Complaints Against The Fans

Part 18 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

This is the kind of thing we don’t put out very often as part of the history of the rodeo and more particularly from Mam & Pap’s show. About occasionally complaining about the fans, even though of course they were their bread and butter. Sometimes, though, whatever line of work you’re in, you've just had it up to here and want to get in their face and dress ‘em down good, “You don’t own me, you scrawny necked local-yokel barber, so get out of here with your stupid complaints! And by the way, the guy cutting your hair went about three inches too high in the back and the entire back side’s sun-burnt!”

Really, complaints are never welcome, and for that matter neither are suggestions. My take on suggestions is they’re just complaints with sugar on them. Any idea you have that you can do it better, either do it or shut up. They'd say, "As long as you’re coming to my rodeo and putting down 50 cents to get in, you’re paying me, I’m not paying you. So zip your lip or you’ll get a fat one and the zipper won’t work! See that horse over there kicking the crap out of its stall? Well, a mortal threat is an actionable offense, so I’m not going to tell you what’s about to happen to you!"

And, yes, there’s always been some fans who take it too far, get out of line, cross the line, get bossy, and need to be knocked down a peg or two. Some are so bad they might have an accident; I’m not saying they ever had an accident. But a few got accidentally entangled in the apparatus that ferries the saddles back to the storage wagon — even some visiting cowboys got the crap kicked out of them and their saddles needed cleaned. When someone’s entangled, naturally the apparatus doesn’t know a trapped customer from a saddle. So if you’re hooked to it there’s but the one destination. And it’s all very unceremonious, being dropped from 10 feet into the air on a pile of muck. At its cleanest there’s still enough base residue that you better not land face-down, you’d smother in 20 seconds.

I think there’s a place for suggestions. That sounds reasonable, right? You don’t think the taffy has enough genuine strawberry flavor, certainly Kindly Kate will take your mildly-suggested complaint in her usual kind way. Whereas the rest of us, you want more strawberry flavor, here you go, smart guy, choke on it! He’s so pumped up on strawberry flavor mixed with laxatives, you'll hear him sputter all the way home! Or as far as he gets before he blows up and some of the more discerning ladies even at a distance get into a free-for-all whether the air's flavored with strawberry or one of the horses is dying of encopresis, a stool issue!

And if that doesn’t soil your drawers to your liking, how about this? I don’t know, it's probably mean and childish. Try this little quiz on these Know-It-Alls: Out of A, B, and C, which one is the guy on the bucking horse? Ah, let’s just skip it, that might be getting a little too mean toward the old ignorant paying customers.

Never Enough Room Or Time

No. 17 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

I believe the guy had a reasonable complaint -- "Never Enough Room, Never Enough Time!" -- and I’m not always so generous with guys seized up in psychotic hallucinations. But those are true words. With the irony being, he's wasting my time and I'd rather be somewhere else. The clock's working against me, because I have a lot of things to do. And time is money! But he keeps on shouting and struggling against his helpers, "Time ... Room ... Time ... Room!"

But who can't agree with him? It’s certainly reasonable. But if it’s just something you're shouting to be shouting, it’s unreasonable, and we sit here bogged down at his side. And even if I'm making money, I could be making more money if he'd just cooperate, settle down, and be normal. "We're on the same page, pal, fighting for the same thing!"

Because, really, who among us has enough time? And room? I’ve been room-challenged lots of times. Maybe the garage is too small to hold all my stuff. I’ve shopped for garages and it's a lot of work taking everything you want to keep in the garage to a place where they sell garages. And if it doesn't fit, you have to pack it up again and go to the next place. And as for time? Maybe I had all the time in the world before I wasted it shopping for garages. They need a better way to buy yard buildings.

But here I sit, and I won't have time or money if the rantings of this lunatic are allowed to continue! How could he have such a reasonable point without a reasonable attitude? Therein is the conundrum (mental dishevelment) and the glory (social lenience for involuntary craziness). I had to think, This guy will never be happier than he is right this minute. Go out on top, dude! But look at him, whacked out without reserve, without sense, and if he keeps it up, at some point we'll have to bring it to a sad end. The more lives he messes with, the less patience we have. This just makes us look bad. For society will collapse and fall if the helpers can't end things with some reasonable dispatch!

That's a great reason to be as normal as you can. Because they'll literally threaten you a hundred times with bodily injury but never pull the trigger if it looks like you're progressing toward the goal. But if you're merely out of it, all hope is lost and you're going down. So it's for your own good, even if you're screaming bloody murder, to let some sentience break through. Failing that, give him a hypo, tame him down, put him on a stretcher, and get him out of here!

Let the crowd diminish. "Nothing more to see, folks, let's shuffle off the mortal coil." And get him to the padded cell. That'll put the damper on his fun. And by then -- it's our hope -- he'll be off on a different mental thing, hopefully chasing easier butterflies within his personal mental miasma, and as harmlessly as possible. But it's always better hidden from public fascination, the meds lined up in order, something for the attendants to while away their time doling out.

Is it crazy to think there's never enough time, never enough room? I hope not, because I think the same thing on a daily basis. Time, obviously, there's only now. And if the attendants are indeed doing their thing, that now's a lot more rewarding. And as for room, sure, if I'm bunched up with this guy, and he's trying to fight a dozen guys at once, we're going to run out of room. Just be reasonable, psycho friend ... there, there, asleep in the holding room, now you've got all the room you need!

With time for a quick nap for the rest of us.

Newsletter -- Can I Unsubscribe?

Can I unsubscribe? Is that what you're asking? I thought so. You asked me a question, so I'll ask you a question as well. If you wanted to unsubscribe, why did you subscribe in the first place? Are you just so casual about declaring to the world that you don't know your own mind? And that you're such a fickle person as to not know what you wanted in the first place. You're all up in my face with umbrage over unsubscribing when perhaps I should be up in your face about why you originally subscribed. I remember seeing your subscription come in, and I recall saying, wrongly, it now seems, "There's a person I can depend on..."

Of course I'd rather you didn't unsubscribe. One, if you didn't know your mind originally, perhaps you're going against your ultimate will now. And you'll turn around in a few weeks -- months, tops -- and beg to be resubscribed. I wish I had a nickel for every person I've known who's done things like that. "He loves me, he loves me not." What's clear about most of these characters is that they're blown about by the wind. It's cool to subscribe to this guy's newsletter .... Then suddenly it's not .... With the tide turning once again, and everyone wants on board. Try, just try, not to follow the crowd.

At this point, though, we're not going by what I want. God forbid I might know best. Hell no, that can't be possible, can it? It's like I'm building a house with rotten lumber. What kind of house will I have? This piece decides it doesn't want to be part of the house. I wake up and the roof says it's had enough. I can only hope the basement sticks it out or the whole thing's lost! Isn't that something, that a basement, the lowest part of the house, has such power? You'd think, the basement, how humble, how untidy; there's bugs and spider webs and dust and dark corners down there; that's where we keep the sump pump. Stop to think, maybe it's your one subscription that's holding up the entire newsletter.

