I SMELL A STORY

I haven't studied journalism for more than two decades.  Oh, sure, I've had editorials and some articles (mostly sports related) published in the interim, but I have not actively gone looking for a news story in probably twenty-five years.

 That doesn't stop me from being a snoop.

A couple of years ago, an SUV drove directly onto the train tracks, right into the side of the commuter train that was slowly coming through the crossing.  I walked down the street, camera in hand, and snapped pictures while trolling police for information.  Whenever something is going on, I'm like Rikki-tikki-tavi -- I have to find out and I have to know, and I usually won't stop until I get to the bottom of whatever it is.

(This last bit of information should scare the shit out of any lying hyenas at my job, but I prefer to have this information come upon them as a complete surprise, while they're looking up from under the tires, wondering who's driving the bus on top of them.  But, I digress.)

I tell you this so you will understand why I take the long way around on my walk, in case you happen to see me come by your house twice today, going the same direction both times.  It's all the policeman's fault.

I decide to walk a grid today because the weather looks iffy.  It has already poured buckets this morning, and now the sky alternates sunny with patches of blue to dark with angry gray clouds.  If I cross between two main streets, I can walk opposite directions on the connecting streets, never venturing too far from the safety of buildings downtown should a weather disaster strike.

I get to the last leg of my trek, hoping to head straight down Summer Street, but the road is blocked off by a police motorcycle.  Being curious, I get as close to the blockade as I can safely, and I peer about one hundred yards away.  There is police cruiser, the paramedics in the trauma SUV, a fire truck, a tow truck, a white box truck, and a regular town ambulance. 

I walk away.  I cannot get down the remainder of the road, and I've already walked two and a half miles in the humid morning air.  I don't need to know what's going on.  I don't need to ... I ... don't ... I do need ... not ... I ... I ... oh.

Damnation.

I am back in the center of town now, turning right, walking in front of the wine-bar-turned-oyster-place, going in the exact wrong direction from what I intend.  Why?  Why am I doing this?  I hustle, picking up the pace.  Yup, the cruiser is still there.  Now, an extra half mile later, I'm at the complete other end of Summer Street and can walk right past the action.

Two fragile, elderly women are standing in the street, pacing nervously while the white box truck backs up and into the main street, guided by a police officer.  The ambulance, trauma team, and firetruck are gone now.  What I see now is that the box truck drove right through the hedges of the house, taking out a bunch of plants.  But, why the paramedics from the hospital?  Why the local paramedics?  Did someone get hit crossing the road and the box truck ran off sideways?  Did the truck driver lose control and hit someone working in the yard?

I don't get a chance to ask.  The motorcycle cop is too many paces in front of me.  I'll have to read the police log and hope my curiosity gets satisfied while also hoping no one was hurt, at least not seriously so.  In my mind, though, I have put the pieces together, written the story, and published the article already.  It's just the way my mind works.

Apparently, you can take the journalist away from the story, but you cannot take the story away from the journalist.

(Prayers for the journalist and her camera man who were murdered in cold blood by a whacko fellow employee, a guy with a history of job-related issues.  Listen, when someone calls you for a reference on a potential employee, much as you'd like to dump the sicko, please, please, please tell the damn truth and save us all this heartache.)

CALLING ALL ALIENS

A boarding school here in Massachusetts is in some deep shit.  You see, they’ve become the Close Encounters of the Third Kind School.  Yup, apparently we are now teaching alien encounters, wireless message interception, how to fry an egg on our own radiated brains, and other bizarre electromagnetic phenomena.

So strong and disturbing is our WiFi here in the state of Massachusetts that it is causing one poor youngling to be so sick he cannot attend his exclusive private school.  He is experiencing headaches and nosebleeds, which, according to his whackadoodle parents who obviously prefer him to stay in boarding school and far away from them, cause him to be unable to attend school.

Yes, folks, you read that correctly:  This prepubescent youngster is the victim of electromagnetic hypersensitivity.  In other words, he’s fucked in the head.  It’s okay, though.  We know where the illness came from and it’s not something contagious.  He inherited it from his parents, who, in addition to having Extremely Stupid Parenting Disease also suffer from Greedy Assholitis: They are suing the private boarding school for $250,000.

