... Or Sunday. Definitely Sunday.

Warning:  Not only is this post late.  Nothing happens in it.  I was just goofing around with fake drama and suspense for a while stringing words together for no particular reason. You're welcome.

October 1969

“5 minutes Mr. Bergen,” came the announcement from the other side of the dressing room door.  Bergen stopped adjusting his bow tie, turning his hands in front of him to inspect them through the dressing room mirror.  Glaring at his useless right hand, unable to fathom how he had kept his secret for so long.  None of that mattered now.  The end had finally come.  One more show and the debt to Duvall is paid in full.  If there are no surprises, Bergen thought to himself, you might just make it through alive. 

Bergen looked over at the real stars of his show.  The blank gaping grins of Snerd and McCarthy stared back at him.  Mocking.  “You ready, gentlemen,” Bergen asked with a heavy sigh.  Rhetorical, really.  They’re ready. They’re always ready.  For Horror!  Or comedy.  Yeah – mostly comedy.  But sometimes … Horror!

Snerd wore a black and white checked suit and red vest.  He had lost a front tooth in a back room brawl during a poker game and had never bothered to get it fixed.  When Snerd talked about it, he’d always say, “I lost the battle, but won the war.”  The body of the man who’d knocked out The Snerd’s tooth had been found 3 days later, bloated beyond recognition, strangled with piano wire and stuffed into an old oil drum down at the docks.  Snerd’s defense was that he was just an inanimate dummy who couldn’t possibly have been involved.  Investigators allowed Bergen into the room while the Snerd was being questioned on the condition the he not move his lips during the interview.   Bergen agreed and politely asked for a glass of water.  He could not explain it, but he was sure The Snerd was somehow behind the murder.

The Snerd’s remaining front tooth jutted over his lower lip adding to his comical appearance.  A close look into The Snerd’s eyes however, revealed a cold dead disturbing presence.  Occasionally a fan would encounter The Snerd and sense the evil within.  “It’s a hunk of wood,” Bergen would always come to the Snerd’s defense, if only to protect the suspicious innocents who got the cold chill as they passed by the Snerd.    

Charlie McCarthy usually dressed about the same as Bergen.  Black tails and top hat.  He often wore a monocle or occasionally a pince-nez as fashion dictated.  All and all, Charlie was just along for the ride.  The more famous of the 2 “dummies,” he had no taste for unpleasantness or blood.  He was not good or evil.  Most of the time he was too busy pondering the meaning of his existence to care about getting into any kind of mischief with his cousin Mortimer.

Exiting his humble room for the stage, Bergen placed a small letter in the box for outgoing posts.   Would Marilyn see the letter in time? He could only hope.

Under his arm, Bergen hefted a large trunk that carried his companions.  After tonight, with the exception of his haunted dreams and visions, he would be free of them forever.  The Snerd said he was going to go to France.  Charlie said he had a plan, but he wouldn’t say what it was. 

Bergen waited just off stage for the warm up act to finish.  His mind wandered back to a simpler time.   

May 1927

Sitting at a sidewalk café in a Chicago suburb, young Bergen practiced his act.  He would make sloppy notes with his left hand as he argued with a poorly dressed McCarthy.  In fact, they were both poorly dressed.  Bergen hadn’t had a thing to eat in 2 days and didn’t know where his next meal was going to come from.  But he was happy.  He had his whole future ahead of him and he believed in himself and his dummy.  He had been at the table for about 2 hours, nursing his coffee when the waiter sat a club sandwich in front of him.  He and Charlie looked at each other in confusion.  “I believe this is a mistake,”  Charlie started as the waiter walked away, shrugging and nodding off to the left.  His left.  Charlie and Bergen slowly and in sync, turned their heads together comically, eyebrows high, in the direction indicated by the waiter.  There a man sat obscured by the copy of the Daily Edition he held up in front of his face.  As the ventriloquist team watched, the man folded the paper flat on his table, finished his coffee and approached Bergen and Friend.  He was tall, young and athletic with light wavy hair.  He wore dark sunglasses, a sharkskin suit and no hat.

Holding up a hand to signal there was no need to get up to greet him, the man said, “Name’s Duvall.  I can help.”

Bergen and Charlie looked at each other and then back at Duvall.  Charlie’s monocle dropped to his side.

Duvall said, “You look hungry.  I took the liberty of ordering you a turkey sandwich.”

It was Charlie who spoke up, “I’ll have you know, my good man, we’re in no need of charity …”

Duvall was ready for this, “But you could use some work I take it.  Not so easy to find these days, is it?

Now it was Bergen’s turn, “This is highly irregular …”

Duvall was quick, “Give me five minutes to explain while you and Charlie – Yes, I know your names – while you and Charlie enjoy your lunch.”

Much to Bergen’s surprise, Charlie piped in, “I say we give him a listen.”

Bergen’s face turned white. His hand dropped, sending his “Dummy” hanging upside down at the end of his right arm.   Bergen felt an icy cold fear grip his heart, “Did you,” was all he could breathlessly choke out.  He hadn’t made the dummy talk, yet it was the same voice.  What sorcery was this?