But no one stops to think. Because people are off in their own selfish little world, apparently capable of putting 2 and 2 together, but on closer examination all you get's a blank stare. Or a selfish, baby-like sniffling and whimpering and tantrums; the one thing they're good at is throwing tantrums! Bringing the whole house to a standstill while we get them cleaned up, or whatever the problem is. "Hush little baby, don't say a word ... if you wanna unsubscribe, it's no skin off my ass ... much!" Or is it? You unsubscribe and I might suddenly become sullen and develop writer's block, and next thing you know there's not a newsletter in sight! I've seen it happen.

Sometimes I wish -- yes, I wish -- I could be the linchpin like that for some guy's whole enterprise. Because the way it is for me, I'm always thinking, "No one's depending on me." When there actually could be a guy, or a show, or a production out there tottering on its last legs, with my allegiance, my willingness to stand with them being decisive. Well, don't get your hopes up. I'm not publishing my stats -- I keep all that top secret from my cutthroat competition -- but I can assure you, I've still got strength, top to bottom. And if you unsubscribe that's what you're going to miss.

I had a few of my more fickle subscribers (in the past) acting like I was Svengali, trying to keep a grip on them out of some funky ulterior motive, not just the good of the newsletter. To whom I say, Don't flatter yourself! Look, be realistic, my readership is worldwide, with barely any of them being local people. If they were local and I was Svengali, that'd be different. I'd be at their house, or them at mine, leading them by a chain in their nose, or simply by the power of my personality. My deep-set hypnotic eyes. My mystical hand pointing the way to a subterranean boudoir with all the fixins'. Or pulling a rope and having a servant subdue you. That never happens, at least not as often as you'd think.

The biggest reason it doesn't happen -- and, yes, I have appetites like everyone -- is my life is complicated enough without having to worry that people will have some reason to come back on me, or blackmail me. The cops show up, I don't want them finding anything, and they won't. "What's that black light and all the swirling colors in your garage?" "It's nothing, and I don't think your warrant mentions the garage. But if you must know, that's a party for happy subscribers to my newsletter, and if you'll pass me that bathrobe, I'm expected to join them momentarily, if you're finished searching the house."

Yes, I want subscribers simply for the good of the newsletter and my other enterprises, the blog, etc. I'll probably get a lot of good when I go to newsletter conventions and we're comparing subscriptions. It'll be a downer if I have to continually revise my figures -- I'm very precise -- based on the latest number of unsubscribers. No one wants to be a laughingstock at conventions, certainly I don't want that.

OK, look at it this way, I haven't even yet opened this current incarnation of the newsletter to subscribers. So why are you so concerned about being able to unsubscribe? If you feel you will be unsubscribing, you can see I have a little coupon you can cut out. When the time comes, if you just fill that out -- and make sure you don't submit a duplicate coupon, because I'll only accept originals -- I'll see that you are justly taken care of.

Pink Professor Couple Journeys Home

Of course I'm delirious with my good fortune to this point, having received back the missing piece of my soul, 7% of its total, lost in San Francisco in 1975. Then my delirium continued with my ecstatic reunion with The Pink Professor. To think we're back together again! ... My mind is totally blown! Then, as well, I've had the coolest, richest friend at my side, the billionaire! None of this could've happened without him, the financing alone would've staggered me. Cool dude! I'm about ready to explode if anything else cool happens; don't try me!

Everyone's looking at us -- me and Pink -- and wondering what's next? And how does the billionaire fit in this picture? Since, naturally, everyone thought that he and I would end up together; we've been joined at the hip all month, so that would've been a pretty good guess. Yeah, yeah, he's still in the picture -- I'll put all rumors to rest. He's still in the picture as a dear, dear friend. Who did for me so many things that blew my mind. The whole month's been a mind-blower!

I don't know what else I can say, though, without making everyone entirely jealous. Because I know, one guy's good news is a source of pain for everyone else. People would rather see you dead than think they themselves somehow missed out. How can this guy be so happy, while I sit here in my same old boring life, missing out on everything? I'm not going to ask for a show of hands, OK? Just know, I know that's how the world goes 'round. I've felt the daggers shooting my way since way back, like when the billionaire gave me the $2.1 billion. The cattiness I got, I shouldn't say anymore.

Let's face it, though, not everyone's going to live their lives in such a way as to please you. Still, I know, at some point I have to let this story subside into obscurity, because from your point of view, it's nothing but rubbing your face in it, if someone else is too fortunate. I get that, I took Psych 101. It's why you never hear much about the lives of billionaires. You may see in the paper that a billionaire donated money to a political candidate, but that's it. Where they live, what they do there, etc., the papers don't print that. They don't dare, or we'd cancel our subscription. The lives of quiet desperation we typically live, we don't want their good fortune to be an added burden.

With me, then -- in this story -- it was only adding insult to injury that barely anything went wrong. And that's what people want when they get their grubby paws on a story. A falling out, a sad ending, and for me, the hero, to slink away licking his wounds, to the general merriment of all, taking on myself the derision of my peers, one who aspired to heights above his abilities only to crash to earth according to the spirit of divine justice or karma. Since that didn't happen, What a trite story! I'm chuckling a little. A story like this can go that way, and for most of you that would've been satisfying. But what about me? Oh, I know, I committed the unforgivable sin of being so wealthy my success was guaranteed.

With that out of the way, allow me to continue---

We were so happy in San Francisco. The Pink Professor said goodbye to his underlings/students under the bridge. The billionaire spent close to $4 million tricking out The Pink Professor symbol on the blimp, adding my symbol to it, to portray my soul-completeness and the fact that we were wonderfully reunited, something to celebrate.

We headed for home, one of the world's first journeys of this sort where there was a crew of galley slaves and not a single man was lost. I was virtually certain a few of them at least would've gone AWOL in San Francisco, only to be found in a bathhouse. Am I right? I know if I were a galley slave reenactor and got a free ride to Frisco, I'd probably bale. The hell with diddling nothing but oars, am I right?

A little more happiness to lay on you: (If you're the extremely jealous type, don't read any further.) It's not in the picture, but the billionaire spent an additional $30 million, maybe $40 million, to rent 40 additional blimps (without galley slaves, which was cost-prohibitive) to accompany us as far as the Wyoming area. Also, he notified every biker bar between the coast and home to come out and wave at us. They know The Pink Professor; he's the sun, I'm the moon. And they definitely love him! So they're all out along our journey, throwing pretty petals high in the sky, a lovely sight.

I became so ecstatically happy, I had to go to my quarters, lie there and think, think, think about The Pink Professor, and thank my lucky stars, of which I saw quite a few.

Rip Van Diner

We've all had this happen. The waiter is incompetent. So we sit there, waiting and waiting. Me, if I were a waiter -- God forbid -- I'd be so hyper about my tables, the people would have a whole different thing to complain about.

It happened for me a few days ago, being out for breakfast. The waiter gave us "a few minutes" to decide, which extended to 10 minutes at least. He seemed to arc way out then anytime he was near our table. Then when he finally got back to us, he had the ignorance and/or audacity to ask if we'd had time to decide. Good grief, that was the kicker.

We were talking about where to go for breakfast today. I mentioned this particular restaurant, just joking, and got laughter in response. So it definitely makes a difference for business. You're a waiter, wait on us!

(In April, I wrote the post, "Peacetime Has Ruined Our Restaurants," about the same place.)

