts under the covers while sharing a bed the act is commonly known as the Dutch oven treatment.) For you young loverboysandgirls your partner REALLY digs this little move. Seriously!

     Passing gas can be embarrassing.We all have embarrassing moments. Some of us have more than others. Life is filled with little and large faux pas. It is how you survive these moments that truly defines you. When I got kicked out of music class, in first grade, everyone laughed at me. Just because I rolled up a piece of paper, like a cigar, stuck it in my mouth, and put my feet on the desk, I got booted. “Bruce what are you doing?” asked the teacher. “And why are you not participating?” “I am being a music executive,” was my reply. I could have let the laughter and chiding children scar me for life. I could have become a Columbinewannabe and put some caps in some asses. But I didn’t. I moved on, because nobody is going to die from me not being able to be a music exec and getting made fun of for a few days, or maybe weeks. Jus’ sayin’.

     When it comes to embarrassing myself, I seem to be on the more side. For example, about three years ago, I was looking at one of my first estimates with my present company, HMM. I was down in Kalamazoo doing a small T&M job, and the office asked me to stop by and look at this job and give her a quote.

     I was talking to a little old lady and we were looking at her shower stall. The tile work was less than spectacular. She needed a new tile surround. Judging from the location and the craftsmanship in the rest of the house she was probably not our customer, meaning she could not afford our quality. The jobs done at this house were not of high caliber. In fact some were quite badly done.

     Flippantly, I remarked, “Who did the tile in the shower, a blind man?” To which she replied, “My late husband.” Oops, I thought, that was probably the wrong thing to say. Awkward…. I could have followed that remark with this one, "So, was he blind?" But I didn't.   As a redhead, I flush easily and I am sure she knew I was embarrassed, but her scowl did little to let me off the hook. Big oops! Needless to say we did not get that job. It may have been for the best, but still, a trifle embarrassing.

     One day, a few months later, I was estimating a bathroom, in the Wyoming area. Not a hot spot for our company, and they wanted the Taj Mahal, on a Trading Spaces budget. I tried to be professional. and wanted to make a good impression AND THEN I dropped this little gem...  As I left I shook hands with the Mr. and said to the Mrs., “I am sorry but I did not catch your name.” She replied, “Tabitha.” My response, “Oh like the witch…” and my voice trailed off, as I realized I had phrased that poorly. I hastily left. No sense in trying to correct that verbal gaff. As I walked to the truck, I replayed in my head what I REALLY meant to say. “Oh, like on Bewitched. Tabitha was my favorite character.” That may not have helped but it probably would not have hurt the situation. We did not get that job…

     Needless to say, after those two fun and frolicking examples, I attempt to watch the first thing in my head scenario, but some times I do not catch that phrase before it escapes. Bummer dude. It takes concentration, and over 99% of the time I am successful. But when I am not successful, the ridicularity ensues. My exuberance is sometimes my worst enemy, but it will not kill me, or anyone else.

     A few weeks ago we were eating dinner at the bar in our kitchen. The three of us were sitting there having pleasant conversation when suddenly the unmistakable sound of flatulence cut thru the conversation like an a-bomb. Not the nuclear variety, mind you or I would not be here relating this little tidbit, but the a-nal variety. You know how that goes; no one wants to admit it. Like I said earlier, I would have raised my leg and made the *face*. Since it was not me and my wife would have excused herself, it must have been Libby.

     We were all laughing. I looked at Libby and said, “What do you say? Don’t you think you should excuse yourself?” “I did not fart,” she replied. “It was the chair. Seriously, it was the chair.” Riiight…Seriously, it was the chair.

Just another day in paradise

On the Move…

     The sun is out! Mr. Winter is running scared. Goodbye you old miserable man! I know he will come back, far to soon, with a vengence.  He is leaving not from the sun chasing him away as much as from the crazies. The crazies come out in the sun like turtles on a log in the river. (I know you have seen this on any river). I know you probably have run across a couple in your travels. Most of them are harmless. Some are not. The sun crazies are out and "On the move." YOU  have been WARNED!!!!

     Just for a minute, reserve your judgment, and do not lump me into the group in which I am discussing, I am my own patented brand of crazy and I know I am not all there. I can live with this fact. My crazy factor is what makes me so much fun. My crazy is independent of the sun, the moon, or any other external factor.

      I was stopping by Smitty’s in Easttown to get some quaffable liquid imbibaries to finish off the week. Celebrating as much as possible is my new reality. There is always cause for a celebration, whether it is a day above ground up-right and taking nourishment (courtesy of GWC), the end of a grueling work week, or the loss of a loved one, celebrating is the right thing to do. Grief is fine, and necessary, but the life shared, not the death, should be cause for a celebration. As you know Browndog only drank Molson, so I had to get a few to celebrate his life. However I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah, sun crazies…

     As I walked up the sidewalk from the parking lot to Smitty’s I noticed one of the many sun crazies that I saw on this sunny day. This particular individual was walking down the side walk mumbling about some thing. I avoided the urge to strike up a conversation or smile. Anyone that has worked a Home Show with me knows that I am a crazies magnet. They are drawn to me like Cindy Crysby to the crease on a hockey rink. (The hated Cindy would not be nearly the goal scorer he is he had to shoot the puck from more than two feet.)