“Now that’s what I call ‘not moving your lips’,” Duvall marveled as he casually pulled out a cigarette and his trusty old Zippo lighter, dated 2/16/2362.

~~

Bergen came awake alone and on his back.  The room was total darkness except for a faint streetlight that shone through the dingy single window of the room.  Off to his right, he saw the horizontal strip of light coming in through the bottom of the bedroom door.  He had no idea where he was, except that he was still in Chicago.  The sound of distant freight trains unmistakable to a native of the city.  Rolling on his side, he remembered the strange man who had somehow thrown his voice to Charlie.  What was the man’s name.  French or something.  Outside the bedroom door he heard yelling.  An argument, but only one voice.  Another voice was arguing, Bergen realized from inside his head.  It was Duvall, that was the name, in a shouting match with Bergen’s alter ego.  “I think you might be losing your mind, Teddy,”  Bergen’s nickname for himself.

I call thanksgiving

I have part of a post finished.  But it is the holiday, so.  Since the agreement with Barry is to post anything by Friday morning -- this counts.   However.  I will have the real post up some time Saturday at the latest.

Oh that’s what Twitter is

Note:  We had a family emergency this evening.  My son Jack is 9 years old.  The dog ate Jack’s homework that he’d been working on for 3 weeks.  You may say “What dog?” and that would be a good question.  To that I say “What homework?”  This pushed back the start of my blog composing by over 3 hours.  We really need to get another computer.  So if you are reading this and say, “Where the hell’s the post that is due?”

There is a perfectly good explanation.  The dog ate it.

Since I’m short on time, I’m going to just talk about something I know well.  Old people.  I might just have to change the name of this blog to oldcube or something. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking with my daughter, age 22.  Girls are better than boys.  No dogs ever ate Jolene’s homework.  She was saying I should get on Twitter.  Honestly, I just don’t get it with twitter.  I have tried to understand the allure.  To me, it has seemed strange that I would be interested in anyone’s spontaneous thoughts.  Jolene said that because I’m funny, a lot of her friends would follow me if I got on twitter.  I told her I’ve had an account for years (this is true).  She said she couldn’t find me (she had looked).  Then I remembered that it wasn’t actually me who had the Twitter account, but one of my alter egos.  Nate Keeler.  That stupid sonofabitch never ever tweets anything on it either.  Holy Crap.  I just logged into Nathan Keeler’s gmail account.  He’s got 1200 unopened emails.  Mostly from facebook, asking if he knows various friends of Brady or people that went to the school that I said he went to that I didn’t know was a real school when I put it in there.  And breathe.  So now what I’ll do is see if I can resurrect his Twitter account.  Ok that’s done.  I don’t really know how to tweet, but I just put one in there to try out this crazy new hashtag idea.  I used the most common hashtag ever.  #rachelandfinnarewaymoregaythankurt  and guess what.  Mine is THE TOP tweet for that tag!  Sweet.  It reminds me of the time I did a web search for “gin soaked vagina” and my reference on my blog called "gin soaked vagina" was the only thing that came up, proving I invented the now commonly used term “Gin soaked vagina.”  These days it’s difficult to utter a sentence without saying GSV at least 3 times. 

Ok I just logged old NotFredCube into his Facebook account.  Guess what?  He’s still using the old format.  Lucky bitch.  

The title of this post (above) might be overstating it.  It’s not that I suddenly understand what Twitter is.  It’s just that I had a little bit of a revelation the other day on why it actually might be kind of fun if used a certain way.  Certainly this is not news to anyone except old people. 

Sit down and let me explain how it all began …

Sometime about a year or so ago, Jill and I were minding our own business, watching an all new episode of the hit TV Series “glee!”, when we saw something that made us do this (Old people, click the photo):

It wasn’t the thrilling story line or the cutting edge drama or even the beautiful glee! singing that had us so deeply flummoxed.  Nor was it the word “flummox”.  It was the occasional hashtag thingy during the episode of glee!  It would say something like #kurtsevenmoregaythisseason or #rachelandfinnareevenmoregaythisseason.   Jill asked me, “What the hell is that dang deal?” and I would say “Oh, I know what that is,” thinking I’d be able to work it out by the time Kurt’s boyfriend got done crying. But no.

We gave up on it.  Sure we were missing out on some television something or other, but then again not really caring.  I figured if I wanted to know what it was, I’d have to get off the couch, power up the home personal computing device, instruct the modem to dial up my internet service provider, etc.  It just didn’t seem worth the trouble.  

Old people don’t know how to watch modern television.  Even if they knew how (they don’t) they would be too tired to do it right.  Hey old people, it might help if you didn’t get up before bed time.  When old people watch tv, they just stare, mouth agape (not god’s love, but the other agape) not even texting anyone at all through the whole show.

Young people watch tv the way it was meant to be watched.  Young people stare at the tv, mouth agape, furiously working the texting device at the end of their lifeless arm.  Old people have the texting devices, but they just talk to them.  Yeah, like that works.