The Inevitable Paywall Blowback

Just yesterday I announced that my blog is going behind a paywall. I feel I have a right to make a living. Forgive me if I'm wrong -- sheesh! You can tell I'm a little ticked off. I've gotten some guff. Of course I'm not a neophyte, I knew it'd happen. And so it was, the inevitable blowback from my normally docile readers was quick in coming. It's all the usual caviling you hear whenever there's change. Of course they want life to stand still and never progress. To them, I hoist a massive erect finger and wave it around -- Choke on it!

On the other hand, I suppose I took them by surprise. I've been writing the blog for over five years without as much as a peep about money. With the big traffic I've managed to build up, it only stands to reason that on average they're going to be set in their ways. For them it's one big free smorgasbord! But try that at an actual fine restaurant ... they wouldn't dare!

But I'm unmoved by the flak. I'm sticking to my guns. Because when the paywall goes up, I'm planning to make a bunch of money. And for every person I lose, I'll probably gain a dozen. Having a paywall makes the place much more exclusive. And eventually -- looking way ahead, with the extra money -- we might even have a chat room where readers can go and assist each other in the perceived necessities of their carnal life. Winking, billing, cooing. But not yet.

At this point, I just want to review the basics of what's coming up, in case you missed it yesterday. The paywall access will be $100 a day, or $2,800/month. Going along with that, each level of support will have its own community designation. I'm still working out the labels. I haven't decided, for instance, if the one-day level of support will be called Worms, Wastrels, Failures, or Meagres.

Now, let's get back to some of the caviling of my worst readers, who've truly worn out their welcome -- I've had it! I'll finish off with some analysis of them and their problems. Most of the haters are very disgruntled, as you'd probably expect. Like red hot mad, and so they're willing to say anything. Check out this first bozo:

I'll never pay!!! There's plenty of other stuff on the net that's still free.

To whom I say, Yes, I, too, know of a recipe site in the Ukraine that still offers a free page. I think it's for oatmeal with a side of yak. Bon appetite! Hope you choke!

Our next brainiac has some problems with spelling. It's hard to believe I would attract a mouth-breather like this. But even as stupid as he is, I hope he manages to scrape together the money. He won't get any real good out of it, but he'll be that much poorer.

Your blog sucks dik. Good ridence to it. I wod not pay never no way.

My reply: I think I know what you said. I think if you look inside, you'll find out it is you all along who sucked, and still do. On the other hand, for someone with your issues, you might find relief in paying me. True, please, hear me out. You're used to measuring the value of something by your own infantile thought processes, whereas the majority of us see things more maturely. We're able to stand closely, or stand at a distance, to appraise a thing for the value it actually has. So in your case, if you were to pay me, and it's only a measly $100 a day, you would have that personal investment, and thereby what seemed like it sucked would suddenly become more valuable, even precious, to you. I'll expect your money, plus $20 for the therapy. And if you won't pay, choke on it!

Just one more example, one of the many variations I got on the first mail above:

We don't need Grandma Slump. There's plenty other blogs to read.

True, there's plenty of blogs. I just saw one the other day advertising veterinary health supplements. That's all they do, load you up on pills. Nice health plan. I hope they misdiagnose you as a wide-throated horse and give you an extra big prescription. Choke on it!

What we're dealing with here, of course, is the usual crap you see whenever a popular website goes up with a paywall. We always see the same thing, which we call the "5 Stages of Paywall Grief." 1) Anger; 2) Confusion; 3) Sinking in Quicksand; 4) Bargaining; 5) Acceptance.

The first three are self-explanatory. In Bargaining, in this case, I'll probably get earnest calls to give away more $5 vouchers ("scholarships"), or increase them to $7.50. Which I will likely do. Then there's Acceptance, when the average reader gives in -- it's all very predictable -- and pays the subscription fee. Complete, utter surrender. They're addicted to the site, and with the passing of time eventually they can't resist paying. They might need to take out a loan, overextend themselves with new credit cards, sell their house, sell their organs on the Russian black market, or whatever, but they'll be back.

Even though I have called my readers primadonnas on more than one occasion, I know you truly want me to succeed and do well with this paywall system. Because my success is your success, you think. You think you made me, and, you know something, if that makes you feel better, I will let you go on thinking it. Yes, you did! Thank you so much for my success, through no effort of my own!

Monet Did It Better

It's my day to grind an ax, or stand here with an ax to grind ... that's how the phrase goes. I'm sorry if you came looking for something better. Like someone in a good mood. Sometimes I'm edifying, sometimes I'm just peed off, and this is one of those subjects that does it to me.

How many times have you heard the old taunt, when you've done something, anything, that someone, like five years ago or whenever, did it better than you? In my opinion, it's a wonder anyone's ever been able to do anything! Although maybe those people, the true creators, have had the good sense not to listen to the naysayers. All those folks who'd just as soon you knew, no matter what you do, not only is it not good enough, but someone else already did it ... better.

LOL. It's kind of funny, really. Not only that they say it, but that I let it get to me. As to the last point, of course I know better. I usually have a fairly thick skin. I'm not generally given to listen to criticism. I really don't have that many people around me who are stupid enough to chime in their little piece. Social couth. Or cheer you along, whatever you do, "Good job. Helluva effort." No, it's always the true critic, your basic Rex Reed wannabe, who has the background to know what's been done in the field, then the balls, to tell you to your face, "So and So already did it ... and better."

My first thought has to be, "How am I supposed to know what everyone else has done ... and how well they did it?" The internet helps on this, but, still, is it expected that each one of us is spending our time 24/7 researching the world of what's been done, how it's been done, and what's left? I don't even know that there is a resource, a website, telling us what hasn't been done, or if it's been done how much better it needs to be next time.

Of course a guy might come up with something famous that's already been done. Just yesterday, I was humming a song, which I thought was a song from the '40s, and I hummed it to a friend, and she didn't know what it was, hadn't heard it before. I knew better -- I knew it was a song -- but I said, "Then I just composed a great song." Then later, listening to my iPod, I started searching around, and it turned out to be "Stardust." Then I remembered having seen the word earlier in the day, and that's how it got in my mind. In this case, though, the song I was humming wasn't better than "Stardust," because I was leaving out some notes.

OK, that's an isolated example. But there's plenty of lesser stuff, like this blog post, let's say, that either hasn't been done before, or it's not going to matter if it's better or worse than the last guy to attempt it. It's my thoughts at the moment, la la la, who cares? And that's the attitude I need to keep. Just simply accede the point, "Yeah, sure, someone else thought of it, and they all did it better than me, satisfied now?" It stands to reason: The history of the world is virtually infinite, surely some caveman has done a fuller treatment of the subject. For all I know, there might be entire books on it. Or theses, well researched.

So, where's that leave me? Fortunately, I'm a glutton for punishment, it appears, and I ain't going nowhere. And if someone's done that better than me, I'm going to have to accept it that that's true. I'll just be happy with my bare minimum of life and existence, knowing of course there are people at the absolute bottom who are living happily. As for "better," at this point it's like a rock sitting still better than a truck, it doesn't matter.

They might come around with counselors. They're trying to spoon feed me psychological advice that everything you do, regardless of how much better than you it's been done, is your own life. And that life isn't meant as some sort of competition where only one can survive and advance. I'm able to mutter a forlorn, and at this point somewhat inscrutable, "Yeah, tell that to the Dave Clark 5" and immediately fall into my soup.