      Driving is one of my favorite times to admire or admonish the sun crazies. Many people complain about the lack of operating skill of the typical non-drivers on the road during the winter. However, the crazies’ factor is in full bloom in the sunny days as well. It is as if the sun crazies are like some kind of reverse vampire. They are drawn to the sun. They wander down the boulevards, streets and highways in some kind of sun induced stupor. It is really bad when the sun comes out right after a blizzard. You know what I am talking about. That particular anomoly is double jeapardy...

     I am sure that the sun crazies do not all have a pair of HD sunglasses, as seen on TV, like I have, or maybe they would be able to deal with the sunshine, instead of becoming sun crazies. You, like me, have seen these light induced lycanthropes making a left turn, driving thru a parking lot, or toddling down the e-way in slow motion on any sunny day. The conversation in the operator’s cockpit is as such, “Geez, Margie look at all that sun!” to which Margie replies, “Yes, Harry, it is glorious! Why don’t you slow down a bit to take it in all it’s glory.” To which I reply, “JEEZUS F-ING CREE-IST, F-ING SPEED IT UP OR GET THE F OFF THE PLANET!!!”

     These same sunlight lycanthropic crazies wonder up and down the block, thru the parking lot, and all over hell’s half acre on foot. The sun blinds them to the cross walk signs, the other vehicles, and the any other life threatening event that they come across. They are so mercifully free of the ravages of intelligence, they blissfully bee-bop thru the same dimension as the rest of the world, impervious to frantic hand gestures and tongue-lashings.

     These sun crazies are not to be confused with the sun zombies. They are different breed entirely. The sun zombie will not move, but lie in the sun, like the sun baked road kill they are. Some of these sun zombies of the feminine persuasion will bath sans top. Do not get caught with the video camera taking liberties of the scenery by your wife. It is much better to give the camera to your 10 year old son. Then it will be cute, curious and funny. Not so much cute, curious, or funny for a middle-aged father. Jus’ sayin’.

     The sun zombies also are the reason for the escalating rise in skin cancer. They live on the beach and have the same leathery look of an iguana. Thankfully, thru the natural order of things, they are becoming extinct. The Speedo industry is in a marketing swoon. Too bad. Better get a Speedo now before they also become extinct.

     Way back when I was younger and more insane, I used to sell Tee-shirts at art festivals. The sun was out most of the time, and so where the crazies. There was one show in particular that drew more than its fair share of sun crazies, the Ann Arbor Art Fair. (The A²)

     Ah yes, the A². We had a ton of fun selling the shirts. We were pranksters. We tied a hot dog to a stick and hit people in the head with the hotdog as we yelled, “Hot dog on a stick!!!” We wrote “See the Monkey on a mirror, and then showed the mirror to people as we said “SEEEEE THE MONKEY!!!” I was always amazed that so many people did not get the joke. “I don’t see your monkey.” Duh! You are the Monkey….” We also sold the shirts right off our backs, sweat and all, and it was a badge of honor to do this. Some of you may say that we were sun crazies as well...I scoff at the idea. We were just young and full of fun...

     The A² had lots of sun crazies, but none more famous than Shakin’ Jake. He only came out in the sun. It rained rarely during the A². When it did rain the sun crazies disappeared like hot dogs on a skinny Japanese guy’s plate in a hot dog eating contest…

     Shakin’ Jake was “On the move.” He wandered up and down the street, with his guitar slung over his shoulder, zig-zagging thru the crowd. Occasionally he would have the guitar in playing position, and strumming as he walked. It was rarely in tune. most imes it was missing a few strings. He would tell everyone that would listen, what his particular girl trouble was on that particular day. He had a ton of girl trouble. All the time, but hey he was a man, so nothing more really needs to be said.

     He was a local icon during the fair. “On the move! Gotta take care of that woman! She wants…mumbling and I think cursing…” I did the A² Fair 13 years, and walked it a couple other years, he was ALWAYS there. On the move. Always bitching about that woman, women, whatever... 

     There are several rumors and ideas of where and what Shakin’ Jake actually did for a living. Some said he was just a homeless guy that was more visible during the A², but that is kind of boring. I had heard that he was a local barber that closed his shop for the fair and adopted the persona of Shakin’ Jake. My personal favorite was that he was a wealthy man that lived in Ypsilanti. He came out during the fair to do the Shakin’ Jake thing. You can be REALLY eccentric if you are wealthy.

     A few years back, at the A² the sun crazies were out in force, and I happened to come across Shakin’ Jake as usual, he was, "On the move"...It had been years since I had done the fair and years since I had seen him.I bought his disc. It was not very good. It was pretty bad. So what? He lived as all sun crazies do. He lived the sun crazies dream. Coming out to be crazy while the sun reigned.

     Who really knows who Shakin’ Jake really was? And really what does it matter? He enjoyed the sun and was crazy. I do not know if he is still "On the move." He came out to do his thing, and was there every year, long before I started doing the fair and long after. I drink this, Browndog’s favorite beer, Molson in Shakin’ Jakes honor, and celebrate his life.

Just another day in paradise