The first thing old people have to do to watch TV is to find the remote.  If the remote is not found, there will be no television watching.  Old people are always mad about not being able to find the remote for 2 reasons.  1) Old people always leave the remote in the same place “where it goes”, and 2) the remote is never in that place because some young person has left it in the cushions or under the couch or in the refrigerator.  Young people don’t have this problem.  They can always find the remote because it’s always where the old people left it.  Oh old people!  You’re so predictable. 

Once the remote is found, all inspiration to invent some sort of “remote locating device” fades as the old person can now settle in for an evening of confusion, known as “Television programming”

Old People used to watch a television show called M*A*S*H.  They loved this show.   It rarely confused them at all.  The theme song for M*A*S*H was a morose little ditty called “Suicide is Painless” One of (if not) the first episode(s) of M*A*S*H had a guy singing the song’s words (AKA lyrics).  The words freaked the old people out so much, that without taking their eyes from the screen, the old people sat at their typewriters and wrote several letters to their friends about how fucking crazy the words to the M*A*S*H theme song were.  Still looking at the screen, they expertly pulled the hand typed letters from the machine, folded them into envelopes and started licking stamps.  By the time M*A*S*H was over 30 minutes later, the old people had a stack of envelopes about 8 inches high to go out in the morning mail. 

That’s right.  If old people wanted to send you a message, they would write it down on a piece of paper and pay a company to deliver it for you.  Now all you have to do if you want to say hello to someone is navigate your cell phone to the correct screen, select the contact and press 4433555->555666 and pay a company to electronically deliver it.  If old people try to say hello to you this way, they have to press 4(back because they didn’t press the second 4 fast enough)44335555555(because they were trying to do 2 “L”s and went past the first “L” to the “5” then had to go around the first “L” again) then they have to wait for the cursor to move to the spot for the second “L” so they can continue. 555666.  

Don’t even get old people started on apostrophes.

So anyway - I thought the glee hashtag thing was some sort of signal for young people to do something and get some sort of enhanced viewing experience.  I didn't have a clue and most importantly, didn't care.

I was watching SNL the other day (Old people watch it on Sunday afternoon after they find someone to help them program their VCR) and saw the short film "Mokiki Does the sloppy swish"  I thought it was so funny, I googled it to see if I could watch it some more on my personal home computing device.  That's when I understood the hashtag thing (I think).  There were all kinds of comments about the short film grouped by various hashtag names.  Oh.

Meander

If you want to make an omelette, you’re going to have to break some eggs*.  We all believe this, but it doesn’t really tell us anything.  For instance, we are pretty sure there is more to it than that.  You can’t just throw some eggs on the floor and yell “Omelette!”

And “some” eggs?  How many is “some”?  People like to answer this question with another question.  Some smartass comment like “Well duh, how big an omelette do you want?”  All mocking and everything.  To that I say, “Don’t throw it back on me.  You always do that.  No wonder you can’t get along with your coworkers at the bank.”

It turns out, when people say that you have to break some eggs to make an omelette, they are usually not even talking about cooking an omelette.  And that’s too bad, because omelettes are delicious.  Also, even though it might seem like they’re changing the subject to breakfast food, many times, they are trying to convince you to make the hard choice after you’ve stated your reservations about some looming decision.  Either that, or they are cleverly defending some reprehensible act of their own.

Here’s an example:

Say you are running a quaint little bed and breakfast up in the northeast or whatever.  Your Bed and Breakfast is not known for any special amenities, but is able to succeed against the stiff competition on the strength of your world famous omelettes.  For years you’ve understood the literal meaning of the saying.  In fact, you cannot think of a time you made an omelette without breaking “some” eggs.

One fine Saturday afternoon, you’re trying to work out the menu for the next morning.  You know you’re going to make omelettes because it’s your specialty.  You have several guests who’ve traveled many miles just to get a taste.  Everything will be perfect.  Then one of your stupid little kids reminds you that tomorrow is Easter and you promised to let them color eggs.  You don’t have enough eggs for both.  You could run to the store and buy some eggs, but you’ve always used the eggs from your henhouse out back.  If word got out that your bed and breakfast used corporate eggs, you’d be finished.  For a moment you think you’re saved when you realize that you could use the store eggs for coloring, until you remember that the bible expressly forbids using store bought eggs as decorations for Easter.   Even though your children will be devastated, you choose to save the business.  You explain to your children that God cancelled Easter this year, and besides, you must make omelettes for your guests.  Then you tell them about how you have to break eggs to make omelettes.  Through ear popping wailing and a river of tears, they plead with you to stop speaking in riddles.  You agree and send them to bed, using the words “Go to bed.  No Riddle there, eh?”

Another Example (this one, defending reprehensible act):

“Jeez Bob.  You egged that guy’s new car?  What the hell man?  That’s really messed up.”

“Hey Joe.  It’s like they say – ‘If you want to make an omelette …’”

“I don’t think they mean …”

“Yes they do.  Where’d you park again?”