Of course they keep working with me. It's someone's job to do it. And the disability pay I normally get, because of my game toe, is meant to cover psychological recovery in the event of a total psychic crash. They keep going with the happy talk, taking me for minimal walks, and giving me the personal care of young nurses.

Finally, I'm in the home, and I'm able to scratch a picture of a flower on a paper with a crayon. When some asshole says Monet did it better, but by now I'm not even hearing it. Monet probably heard it from the folks around him, too. Some other artist from years ago, whoever they might have been -- Growlie, Walnut, I don't know any names -- Growlie did it better than you ... Walnut had a better technique, and at least his art stood for something.

I grew up with the idea that everything I did was great ... and that's where we'll leave it!

Memorial Day -- Honor Your Deceased Loves

Our condolences to the Burns family.
We know the summer of 1893 was a very tough time for you.

Memorial Day has to be one of the greatest holidays. It speaks to us of the weird rhythm of life: One minute you're here, the next you're gone. I know I've thought of this rhythm even since I was a kid, playing dead under my sheets. Our deceased loves seemed fine the last time we saw them, then the news came they were gone. We shook a vain fist at Heaven, but it was all so inscrutable, not a single word of response.

Of course, nothing has changed. So what can we do? There's not much we can do, but give them a Memorial Day they'd be proud of. And if we do, maybe there will be that much more chance somebody someday will do the same for us.

It's grim, death being no respecter of persons. I personally know my relatives were saints, every one of them, and yet this had to go and happen. There ought to be some benefit for doing so much good ... not that they'd ever expect it, that's how good they were. Whole cloth.

But no, Death is a reality for everyone -- the conqueror worm and all that -- the one great fact of life. We're here, we're gone, just like that. It's enough sorrow to drive us crazy. So thank goodness for Memorial Day, standing as it does as a little island of remembrance, a place between life and death ... even though it does cause me to get a little misty in the eyes. And morbid. I think curious thoughts, about how they look now, after all these years. Clothes rotting away, by now fingernails a mile long.

I've got quite a few deceased loves, so I generally make the long, tiring trek, traipsing out to the various cemeteries. Years ago, somebody in the family should've organized things so everyone would've been buried in one mass grave. It'd be a lot more convenient for me, but they did what they did. The worst thing about it is fighting the crowds on those narrow little cemetery roads, which weren't made for two way traffic. Horse and buggy days.

The biggest thing I hate about the crowds, besides the traffic, is seeing their disgusting plastic flower arrangements and other crap. Dime store windmills, styrofoam crosses. You think you're honoring someone with that stuff? Yeah, the stockholders of Tacky Industries, probably churning it out in Asian sweatshops with people paid a dime a year and no benefits, and locked in the factories besides. Give me good old fashioned real flowers, and crosses of genuine wood, and decent durable windmills that a ghost kid can play with for eternity.

I know I'm on my soapbox, don't get me started. But while I have the floor, let me rail against one other thing: The terrible "gravestones" (not even that) these cheapskate families have for their deceased loves. Now I'm started, I may as well finish! It's scandalous the number of temporary markers originally put up by the funeral home 30 years ago that are still there. I don't know what happened exactly. Maybe they went to Vegas and blew all the insurance money. Or maybe ... and I hate to judge ... their love for the deceased wasn't all it should be. That's not undying devotion, that's slovenliness, which I think is one of the Seven Fatal Sins, Seven Major Sins, or Seven Unforgivable Sins, whatever it's called. But ... anything! If you saved only $100 a year for 30 years, you'd still have $3,000 for a halfway small monument, which would be better than nothing. Those are the people I can't stand.

I'm proud to say, all my deceased loves have memorials erected. And I personally really didn't do much to make it happen. When they first gave up the ghost, those who were on the scene did what was necessary to make it happen, skipped meals, whatever. Then they died, and others died, and there's still a few left besides me. Hopefully, when I finally kick off, there'll be someone left to put up a modest 10 foot stone. I prefer they be bold. Tell the funeral director right to his face, we're going to be ordering a stone, so be in your office Monday morning bright and early. Go down to the quarry and get something good!

On a serious note, this Memorial Day, we as a nation have a lot of extra dead to be grieving over, of course. Just like every year, there's always some tragedy that hits the news, and strikes a cord with us, be it a mass murder, a natural disaster, or a plane wreck. It's especially bad if it happens all at once. We might have 300,000 people die one at a time, and no one cares, but you get 40 or 50 at once and it really hits home.

Nudity On Display At The Library

Regular readers of my blog will remember that I am often attacked unjustly, and so I'm often provoked to respond with righteous indignation to put the hapless attackers in their place. Fury flares up in my face, and in the fire of my wrath I speak, reducing everyone to char and cinders.

I can be even more specific. A lot of this umbrage just happens to be directed at hypocritical librarians, who in my opinion talk a good game about the free access of information, intellectual liberty, etc., but then ruin it all by taking me to task over one thing or another. Be it trying to read the Bible in public, a huge no no -- "You can read the library's chained copy with the other fanatics!" -- or exercising my right to pray with my eyes closed; because they're so farking afraid the "homeless" might be "sleeping," there's a zero tolerance policy on closing your eyes; we've clunked heads over that.

OK, here I am once again on the warpath, as our native friends say, and I'm seriously ready to go to the wall for this, hallelujah, Lord be feared. The fury's in my face again, the fire of wrath is kindled, and surely there shall be a great shaking in the land!

These guys are so farking blind to their hypocrisy, it's like they're completely unthinking. Talk about an easy profession! I should've gone to librarian school. If you can lift a bony accusatory finger and contort your face to a nasty scowl, you pass. Thanks to computers, the rest of the work's done for you. My advice, file that away if you're ever looking for an easy career. Don't throw away that matchbook! It's the easiest gig you'll ever have!

Shhh, I started talking out loud while typing that last paragraph, and now I'm getting a few glances. (Yes, I'm writing this at the library) ... The glances are coming again because right now they're watching me, since we were just at loggerheads ... they see me typing fast, they know I'm writing about them. But they don't know what I'm writing. Although I am using their wireless. So they're probably back there tapping it. It does seem like my keystrokes are a little slower than usual. Farkers are bugging me!? Well, OK, if that's what you want, I'll give you something fun to read: YOU SUCK! THE WHOLE DIPSHIT LOT OF YOU! There, I said it, that ought to raise a few eyebrows at Gestapo Headquarters, LOL. Excuse me while I finger the security cam there. That was fun!

Ha ha, pardon the digression. But I was here yesterday, too, and was watching a guy at one of the computers angrily fingering in the general direction of a camera. True story. A big honking righteous erect finger, too; the farker meant business! I just glanced at him since I didn't want a crazy guy on my tail. He was looking for trouble. The big difference today is, I wasn't looking for trouble. But if they start it, what can I do? I could slink out like a whipped pup, but why should I? I'm a man with high standards. I'm actually probably one of the few people here who even believe in the standards the library CLAIMS to support, i.e., intellectual liberty, with you the individual being the only judge of what you need to fulfill your intellectual pursuits. Now for all I know, the guy at the computer was responding to the "adult" block on the free flow of information the library has imposed. If he wants to learn about breast cancer, to heal his poor old suffering mother, completely wracked with pain and begging for just a hint of understanding, which the library callously denies, that should be HIS business!