Here are ten solutions for this family’s problem(s).

1.  Take your kid OUT of the private boarding school.

2.  Put your kid in public school where I can guarantee the WiFi sucks eggs.

3.  Disclose your true financial situation so we know exactly WHY you need THIS amount of money.

4.  Stop using your idiot kid for your idiot schemes.

5.  Move out of state as fast as you can before DCF comes and takes your children away.

6.  Take off the tin foil hats.

7.  Start drinking bottled water because something is clearly wrong with your tap water.

8.  Get yourselves fixed immediately, and by “fixed” I mean sterilized so you cannot possibly reproduce ever again.

9.  Move to your home planet where the WiFi and radiation are at acceptable levels.

10.  STFU already.

What truly amazes me about this case is that this family isn’t even the least bit embarrassed.  Seriously.  They seem to think they have the law and science on their side.  Well, I did meet some people who actually support the family in their lawsuit:  Betty and Barney Hill, Travis Walton, Dr. Zachary Smith, Ron Neary, Bud and Otto and Miller, Uncle Martin, Alf, Mork, and Agent Mulder.  (Agent Scully already deduced that this kid’s headaches are hormonal at his age of twelve.  DOH.)

Keep your eyes on this important legal and educational and electromagnetic case, folks.  This could be a landmark decision for schools as we know them.  And remember to send your children to school wearing lead helmets.  We wouldn’t want them picking up any brain waves and actually learning something while they’re in the classroom.

PURGING MODE

(The Master Card File -- Purged)

I am in purging mode. 

It started at work in the spring – dump stuff, get rid of things, eliminate old curriculum we’ll never do again ever.  Unfortunately, with the move to the new school and the tendency for stuff to disappear from our desks and file cabinets, I had to bring a shitload of stuff home with me or risk losing a little too many of my possessions.

My house, small as it is, is stuffed past its gills with more crap as these already cramped quarters absorb my work life for the summer.  I need to get control of something.  I need to get something organized and managed before my head explodes.

VHS.  Yup, this will be my pet project for the day.  I am going to organize and purge the rest of the old VHS tapes that have been amassing since somewhere around 1980. 

I have a lot of tapes with everything from Civil War documentaries to a Blues Clues marathon. I also have a decent collection of VHS tapes that I picked up for pennies when the local video store shut down and when Blockbuster went under.  I have two copies of The Mummy and several unopened, never viewed films like The Thirteenth Warrior.  I have some well-worn videos, too, like The Incredible Journey and old episodes of the Disney Channel show Avonlea. 

Purge.  Purge the lot of it.  Gone, gone, gone.

There are several tapes with nothing written on the cases, just the silver Sharpie “R,” which means “record over these.”  I check them, anyway.  Decades old NCAA lacrosse championship game, old episodes of ER and Mad Men, and lots of crazy old cartoons like Action Man.  I get to the last unmarked video tape and almost toss it without checking it.  Turns out to be one of my kiddos’ sports tapes from high school.  I mark it, put it into a cardboard case, and place it on the sparse “save” pile.

When it’s all said and done, I purge five paper grocery bags full of videos.  I double bag them in plastic and haul them out to the sidewalk for the trash men.  If anyone is dying to get themselves a used copy of the Marx Brothers movie The Cocoanuts or two recorded versions of Todd Browning’s Freaks, you’re welcome to the bags.  You might find a couple of episodes of Sewing With Nancy and some exercise videos as bonuses. 

Get here early, though.  The trash is picked up around 11:00 a.m.

DELICIOUS FAITH

This summer I stole from my friends' gardens.  That's right, you heard me:  STOLE!

Okay, I accepted gifts.

It all started with my friend Pat, who thoughtfully gave me sprigs from her basil plant.  She lives under the delusion that I can actually grow something other than mold and mildew.  She assured me that I could root the cuttings and plant them.  I searched the Internet, making sure to do exactly what I was told, changing the water and keeping the plants in enough light.