“No.  It’s cool.  I get it”

But breaking eggs is one small part of the omelette making equation.  I wonder if one of the other steps would change the meaning much.  Eggs are the primary ingredient in the finished product.  But do the supporting omelette making actions play any less a role?  Perhaps any of the other things you could say about omelette making would work just as well with the saying.

“If you want to make an omelette, you have to heat up the pan.”

I could see where this might get a similar meaning across.  But is it as universally true?  I don’t think so.

“If you want to make an omelette, you have to use a spatula.”

Yeah, that’s probably true, but somehow, it doesn’t sound as ominous as “BREAKING EGGS.”  The apparent quandary is that you’ve got yourself a dozen unbroken metaphorical eggs and you’d like to keep it that way if at all possible. The problem is you need a metaphorical omelette.  Yes, you have to use a spatula, but when you’re done cleaning, much like the pan, you still have a spatula.  You still have a dozen eggs, but some are broken now and all the kings horses …

Wait.  Was Humpty Dumpty a metaphor or allegory?

“If you want to make an omelette, you may end up with scrambled eggs.”

Ok, I just threw that in there because it happens sometimes.  Which means it happens metaphorically too.  It is possible that you set out with every intention of making an omelette.  You go ahead and do what must be done (break eggs) but the end result isn’t what you wanted at all.  Now you’ve potentially damaged some important relationships for scrambled eggs.  Nice going, Hitler.

I’m going to work one of these altered omelette making tutorials into my next staff meeting to see what happens.  I think it will go like this:

“Yeah Cube, I’m not so sure we should release the ‘string filter fix’.  Some of the clients may have workarounds in place that could potentially skew the results,” someone will say.

“Huh, what?”  I’ll start, snapping gracefully out of my morning meeting nap, wiping the drool from my chin, “Oh yeah, well you know, the pan has to be heated up …”

Actually, I do this sort of thing a lot in meetings.  I try to start new nonsensical buzz phrases.  Meetings love buzz phrases.  I no longer ask people what they mean by certain phrases.   It was during the great morning status update meeting of 2010, when my innocent question about the meaning of “Long pole in the tent,” caused a huge debate. That’s when I realized these guys don’t know what they’re saying  either.  So I don’t ask anymore.

All companies insist that communication skills are vital for success, then their managers go around saying things like, “Yeah.  The long pole in the tent is gonna be getting the database tables created.”

“Oh yeah, ok.  So I’m going to go join the circus now and come back when I understand what the hell you’re talking about.  Thanks.”

When I asked what the “long pole” thing means, I was not surprised to learn there was no consensus. Group 1 believed it meant that no work could continue until the long pole task was finished.   The other group thought it meant the project could be released incomplete, but not without the “Long pole.”

For potential insight, I tried thinking back to my literal experience with tents.  I went on RAGBRAI a couple of times and had to set up a tent each night.  There were usually 2 long poles that were actually just several small sections of skinny pole held together by an internal elastic cord.  The sections slide into each other end-to-end to make a long bendy pole.  The pole slides into sleeves of the tent to frame the whole thing up all nice and everything, similar to how a set of database tables might hold information for use in some sort of intricate software project.  Not really.  Not at all, in fact. 

It wasn’t until someone said, “No stupid, circus tents,” that I was on the road to a more certain ambiguity.

I don’t know circus tents.  Can other work be done while the long pole is being put into place?  I can picture a pole majestically rising as a massive red and white striped canvas reaches ever skyward.  The air smells of caramel popcorn. Dozens of burly men in dirty white tank tops strain, sweat stinging their eyes as they pull ropes outward from the center securing the long pole.  Once in place, several “carnies” rush around staking the ropes and supporting the outer structure with 36 “short poles.”  A fat man in a tattered wool suit, red vest and a top hat, hook cane hanging from his crooked left arm shouts through a megaphone that the show must go on.   This is all great, but when I apply this to the required database table specs for our current project, I’m not sure what we need to do.  Where do we put the caramel popcorn, anyway?

When I was a kid and we went to the circus, it was usually at the Omaha Civic Auditorium, so there was no tent at all.  I brought this up at the meeting and said maybe there was an existing framework we could use instead of developing the tent ourselves.  “No, there isn’t,” said the project manager a little too quickly.  Because you know what the project manager’s job would be if we went the sensible route?  Looking for a job, that’s what.

Oh yeah, omelettes.

Optional parts of omelette making don’t work for the proverb at all.  They come across as wishy-washy in the context of your no compromise, egg-breaking, omelette making resolve.  As you forge ahead, you don’t want to say something like, “If you’re going to make an omelette, you’ve got to whip the eggs thoroughly and sometimes it helps to add a little water or milk.”

The ass of a rat has very little value.  However, if people saved them up and stored them in some sort of Tupperware™ container, you shouldn’t expect them to open it up for letting them know about the variables of omelette making.  What I’m trying to say is nobody gives a rat’s ass about the variables of omelette making.  The one thing you absolutely need is broken eggs.  Everything else is optional.