I need to keep this quiet. One of their employees, a real iron maiden, is within 10 feet of me, appearing to casually rearrange books on an end stand. Sure, of course, I really believe she just happened to need to do that particular stand at this particular moment! I haven't seen anyone rearrange that stand for 10 years, so it must've been due. The fact is, they're on me, it's ridiculous, this is a vendetta. Intellectual liberty, my ass! They're probably out in the parking lot breaking my car windows as we speak. Of course if they do ... well, I won't say what I might do, but if I really saved my pennies I could probably afford a moderately cheap contract on them. Someone to rough up the decorative plants outside.

OK, she's gone -- I can breathe -- she's back at the desk to document the fact that I'm still typing. They're over there shaking their heads. Bastards.

So what was the problem they nailed me for? It sounds so trivial, but it did involve very minor nudity. I was listening to an album on my iPod, which just happened to be the old Blonde Redhead album "Misery is a Butterfly." If you remember the artwork, the cover shows the exposed breast of some woman. It's far from porn ... and not even very stimulating, unless maybe you happen to be a 12 year old boy and it's the first thing you've ever seen. "Look, Jimmy, a tit -- that's what Mom keeps in her bra."

Anyway, I'm listening to Blonde Redhead and one of them comes over and sees it. The lady I'm talking about reminds me of one of those old toy birds that keeps dipping its beak in the colored water. She's skinny like that and always craning her neck and bobbing it up and down. Perfect one for the library. Nothing escapes her nosiness. I had a friend who was legitimately tired -- a very patriotic guy who stayed up all night memorizing American history trivia -- and fell asleep one day. Guess who was on his ass, all ballistic, the same chick. Like sleeping is such a crime. As I recall, his patriotism meant nothing to her.

Well, you can imagine what she said when she saw the Blonde Redhead picture. I won't quote her exact words, except to say she told me in no uncertain terms that nudity "displayed for all to see" was against library rules. "For all to see" ... that's the critical point. The iPod picture is about the size of a postage stamp -- bigger than an American stamp, but about the size of one of those commemorative stamps from African countries that exploit the collectibles market by ripping off celebrities. About that big. Then take the breast, it's about the size of a pea, even smaller. If you didn't know what it was, you'd never guess.

Well, you should've heard me. I told her I could pull five books from the shelf within 10 feet of my table that had nudity. And I went over and did just that, one on funky model pictures, one on pregnancy care, and the others from the works of famous artists. Plus, I pulled out a military history book that had some nudity that aviators had painted on their planes. Cleavage aplenty, meant to bring down the Japs and Nazis. They took one look at American bazungas and knew they didn't have a fighting chance! (I wish they had books like this when I was 10; I would've never left the library. I remember we used to look at the Information Please Almanac, the page on America's Top Magazines, just to see the word "Playboy.")

She had some justification for the difference, coming down to this, that those things are in books and covered up. And, yes, while they are theoretically within everyone's reach, it still takes some doing. (And maybe she's slightly right. Remember, this is a library where kids up to 18-years-old can be restricted to the Children's Room!) Still, I countered that by saying, "When I was eight years old, I would've sniffed out this nudity and had it checked out before you could say Jack Robinson!" Eight years old, smartest kid in town.

Now she started pulling rank on me. She said that I by merely coming through the doors had implicitly agreed to the rules of the library, which comes down to this: "Your heart and mind belong to us, as much as if you sold your soul to the devil." The old biddy was very explicit on this stuff. She'd make a better warden in the prison than a librarian. She missed her calling. She could be in prison clamping electrical equipment to prisoners' genitals and making them scream. It'd definitely match her sadistic nature, rotten turd, and might even bring a smile to her dour old puss.

OK, I had one ace up my sleeve left to play. With great determination, I strode to the library's CD collection and pulled out the only Blonde Redhead CD they have, albeit a different one, right there in plain view of everyone who cared to see it. (My theory was: If they had one Blonde Redhead CD, they endorsed the others ... implicitly. Her word!) She had nothing she could say to that, of course, except to reiterate that they have rules and I need to abide by them. But she was trailing off so badly, I could only tell it was because she didn't want to lose. Well, Goebbels, you did lose!

Notice how fast I wrote this. I'm always like that when some farking, better-than-you authority jumps on my ass about something. I'm shaking. I'm so farking pissed about this. Which is what the library does to people. They've pulled a few things like this with me. They still have this one slug working here who denied me the ability to read the Des Moines Register one time because that particular copy wasn't properly checked out. It was just setting there on the table. Seriously, that really happened.

When I complained, they told me the Des Moines Register is always "walking out by itself," meaning it's very prone to theft. They were accusing ME of being a thief. Just aching to get my grimy little hands on a hot copy of the Register! You know me: Instead of going over and stealing a $100 book off the shelf, I'm holding out for a $1 newspaper, one that's already rumpled and of next-to-no street value ... like I'm running a used newspaper racket ... selling them to desperate fishermen to wrap fish guts in. Or something.

The Easter Craft Sale -- Post Mortem

I've had a long and hard day, so I'm really not in any mood to make comments about the Easter Craft Sale at the shopping center. But I feel I owe it to everyone to say something, and I'll try to put a good face on it, regardless of how terrible it seemed at the time.

The day started badly. The set-up time is between 7 and 8 a.m. And for some reason my alarm didn't go off, meaning I overslept for the first time in something like 25 years. I'm thinking I subconsciously didn't want to go, and so whatever internal timer mechanism I have tried its best to spare me. Except I did need to go, since I'd already paid the exorbitant $40 fee for my table, up five bucks from last year.

After I did everything I had to do, including loading the bunnies in the car, and going to the bathroom, etc., I headed out to the shopping center, knowing it was going to be rough. Spots for the tables, except for the higher class people, the real long-termers, is first come, first serve. Which ended up meaning precisely how I knew it'd go, the other bastards would grab the best spots, leaving me, the latecomer, the crappiest spot in the world, a few tables past where even the diehard customers are likely to go.

I got a few nasty comments from some of the ones who know me: "Bedhead," "Look what the cat dragged in," "At least you're well-rested," and "Good luck -- You're going to need it." The worst part of the process of getting in was that I needed to make multiple trips past some of these cretins, giving them plenty of opportunities to level their best taunts.

But I finally made it, and got my stuff all set up: A nice blue tablecloth, my signs -- "Lovely to look at, wonderful to hold, but if you pop off an eye or mess up the styrofoam head, we mark it sold.", "Cute, crazy, cuddly," "No photographs or sketches please," and the price card, "$5 apiece, 2 for $9." Now it was just time to settle in for a day of bustling business.

I guess I'm always an optimist, at least going in. Then as the day drags by, I'm nothing but a realist, "I'm sunk, this sucks, I should've stayed in bed..." For customers I had the usual dregs, lots of lookers who can't be bothered to spend a quality minute examining my stuff, kids who have no qualms about bending the pipe cleaners, and preoccupied mothers who foolishly ignore their children's desire for a nice bunny. Then occasionally -- but never often enough -- one will be persuadable, and it's those ones I like. I'm quick to get their cash before they have time to reconsider. They might walk away and the kid immediately breaks the bunny, but no matter ... I just look the other way.