Well, just when I was about to give up, the damn things sprouted some roots.  I know, I know; I couldn't believe it, either, but it happened!  I planted the sprigs into a pot and put them outside in the sun.  As predicted, one withered and died.  Kaput.  Less than two days.  But the other one ... it hesitated, almost gave out on me, and then, all of a sudden, voila!  Basil!  For real!  BASIL.  It's like a miracle or something.

Then, my sister gave me a zucchini.  Blog readers already know I had a near-crisis with a veggie spiral-er, but I managed to save the poor vegetable with some creative julienne cuts, a little olive oil, and a lot of white wine.  No, no, no, not to drink; I sauted the zucchini in the wine with some garlic and other veggies.  It was amazing.  I don't delude myself for a moment believing my culinary skills made that a great meal.  That was a great meal because my sister grew an amazing zucchini.

Today, though, I steal tomatoes by proxy.  Yup.  By proxy.  My pal Jess and I are at the grocery store.  We like to shop together and compare tales of strange shoppers, like the old woman who keeps attacking me with her shopping cart today.  But I digress.  We always seem to meet up in the produce section.  I am hankering for tomato mozzarella and basil salad.  Why?  Because my BASIL is growing!!!!  Woohoo!!!!  The problem is every single tomato in the produce section looks like crap.  Even the hot house tomatoes and the organic tomatoes.  Poop.  All of them.

Jess has some fresh tomatoes that her neighbor gave her right out of the garden.  She offers them to me, and, since I am driving her home on my way to deliver my own groceries, I know she's good for them lest I force her to walk home from the store.  I am so thrilled that I help her unload all of her groceries, ignoring my dairy products and freezer items for the sake of securing fresh tomatoes.

Now that dinner is over (steak tips, rice, and the tomato mozzarella and basil salad), I can honestly say that my basil plus those fresh tomatoes (plus store-bought whole mozzarella) and a little oil and vinegar = OHMYFREAKINGGODHOWGOOD

Thank you, my friends, for gifting me with the fresh veggies and the belief that I might be able to grow herbs without killing them.  Your faith in me is simply delicious.

NO RAIN ON THE RADAR

Hahahahaha.  I laugh in the face of weather forecasters.  I chuckle at the nimbostratus clouds hanging gray in the sky. I don't care if it rains on me; I'm going to get wet, anyway.  I'm willing to take my chances.  Radar says no rain.  I repeat, no rain on the radar!

I'm going kayaking.

Two gal pals and I head for the mighty Merrimack River, capturing our coveted spot right at the make-shift landing behind the plumbing supply store. Today the launch is very slippery, covered with a slimy film that almost knocks us all on our asses, but we persevere, scaring the crap out of the young man sitting on shore.  He keeps trying to help us, but we insist that we must do this ourselves.  It is a steep entry, steeper than we can manage safely, but we're in the kayaks quickly, and no one falls in the river.

Damn good thing, too, because we are in full view of a crowded restaurant patio.

A couple of times we are unsure if the weather is going to turn.  A coolish breeze keeps us from sweating too profusely as we paddle a mile and a half, probably more, easily and effortlessly.  One of my friends finds a hidden pond off to the side.  We follow her through the low-hanging trees but stay on the edge, watching her paddle full-on to the other side.  When we see a giant wire in the water, we decide it's time to high-tail it out of the hidden inlet, my pal dragging marine animals and a small snake with her as she rushes to rejoin us on the open water.

We make our way to the highway pylons.  I wonder out loud how many people are driving along the overpass at a mere 70 mph and wondering what it would be like to be us?  I know that when I cross the river n my car, I search for boats in the water, longingly day-dreaming about being down there with them. 

Today, I live the daydream. 

For the most part, the river is ours, and I think there must not be anywhere else in the world I'd rather be.  Best of all, the sun breaks out within a few minutes and stays shining in the newly blue sky.

MUUMUU MEAL

I’m going out for dinner tonight. 