* No egg breaking is required in the making of “vegan omelettes”.  This is because vegan omelettes are not omelettes.  They are an ungodly mixture of flour, tofu and spices, tricked into trying to impersonate real omelettes.  Seriously.  If you want to be vegan, just eat vegan food.  Don’t go around missing real food so much you have to try to make your tofu taste like animals.  It never works and you are stupid for thinking it does.  If I’ve offended any vegans, I am sorry, but if you want to make an omelette, you have to break some eggs.  No exceptions.

You kids and your newfangled ...

For quite some time, I have had a suspicion that old people are "pulling a fast one".  That's old people speak for some sort of confidence scheme.  Which unfortunately is also old people speak for a sham.  Dadgummit, I seem unable to define old people terms using the parlance of modern America. See?

Ok, anyway, I often considered it possible that a typical old person's day consists of little more than dreaming up new ways of perpetrating a healthy dose of somewhat harmless skullduggery on  the young and innocent youth of today.

There’s no way people were that different 50 years ago.  That's just what they want you to believe.  And the made up crazy words they say?  I’m not buying it.

Ever since I was a little kid, we used to pretend to be old people like this:

"You little whipper snappers get off my lawn!"

I don't know what a whipper snapper is.  I guess it might be a person who snaps a whipper, but I don't know what a whipper is.  Perhaps it's someone who whips.

But no matter what it is, one thing's for certain. It doesn't make any sense.

Also, we never heard any old people say it.  We heard it from people impersonating old people.  My point is, I believe old people say the goofy shit they say because they can get away with it. We don't know any better.  How are we going to verify or disprove something an old person says about the past.  We'd have to ask another old person.   Who will most likely be in on the universal prank and expand the tale even farther from reality.

Once, my Grandma told me that during the depression, my grandfather found work cutting lawns with a pair of scissors.  Years later, when I asked her about that, she said something about how I must have misunderstood her.   Yeah right.

What I'm about to reveal is 100% true.  The only part I can't work out is how such a hilarious secret was kept for so long.  To some, this information may be a shock.  To most however, I think it will make everything old people do suddenly make sense. I have learned (and have the physical proof to back it up) that old people?  Yeah, they're just fuckin' with you (JFWY).

Rifling through today's mail I found a large packet of material.  There was no return address.  I opened it to find a huge information packet and the cover letter above.  There are literally dozens of ideas on little things you can do just because you're old, and completely get away with.

An excerpt from "Welcome Old Fart, a love story":

One of the few advantages of aging is that you can typically say whatever you feel like and people just blame it on your age.  If you are younger, you can’t get away with that.  You have to understand all the current sensitivities.  You are evolved.  Not like old people.  They were born before humans understood right and not-right (young people understand there is no ‘wrong’).

  

Since young people don’t know what was acceptable speech in the old days, you can make up any old  offensive stuff and attribute it to a ‘simpler time’.  Our group has been getting away with this for centuries.  So you can call somebody a ‘Bum’, The olde fashioned name for “The Homeless”,  just as naturally as you might call someone ‘racial slur here’.   and then innocently protest, explaining that when you were a kid, everybody, including those dirty [redacted], called those dirty [redacted] those dirty[redacted].  Of course, this is ridiculous, but young people believe it roughly 100% of the time.  

After looking through some of these materials, I realized I am ready.  I just need a little guidance to perfect my old person persona.  For example, whenever I'm asked the question "Paper or plastic,"  I'm thinking "Do you really think I give a shit?,"  So I kindly say, "Plastic please."  What I should do is say an old person thing like:  "I wish you kids would make up your mind," As the young grocery cashier people ponder what the hell I'm getting at, I should then forge ahead with, "First we had paper, but we were killing all the trees.  So we got plastic and started killing all the fish.  Now you make us decide weather we want to kill fish or trees or buy reusable canvas bags for our groceries.  Well no sir.  I don't like it.  I'm off to 'Bag and Save', where they don't ask me judgmental questions.  Harumph!"

"Harumph,"  by the way is a signal to other members of the "old people" to shout "Huzzah!"  There are a ton of rules to this thing, but I'm actually looking forward to it.

Big Fish Part 1

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What's new pussycat? Whoa-a-whoa-a-whoa-whoa

Arriving at the Oscar Mayer Slaughterhouse in Perry, the crew chief told us to sit tight while he went up to the office to check in.  We didn't really want to get out of the truck because of the smell, but since it was a hot summer day and the prick turned off the truck and took the keys with him, we didn't really have a choice.

Our distaste at the horrific smell did not go unnoticed by the array of manly man worker guys there.  It was almost like they had a job to do and that job was to stand around laughing at city folk who are so used to exhaust fumes, they think shit smells bad.  I was suddenly embarrassed by my clean clothes.  Newish work boots, jeans that had been recently washed.  Clean faded orange cotton T-Shirt, neatly torn down the front center from collar to roughly ¾ of the way down.  It looked how I imagine Tom Jones would look if he wore a T-Shirt.