Around noon, I saw some clown with his phone out, snapping pictures of some of the crafts upstream. For which I came prepared. I whipped out two other tablecloths and covered my stuff, then prominently put the "No photographs" sign on top of the whole works. He got down to me and looked a little put out, but I only smiled, knowing I'd scored a major win for our side. Hell man, if you want a picture of a bunny, buy one, then go home and photograph it to your damned heart's content. I don't want my stuff on Pinterest. Knock off someone else's art ... or craft, in this case.

It slowed to a dead crawl around 2 p.m. I was able to get out and talk to some of the other crafters. My day was terrible but they had even more gripes than me. That's one of the great things about craft sales. If you really want to hear complaints, crafters should be your go-to guys. The sale was poorly advertised, the shopping center doesn't respect us, the increased table fee was egregious, and a lot of the browsers are only in the vicinity to use the bathroom; they don't care about us. Plus, we kick around the bad economy and people's decreased disposable income, despite the evidence to the contrary, poor people going by carrying $5 coffee and their grubby little rug-rats eating $4 cotton candy.

I had a few anxieties of my own. One, my sales were worse than previous years. Two, just because I caught that one photographer doesn't mean I didn't miss a few others. A few of these knockoff artists have someone distract you with friendly talk, then they're snapping pictures, only to have the friend drop you like a hot potato when they've got what they want. On that point, I suspect the friendly girl with the deep cleavage who visited with me -- stunning eye contact! -- might have been a photographer's confederate. But she was sweet enough it was almost worth it. And, three, offering a twofer (2 bunnies for $9) about kills my profit margin. I like the come-on aspect of it, I just have to hope not too many customers abuse it.

Oh, I used the word "customers." In crafter language, the word for them is "fresh meat." That's one of the biggest complaints. Listen for it if you get close to a crafter. If they're complaining about "Not enough fresh meat," all it means is they wish we had more customers. If only the stinking shopping center would advertise more!

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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?

Out Drinking With Death

I'm very shaken up. It's weird, I'm usually so calm, but this is craziness hit crisis proportions. Can you really believe the price of drinks? I'm old -- I remember 25 cent draws and dime pitchers! So to say I'm aghast is an understatement; this goes way beyond that!

Why haven't I been out binge drinking in decades? you ask. I've never been that great at making friends. But now -- it's bizarre -- I got to know Death himself, and it's like we're inseparable. I hadn't seen him since the other day, when he guest-blogged on my site. Then he was suddenly gone, just vanished. Then this past Saturday, early afternoon, during breakfast, I noticed a black mist -- kind of dark in color -- taking shape at my table. There he was again.

Of course I asked, "What's up?" and he shrugged his shoulders. I had an immediate suspicion that he'd been out on his unique business, so I just said it, "Spill the beans." He put his hands up in mock surrender, as if to say, "You got me." In enumerating his deeds over the past couple days, he went on and on. For him it was a typical day, nursing homes, hospitals, alleys, schools, prison showers. He yawned, then perked up when he told me about an elephant sitting on a guy in the circus up in Minneapolis. I said, "How'd that happen?," genuinely curious, and he just smiled, "Must've slipped ... or something."

Anyway, now that we're friends, I suggested that we go out to one of the local watering holes and tip back a few. Even though I don't drink much, usually, it's proverbial that a few stiff drinks can wash your troubles away. Death looked at me like he was stunned, and then smiled, saying, "You know something? No one's ever asked me to go out like that, I appreciate it..." It's true, I'm an extremely nice guy.

We got to the bar and settled in with a couple beers. Then I had another beer and a whiskey chaser. He said, "Ah, a boilermaker." I said proudly, "Yup, that's the ticket." At least I thought it was the ticket till the barkeep told me the price of admission, very high; I was stunned.

Pretty soon, I was brought moderately back to reality when Death killed a guy for wasting seltzer water and hogging the bottle. The guy was out with his buddies, and apparently hadn't gotten the memo that such a thing was a mortal sin. I thought, "What? You just killed a guy?" but really what can you say when everything you say might be used against you? I chalked it up to "Better him than me," and proceeded to have another drink, and at these prices, it was shocking!

Well, you know me, drinks go right through me; the alcohol settles in my liver and I'm immediately drunk, but the remainder heads straight for the exit -- I had to pee. I was in the can, trying not to make eye contact, but still looking very interested at the graffiti. How do people have enough privacy to write such filthy things? "For a good time, call...blah blah blah." Shocking. And of course disgusting drawings of anatomically correct figures in flagrante delicto. It's all revolting, my senses were shocked. Just then I heard a scream.

I rushed out to see quite the row, screaming, shouting, some pushing their way to the doors, only to be pushed back by police on their way in. I thought, Just what I need, to be made a public spectacle in the company of these losers. But the spotlight wasn't so much on me as on two fresh corpses draped over the pool table, and Seltzer Guy. I glanced over at the bar and Death was still sitting there like nothing happened, nursing an overpriced drink. The police swarmed the place looking for the lowdown.

I said I'd been in the can when it all went down. I glanced over at Death to vouch for me but he had vanished. The police thought I looked shifty, I guess, so I answered a few questions. Did I have any idea what happened? I tried my best to beg off, till at long last, I blurted out, "It looks like Death got them!" I wasn't smarting off, but that's how they took it. I only managed to get them back on my side by complaining vociferously about the cost of drinks these days. One of the officers was about my age, and he also remembered with fondness the cheap drinks of yesteryear.

The guys from the County Morgue came and emptied the trash, at long last freeing up the pool table and seltzer bottle. I went home -- don't worry, Death drove -- but even being lubed as I was, I still couldn't stifle my loud disgust at today's prices. Yes, three guys were dead, but I bet those beers were three fifty a draw! It was a complete shock to my system.

Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End Of Crafts?

Well, I have to confess, I'm not in a very good mood. You can probably guess why: Easter's coming! Meaning, yes, even though Easter is a very joyous holiday, it's also the season for the Easter craft sale at the shopping center. Which once again I'm planning to set up for. Even though at this point I'm more depressed about it than ever.

Still, I keep telling myself, anything I make is more than I have now. But it definitely could be better. It's almost not worth it. And yet ... there I'll be.

When it comes to crafting, I think crafting's in a sad/weird state. It's not the best of times, it's the worst. One, you've got the old-timers, dinosaurs like me, who insist on only the finest craftsmanship, being heavily into the tradition of the thing. Only, we don't get much for it. Then you've got all the young turks, mostly women who are learning their "craft" off the internet -- as I call them, Pinterest copycats, churning out crap and that by imitation.

I'm proud to say I came up with my bunnies on my own. It took a lot of tinkering. But what's that count for these days? That and a quarter and I'm as good as broke. So, in part, I'm going to be there for my fellow old-timers. We have to stick together, even if it's hard; I see a lot of very grim expressions. But the others, the newbies, they've made it a social media thing for themselves, so they're always bubbling over with a silly excitement, la de dah. Crafting fangirls, big fans of each other, and not an original idea in the whole pack!

Even though I'm sticking with it, I have an incredible insight: No one really needs crafts. It's all do-it-yourself now. With the internet -- and the worst scourge, cameras everywhere -- anyone can knockoff your crafts. Like my bunnies. If you have a picture of them, and aren't just going by memory, it's not too tough to see what fits where. Although, insisting on craftsmanship and tradition as I do, of course they aren't going to be near as good. But I'm realistic; we're not making a living at it. Those who try, we have a word for them, the poor.