 

This shouldn’t be a big deal, at least for normal people, but I’m not normal.  I’ve been sick and/or in recovery mode for ten days now, and I haven’t exactly been eating anything exceptionally exciting: soup, lots and lots and lots of soup; tea; juice; bagels; rice; hamburger; linguini; bread … safe foods.  Thanks to the medications, I’ve been away from alcohol for ten days, as well.  This really isn’t an issue for me, but I do enjoy a decent glass of wine every now and then, and this nasty muggy weather screams for an ice cold beer, neither of which I have been able to enjoy.

So, tonight I’m going to attempt to eat something more exotic than chicken noodle out of a can and maybe, just maybe, sip a little wine while tempering it with soda.  This fills me with sincere excitement.

Conundrum solved, right?  Wrong.  You see, it’s still nasty, gross, and thickly humid outside.  While I’d like nothing more than to wear jeans and a comfy shirt, the weather and the venue call for a change of my usual attire.  No problem.  I have a tiny closet stuffed with possible outfits.

For an hour I try stuff on.  Too casual.  Too fancy.  Too short.  Too long.  I cannot decide.

Finally, I remember where all decent outfits start:  shoes.  In the midst of being sick, a friend took me with her to DSW, knowing full-well that clearance shoe therapy is the best therapy of all (she is correct).  I bought two pair of kick-ass sandals – one in fuschia and one in pewter.  I decide on the pewter, a subtle silvery color that looks both smart yet discreetly casual. 

Then, I move on to anything in the closet that will be appropriate for the weather.  Good.  I move the outfits to the left and start trying them on with the shoes, narrowing it down to three possibilities.  Finally, I realize that I’m still feeling a little funky, so comfort is tantamount this evening.  I put on the most comfortable of all, a loose dress that feels almost like pajamas. 

I look in the mirror.

Okay, so it looks a little bit like I’m wearing a spotted muumuu.  A LOT like I’m wearing a spotted muumuu.  I can smuggle leftovers under my dress on the way out if I want to, maybe even an entire bottle of wine, a busboy if I’m so inclined. 

I don’t care.  I am so damn happy to be getting out of this house for something other than a medical crisis that I’ll wear ten muumuus if I have to.  Look out, restaurant, I’m heading out for dinner for my first full meal in almost two weeks.  I sure hope my new shoes can hold up under the pressure.

FINGERPRINT BY PROXY

My pal needs to be fingerprinted.

No, she didn't get arrested.  She's a teacher, and, like me and all the rest of us across the state, she has to have her prints formally taken and filed with the state's database.

Lest anyone thinks this database is really helpful and/or protects children, you'd be dead wrong.  This is a money-making scheme set into motion by our lawmakers.  The fingerprinting consortium makes $$$$ off teachers.  The state never really does anything that's in the best interest of the students, at least not unless it makes them money up the whazoo.

Anyway, when the state fingerprinted me, the company came to my place of employment.  My friend has to go to one of the satellite places, and this is how we end up in the middle of the city.  I used to live near here, so I'm familiar with the roads, but I still street-view the area before we drive there.  Damn good thing I do, too, because the place is a hole.  And it's in a wall.  It is truly a literal hole in a wall. 

We open the front door, and I am immediately berated to move my car.  What did I mean parking it out front in the area along the street that has the wide, white line along its edge?!  Parking where there appears to be parking must make me a moron.  I move the car to a side street under the shade of a big tree, then I come back in and start looking around.

This place has some grubby chairs, some filthy throw cushions, a filthy floor, unfinished walls, dust and dirt everywhere, and a mutt.  It's a good thing I'm pushing super-med antibiotics because I suspect this place is smeared with MRSA.  I'm not entirely certain the dog draped in the chair is still alive or if it expired from natural (or unnatural)causes.

My buddy puts her fingers on the scanner, but she is told her hands are too dry.  The scan shows with little interruptions.  Perhaps some lotion will help, the tester suggests.  No, what will help for real is a huge spray can of Lysol.

Oh, and no hits when the prints make their way into the system.  That would be special, too.  Relatively safe and sound (and covered in god-knows what strains of bacteria), we finish up, hightail it out of there, and flee, windows down, hoping the hot breeze kills anything crawling around that we may have picked up.

Damnit, fingerprinting is DANGEROUS!