We cut or tore our T-shirts because we were required to wear a shirt of some kind, but if there was nobody from the office around, we’d tuck our shirts in and wriggle out of the top of them through the enlarged neck hole, letting the shirt hang around our waists so we could soak up the sun for roughly 6 hours of the day, thus getting some superhero inducing levels of UV Radiation.  Sun screen?  What the hell is that?  Oh they used to sell stuff to put on if you were going out in the sun.  We never used it though.  And it was designed to promote tanning anyway - not block out the sun.  Crazy talk.  

Anyway, as much as I hated my boss, he let us go around essentially shirtless most of the day, so we could work on our “Savage Tans™”.  The only stipulation was that if we spotted Chuck's Big fat White Town Car hauling his big fat white ass to the work site, we had to cover up quicklike.  Dean hated Chuck as much as I hated Dean, so as the enemy of my farther up enemy, Dean was sort of a friend.  But I really hated him.  Have I mentioned that?  Some might say, "Cube.  Let it go."  And they'd be right.  But I would counter with "Fuck them, too."

When Chuck came to visit us, He usually had some rolled up poster looking pieces of paper with him.  He was wearing a hardhat, A crisp white dress shirt and tie, etc.  He’d step out into the heat and point for a while.  If he saw a crew man without a shirt on, there’d be hell to pay.

By the middle of summer, I was as dark as I was going to get.  More of a "Golden" than brown, but it was still the best tan I ever had.  Boomer and everyone else who worked outside had great tans.  At least from the waist up.  The ill effect of all of this was that the legs got absolutely no sun.  

Normally, my legs looked really really white.  But contrasted with my new deep tan and sunbleached hair, my legs now looked ridiculously pale.  We're talking “slight purple hue”.  In the off hours, Boomer and I hung out at Peony Park.  It was a small amusement park in Omaha with a swimming pool built to look like a beach.  A small, smelly, dirty beach next to greenish brownish water.  This was the great place to show off our tans.  We'd stand in the waist high water and yell to all the girls, "What's new pussycats?", which was  the 1980's equivalent of "How YOU doin'?'"

Unfortunately, my legs glowed even through the murky waters of Peony Park's pool, so nobody was fooled into thinking I had the "Savage Tan™" the "Tanning Oil" sellers touted.

There was another cool thing about Peony Park.  Well, gross actually.  Since it was designed to look like a tiny lake, the bottom of the pool was coated with sand.  Underneath the sand was a particularly rough concrete.  If you were swimming along and your foot scraped the sand, it would instantly get torn up on the concrete.  Due to the disgusting array of disease and muck in Peony Park's water, you could count on this injury not healing.  Ever.  I still check the top of my foot each day.  I tell myself, “Yeah, the festering looks less festery today.  It’s going to be a good day!”

But I’m kidding myself.  When they say some wounds never heal, they’re talking about wounds that happened in the Peony Park pool. 

"Don't worry boys," one friendly old stereotypical country boy encouraged, shaking me out of my flashback and back to the present smelly pigsty situation, "You'll get used to the smell in a while."

"Why would I not worry about that," I asked, "It can't be good for you to get used to."

"C'mon let me show you around while the enlightened ones decide what to do,"  Said our cowboy friend, referring to Our beloved Crew chief and his boss.  His sarcasm was not lost on us.

“An ally,” Boomer and I thought.  It was apparent he had the same disdain for those indoor assholes as we did. 

Detecting our lowering suspicion levels, shitkicker nodded his Iowa Hawkeyes Ball cap toward the big building full of bacon, "This way boys"

Well, it wasn’t quite bacon yet.  It was currently a big pavilion full of the worst smelling shit covered beasts I’d ever seen. 

I enjoy ham, bacon, etc. so if it seems like this next part is some sort of liberal tree-hugging rant about the cruelty of slaughterhouses, that's just not true.  I was sickened by what I saw.  Not because it was inhumane, so much as "Ewww, that's what we eat?"

Since I don't really have a grasp on what a "Healthy pig" looks like, I can't say that they weren't having just the time of their lives.  But I don't think they were.

"An' that there's the pen, boys," explained farmer Gus or whatever his name was, proudly waving an arm in the direction of the big huge square area where there were hundreds of pigs.  But they weren't all pink and bright and shiny, standing around squealing.  It looked more like the end of a great battle in "Braveheart,"  where the soldiers were played by pigs.  They were lying around eating and drinking. Slurping up whatever that brown/yellow liquid was that covered the mud/shit/slop floor of the pen.  There was the occasional grunt or cough from a pig here and there.  There was one pig, who I can only assume was a general or something.  He was up on his hind legs, solemnly placing playing cards on certain pigs as they lay motionless in the muck.

"Sight like 'at changes a man," Gus said, causing Boomer and me to try to shake the image away. 

“What’s that on the ground they’re eating,” Boomer asked.

“Surely you’ve seen it before,” Gus answered with a grin.

“I mean, I know what it looks like.  It looks like shit.”  Boomer said.

“Well sure it does.  But the marketing term for it is ‘Hot Dogs’” Gus said.

“Ew,” Boomer and I agreed.

No Hot Dogs Today Thanks.

“Hungry?”  Boomer asked.

“KFC,” Cube wasn’t a big fan, but they had this lunch deal that was pretty decent.