I mentioned cameras. What a scourge. They're everywhere. I wish it was the 1800's, like with Lincoln, where they had to ignite a living vulture on a pole for the flash and make a 30 second exposure. It wouldn't be hard to catch people taking pictures then! Now they're on the sly. Every phone is a camera. There's probably cameras built into wedding rings. It's a Dick Tracy world, only not as full of promise as we once expected, more a curse.

Really, it's like this: If you want to keep your ideas to yourself, you about have to cover them with a sheet and only offer peeks to people who express a real interest in buying. I think it might be good for them to put down a small deposit -- let's say $25 to $50 -- to take a peek. Then if they buy, they get the deposit back. That'd cut down on the frivolous browsers as well as those with a hidden camera or photographic memory. Or maybe put them to public shame if they didn't buy something, like dunking their head in molasses and spraying sawdust on them, or at the very least putting a big "Kick Me" sign around their neck. That'd cut down on idea-stealing.

On the other hand, if this is the end of crafts, it could be a big year. If people think the end is here, maybe they'll want it to go out with a bang. They might snap up my stuff like collector's items, the last hurrah of a dying era. I'd like to say tradition and craftsmanship wins out, but I don't think it does. Not when you have all these women and the fast thrills of social media, all of them getting together to celebrate one another's supposed cleverness (yeah, we know!), then it no doubt degenerates into touching, heavy breathing, impassioned stripping, and who knows what all, as they writhe in ecstasy on the floor. I hope they choke on it...
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

The Oldest Powder In The World

I hate brick roads. Just hate them. In fact, you remember all those letters to the editor in the newspaper from the guy who hates brick roads? That's me! So there you have it... I have a track record on the subject... I have credibility.

Why, one might ask oneself, would they ever have made brick roads in the first place? I'm thinking maybe back then they didn't have cement. A guy would need to find out when they first started mixing cement to know for sure. Or it could have been that they had cement but it wasn't very good. A brick, on the other hand, can be tempered and hardened, whereas poor cement will instantly go to chaff.

If that's really the reason, then I guess I'll have to accept it as a pretty good reason. You can't be driving six white horses, as they did back then, down a poor cement road and have them sink to the top of their fetlocks in chaff. But that's been a long time ago, and I know cement's come a long way. I used to have an uncle who poured cement and he often spoke highly of the stuff.

OK, cement's come a long way, we all agree. And yet still we suffer old brick roads from the 19th century. It's a disgrace! Because bricks go haywire. They're small individuals that can go cockeyed any minute. The ground sinks somewhere and they're raised up on edge like icebergs. Which can take out a ship, as we all know!

One of the reasons we still have brick roads, like it or not, has to do with people's sense of nostalgia. Since bricks have been around for a hundred years, Oh good God, we can't get rid of them now! Which doesn't make a bit of sense, because if they're bad, they're bad. And they're not going to get better, only worse. Then when they get worse, we can't get rid of them then, because by now they've been around a hundred and twenty five years. And on and on. They're always going to get worse, and they're always going to get older.

Eventually then -- and the ancient Egyptians knew something about this when they made the pyramids -- they'll be so old, they'll crumble away to powder. But because the powder is so old, and we're so nostalgic, we certainly can't get rid of it. So we eventually end up with the oldest powder roads in the world!

Maybe it'd be good for the bricks to go totally to powder. Because then we could mix it up with new cement, add water, and have the old road incorporated with the new. And everybody would be happy. Whether that happens in my lifetime, though, I'll just have to wait and see. But if I die first, someone else will have to check for me.

Dressing Down The Uniformly Dressed

I like to dress down people in uniforms. Not to their face, of course, only when we're not together. If I'm there with them, I'm properly respectful, all the while thinking, "[Grumbling] You dirty rotten...."

I might clarify, I don't have anything against them, and I don't really grumble, "You dirty rotten...." I know people have to have certain uniforms to do certain jobs, and even agree it's helpful. If you're doing the job of a policeman, it's helpful to the public to be able to see your uniform.

Still, just to take the example of the police, how corny their uniforms are! Yet they still wear them with such pride, all the way down to keeping their shoes spit shine. I can see myself respecting the reflective officer who stays nicely uniformed in the office but pulls his shirt out of his pants when he's in public and wears tennis shoes. With his badge moved from the side to the center of his chest, like Superman. Or with his shirt open and his chest hair hanging out.

I was reminded of this the other day while driving out of state. I noticed they were out in force, solving the low-hanging fruit of crime, speeding offenses. Although this one guy went by me like I was sitting still -- I was going 70 -- and there wasn't an officer in sight. The only ones I saw were on the other side of the median. I just happened to see one guy pulled over right now, as it was happening. And I saw one who was already pulled over, with the officer strolling to the car and getting to the window.

So there he is, strolling to the car and getting to the window. And what do I notice? His uniform! So proud of his corny looking uniform! I pictured myself as the offended motorist who was pulled over, dressing down the guy (although of course I'd never actually do that. When you're pulled over, which frankly doesn't happen to me, you have to kiss butt.)

But in one's imagination: "Excuse me, officer, why do you wear that strange looking hat? What are you, a Canadian Mountie wanna-be, or do you tastes run more toward Smokey the Bear? Let's take a look at the secondary badge on your hat. Hmm, right in the middle, such predictable symmetry!" Then I'd move down to the cliche blue shirt, "So you went with the standard blue shirt, how typical ... and boring. And that brown strap across your chest, I assume that's something for your holster. It certainly can't be for looks! Because it looks ridiculous. And how about those meticulously polished, ridiculously shiny shoes! To me, shoes are like photos, I want matte, not glossy!"

And I have one more complaint about the pants. What is it about the typical patrolman's stride? Is there a regulation corncob built in the seat of their pants, inside? Know what I mean? They walk like it. They come sashaying up in a subdued Frankenstein gait. Whipping out their old fashioned ticket book. They never have their place marked. They always have to thumb through it to find the next available page. Real high tech stuff! Nutso stuff! This is what our tax dollars are buying: dorky old ticket books!

Cops are human beings. They're turned off by criticism, I'm sure of it. That's why it never pays to criticize them. Personally, I'd hate to be a patrolman. I think they'd feel like such hypocrites for giving people tickets for stuff they themselves have done. But somebody's gotta do it. The city, county, and state need the money. And as long as they're not pulling me over -- since I never do anything wrong -- I can live with it.

Motels: Something's Always Wrong

I was out of state a couple days and needed to stay in a couple of motels. Which is always an adventure, since you never know what you're going to get. But one thing you can pretty much count on is there's always going to be something wrong.

The first one wasn't bad. Really, I can't think of anything wrong with it now off the top of my head. I checked in, they had a luggage cart with a tire that was almost flat. And when I checked out the next day the motel staff was using it -- and complaining about the tire -- so I had to carry my luggage back to the car.

In between those two times was my stay, which was comfortable enough. I should say, I guess, that the pillows were extremely out of my comfort zone. Too mushy and flat just to use one, but too bulky to use two, meaning I used only one folded, which also wasn't comfortable. So I guess I do have some complaints. But other than the cart and the pillow, I can't think of much wrong. And it was my own fault for not taking my own pillows, since I've had that problem lots of times.