“Perfect,” Boomer said as he turned his dad’s Buick LeSabre into the KFC lot.

I thought I saw a zombie this morning on my way to get an oil change

I drive a 2002 Honda Accord 4 Door Sedan.  I know.  Boring.  Predictable.  I imagine the actuarial guys playing little games about typical people like me.

“So Bob, My buddy ‘Fred’”, Joe starts the game, feet up on his desk, bouncing a little red rubber ball off the near wall.

“Please Joe, could you at least come up with a more realistic name,” Bob pleads.  Bob works for Joe.  Bob is the brightest stats man Joe has seen in his 40 years of generalizing people.  Bob has the cocksure attitude that comes with the lethal combination of youth and genius.

“Kid’s got no fear.  He whips out correct statistical answers to my scenarios like nobody I seen.  Kind of reminds me of a young me.  Sniff,” Joe  would often say.  Joe knew painfully well how costly a mistake could be.  That’s why he insisted on these scenarios, “You can never be too sharp, kid,”

“More realistic name?  You mean like ‘Bob or ‘Joe’” Joe countered.  So the old man still had it after all.

“Touche.  Continue,” Bob submitted.

“Job Title,” Joe wasn’t wasting any time this morning.

“Software Engin … Wait.  How old is he?” Bob quickly realized his near mistake.

“Careful Bob.  You don’t want to lose this easy.  He’s 47.  Turns 48 at the end of this month.”

“Ok, Senior Software Engineer,” Bob answered with a bit of a suppressed fake yawn, digging at his thumbnail with a fingernail.

“Car,” If Bob missed an answer there were no more questions.  It would be time for him to go hit the books and see where he went wrong.

“Did The New Numbers come in?”  Bob asked nonchalantly as if changing the subject.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” came Joe’s smug response.

“ Doesn't matter to me at all.  2002 Honda Accord.  Silver,” said Bob taking off a loafer to rub the arch of his left foot. 

It just seems so effortless, Joe thought.  I think that’s the most amazing part.  His presentation.  Let’s see how he deals with my little surprise.

“The New Numbers,” they were talking about was an electronic document that was published every 4 weeks or so.  It contained any changes to any demographic imaginable.  Companies like Bob and Joe’s would integrate this information into their systems for all of their important calculations and business related things and stuff.  It was really professional.

Every once in a while, something strange would show up.  Maybe 2 or 3 times a year, one item would seem so off base that it had to be a mistake.  It usually was.  This time, however, Joe had received “The New Numbers” and personally verified the accuracy one of the strangest tidbits he’d seen in the whole of his 40 years as a big time hotshot actuarial guy.

“Shop or Dealer,” Joe knew these were too easy.  He was baiting the kid.  He noticed thankfully that the kid was getting suspicious.

“Come on Joe.  It’s me.  Bob,” Bob said, only to get a blank stare from Joe.

“Stalling?”  Attaboy Joe.  Accuse him of not being able to answer the easy ones. 

With an exasperated sigh, Bob answered Joe’s pedantic question, “Shop.  Exclusive Honda Repair of Omaha.  Scheduled maintenance at the change of the season,  blah blah blah.  C’mon Joe.  What is this?”

“Zombies?”, there it is kid.  Take that one.

The blood ran from Bob’s face.  Bob had a way of memorizing facts that was similar to a filing system.  When he was asked any of these questions he would simply visualize going to the appropriate drawer and retrieving the information he was asked.  Years of doing this, and it appeared as magic to the untrained eye.  But now, he was at a loss.  He did not understand the question.  In the split second from the time Joe said the word ‘Zombies’ to when Bob dropped his loafer, he had imagined going to a file drawer called ‘Zombie’.  There wasn’t one though.  He truly needed more information.

“I’m afraid I don’t …” Bob started.

Pretending his patience was being tried, Joe calmly restated his obscure question, “Does ‘Fred’ believe in zombies?”

What kind of trick is this?  The old man’s got something.  Think.  He’s been baiting me.  What is it?  The Auto Shop?  Zombies?  Oh well.  Whatever.  I’m tired of this game, “No, Of course not.  No Zombies.  That doesn't even make any sense.  He also doesn't believe in Vampires despite all of the blogging evidence to the contrary.  Nor does he believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus for that matter.  Where you going with this, Joe?”  Bob was having a difficult time coping with this new feeling.  He was able to identify it in a mental file cabinet called ‘Disoriented’.