The next night the second motel had a few more problems, causing me to reflect on how hard it must be to run a motel. The number one problem was that there weren't enough electrical outlets. The room, apart from the bathroom sink area, had one main electrical block that was accessible. And in that they had gang-plugged the coffee pot, the refrigerator, the TV, the cable box, and the lamp. The cable box had a bigger plug, that could only be wedged in crooked. There's was nowhere to plug in my computer.

As to the alarm clock and light by the bed, the outlet in for those was somewhere under the bed, inaccessible unless you moved the bottom springs. That left the outlet over by the bathroom sink, meaning I had to carry the table across the room to have a place to put my computer. Not an ideal set up!

Apparently 40 years ago when they built the basic motel they figured no one would ever need electricity. So that's Challenge Number 1 for the motel operator. Because no one is going to willingly check in there if they know about the problem.

Among the other problems: No luggage cart, a filled-in ex-swimming pool, a weird perfume smell when I got to the room, and the fact that someone from the staff, probably in error, tried to get into my room. I had the deadbolt thing on, but it's still a shock when someone's fidgeting with the door, then opening it! I cried out, "What are you doing!?" and heard a muffled, "Sorry about that." It was still early.

It seems like it'd be hard to run a motel. All those rooms and all those things that can go wrong! It'd be expensive after a while. But it also costs a lot in the long run if you don't keep up. Such as having electrical outlets. Because my obvious resolution to myself is, I'll never stay there again!

I'm Selling Easter Bunnies At The Craft Sale

Like I've been doing for a number of years now -- I think this must be 10 years -- I'm selling Easter bunnies at the shopping center craft sale. Thank God Easter only comes once a year, because sitting here, and of course putting up with all the crap, can be almost too much.

I'm always an optimist. Especially when it comes to religious holidays. I always think religious holidays ought to bring out the best in people. So that, say you're at a craft sale, they ought to be a lot more willing to part with their hard-earned money for whatever trifles people are selling, for their own benefit, and also because I'm helping them get more into the spirit of the holiday. But no, it's the same old crap, a big disappointment from my point of view

And then there's the craft sale business period. It's gone to hell, I think. The shopping center doesn't respect the hard work we put into crafting They don't respect crafters, period! Except for the bigger crafters, who are practically moguls compared to the rest of us, the peons. That really came out this year especially. The way they had us set up this year, of course we were down at the far end, in the vicinity of the stores that start up and shut down a few weeks later.

But here's the twist this year: They set up the moguls first, then dribble dribble dribble, you have the next top dog, then another, and so on, until you get to the true peons, the few of us with only one table each. I was right there -- those bastards -- at the very end of the line. So that by the time any customer might ever wander down as far as me, they'd most like spent all their money, or were looking like they thought they'd be mugged if they went much farther.

I'm very fortunate that I only do this one sale now in the year. Because there's nothing more unpleasant than hearing the grousing of crafters at craft sales. Which I actually caught myself joining in, because, for crying out loud, what are we, scum under people's feet? By the time you put money into your supplies, your table rental, and the entire day's time, you're lucky to make pennies on the dollar. You're sitting there like some kind of off-scouring, with squalling kids and cranky mothers who don't feel like buying them cute bunnies, etc. It's enough to drive you wacky.

But I'm focused on my own grief. My own grief keeps me very busy. Although, yes, I was listening to what everyone else was saying. About the moguls and the rest of us. That was a big topic of conversation. What I really think might be behind it, ultimately, is the old tactic of divide and conquer. Like this: The shopping center knows we hold a cudgel against them for the yearly mistreatment. But what if they divide the crafters and get us at each other's throats? Suddenly, we're not standing united and the shopping center steamrolls us. Not that standing united really has done us that much good in the past.

But take this year. If we'd been united, maybe they would've rethought the increase on table fees. Five damned dollars more! And I can't raise my prices. I'm already scraping the bottom as far as any profit goes, but in a bad economy, you tell me, is anyone going to pay top dollar, even though they're clearly worth it, for a few styrofoam bunnies? No, the morons are pinching pennies, probably saving their money for food or cable TV, which also goes up all the time.

Add to my misery the fact that I always feel I have to give them a bargain if they buy more than one. They're $5 each, OK? It's set in stone, because I can't raise the price, as I said. But if you buy two, then they're $9 total. I'm losing a whole buck everything someone wants two, which is about the same as giving the damned things away. A few twofers I can absorb. But if people knew my margin, they could wipe me out on these sale just like that! So I'm sitting there praying two things, 1) For a sale period; and, 2) Please buy them one at a time; the twofers aren't helping me...

That's the financial beef. Then there's all the rest. Like everybody and their damned cameras! You tell me: Isn't it widely known, universally known, that you don't take pictures at craft sales? It's simply not done! It's forbidden! And for very good reason. We don't want the rest of the world taking pictures, then stealing our ideas and making their own crafts at home. This is a point all of us agree on, mogul or peon. On this, in fact, it's the moguls leading the way. They go to enough craft sales, they have professionally-made signs, full color with illustrations, a camera in a red circle crossed out, meaning, "No cameras allowed! No pictures, please!"

But the big difference between now and, say, 10 years ago, is there's a lot more cameras. And people, especially kids, who aren't shy about popping out their phone, then whipping it up to take a picture of your stuff. They don't think a thing of it! It's in their nature now! They're stupid! "My hand is permanently affixed to an iPhone camera." People used to have five fingers, now they have a sixth finger, their camera! That's what it looks like. So there we're sitting, the crafters, rolling our eyes at each other, trying to bite our tongue, and casually putting the signs a little closer to the flow of traffic. Fat lot of good it does. They don't teach reading in school anymore!

I'm sitting there, watching all this go on, and I was that close, I was about to bust. But thank God I held it in, for the most part. Because this one guy, two tables up from me, he had his fill, and he did bust. It was after noon, he hadn't eaten, thanks to being at the end of the line and only making two sales -- he paints smiley faces on jelly beans -- so he busted. And I know that's no excuse. But these brainless teenage girls were going in real close on his beans, snapping pictures of the smiles.

Well, he showed them a scowl! "Do you not see these signs? 'No photos allowed.' This isn't a photo studio, darlin'! The items you see on the tables are for sale. Otherwise, everything you see is copyrighted, my intellectual property. So no pictures, thank you!" That was a very snide 'thank you,' which really showed them, since they immediately left with a bunch of swear words barely concealed under their breath, and, incongruously, giggling. The guy was sitting there, red as a beet, and fuming. He looked around for some support and our eyes met. I gave him a thumbs up, then decided to rearrange my table.

It's been dead since then. Like some kind of cutoff point. Like maybe the girls went back and spread the word. Probably not. It's just always that way after noon. The ones who wanted something got here early. Anyone who shows up after noon is here by accident, and they don't care. To them you're just garbage blocking the halls. Except for me, I'm so far down no one generally makes it that far.

So the bottom line is, I sold only a few, less than 20. Some of those were twofers. The good news, if I'm willing to dig for good news, is I won't have to make quite as many next year, since I still have plenty of stock.

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2011 - The Easter Craft Sale
2010 - Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center