“In answer to one of your earlier questions Bob, yes, ‘The New Numbers’ came in,” Joe said with a touch of a grin.  He was really getting a kick out of this.  Then he reached over to push the button on his archaic intercom thing and said into it, “Marilyn, would you show Renaud in, please …”

~~~

From time to time, under certain conditions and for the briefest of scary moments, I might be tricked into believing I’m seeing a Zombie uprising before reason has a chance to intervene.  I know this because that's what happened this morning as I pulled into a parking space at Exclusive Honda Repair.  

On Tuesday, I called the shop and explained that I needed to bring my car in for an oil change and to talk about some things including whether or not it’s worth making certain costly repairs.  I plan on trading the car in for a new one in a few months and wanted to know if Mabel (My Car’s name that I gave it just now) could get by for a few months without doing any of the maintenance.

“Yeah sure, we can check it out for you.  How’s Thursday Morning work,” the nice Honda repairman asked.

“Thursday’s perfect,” I cheerfully shot back.  Those Exclusive Honda guys always put me in a good mood.  But something seemed different as the phone call continued.

“Brains?” Said the Repairman, whose name is Jim.

“Hmm?  What?”  I said.  Totally confused.

“Name?” repeated the repairman/potential Zombie.

“Oh, huh huh.  Cube.  Fred Cube.  I thought you said …”

“Will you be waiting here or dropping the car off,” Asked Jim.

  

“I’ll just wait, if that’s ok.  I won’t have any work done Thursday, I just want advice on what I should do.”  I explained.

“Okey – dokey, see you brains,” finished Jim as the phone went dead.

The shop opens promptly at 7AM.  If you get there a little earlier than that, there’s usually somebody there to get started on your car.  You can be out of there by 7:15 on most days.  But this is October.  The evilest of all the months portrayed in the yearly issue of “The Calendar”.

I timed this morning perfectly.  I left the house at 6:34 and went up to QT to get a cup of coffee and make sure my oil level was not low.  I know.  It makes no sense.  If it was a quart low or something, I would have added a quart and taken it directly to Exclusive to have it drained and replaced.  I guess if I do that, I can be all like “Don’t you just hate those guys who never check their oil.”  Yeah – joshing around with the mechanics.  Just one more thing that will never come naturally to me.

Taking the left turn across Leavenworth Street into The Exclusive Honda Repair Parking Lot, I noticed it was completely dark.  No lights inside.  No parking lot lights.  No cars in the lot other than mine.  This was odd.  Normally, there’s at least 7 or 8 Honda/Acuras in the lot.  Oh well.  Better parking for me!

As I pulled into a parking spot closest to the south garage door on the west side of the lot, the beams from my headlights swept across the guardrail that demarks the perimeter of the lot.  It took a moment to register, but I had momentarily lit upon a hand reaching up to the guardrail from outside the lot.  It was now dark over there, but I could see a shadowy figure seemingly pulling itself out of the ground and into the Exclusive Honda Repair Parking lot.  EEK!  In my confusion, I realized it was obviously a Zombie.  Bald head.  Dirty Grey Coveralls.  That’s definitely standard Zombie issue.

Because I behave like some idiot in a Zombie movie, I did not throw the car into reverse and screech out of the parking lot to save my soul.  I just sat there like some movie victim and watched this – this, THING emerge.  This Bald headed, coverall wearing – Zombie with a lunch pail?

That’s when I realized something was going on that was only slightly less weird than a zombie uprising. 

Beyond the parking lot is not ground.  I could not see that because it was dark.  I’ve never noticed before because normally all of the parking spaces are filled with Hondas or Acuras, but there is a dropoff of about 10 or 12 feet at the edge of the parking lot.  At the bottom of the dropoff is what I now know to be “Employee parking.”  The weird part is that instead of walking around to Leavenworth Street and going to work like normal people, The Exclusive Honda Repair Guys/Zombies have affixed an aluminum ladder to the guardrail via bungee cord.  Each morning, they lock their Hondas/Acuras and literally climb the company ladder.  True story.   

I saw Brady's bike while riding yesterday

I was riding.  Brady's bike was on top of a car.  I didn't expect to see Brady's bike.  But I did.  On top of a car.  Presumably Brady's car.  I don't know why Brady was driving his bike around, but I have a few ideas.  I won't go into those ideas here because it's just not important.

I was riding to the keystone trail.  Originally, I was going to go north to the Fort, but WOWT insisted the wind was coming out of the south at about 6MPH and since there was a chill in the air, I decided to go into the wind to start.  So I went south.  Into the wind.  To Start.

The South part of my ride was marvelous.  The sun was bright and warm, which felt good, because there was chill in the air.  The wind was nice and warm too because it was coming out of the south at what seemed like about 6 MPH.  So it was a nice easy bright and shiny spin at about 24 MPH.   "Wow,"  thought I, "24 into a 6 MPH wind is not too shabby considering the easy spin I'm maintaining.  On your left, bitch!"

When I turned to go back North, I found out the reason the south wind was only 6 MPH.  It had to battle the 20 MPH chilly north wind.  "Where's Brady's bike now," thought I, "probably all cozy and warm in front of the roaring hearth of Brady's North Omaha cabin.  On your Left, douche!"

If you have to die to smell better, you're probably bacon

“It’s good the old architectural firm gave us our old jobs back.  I’m mean look at this.  Did we ever take business trips when we worked at the cabinet shop,” I was trying to convince Boomer that we made the right move.  Of course he knew we did.  There was some sort of crazy shit going on over there at the cabinet shop.  In fact, it seemed like we were being followed to this day.

“Business trip?  We’re going to survey a slaughterhouse …”

“Please Boomer.  Slaughterhouse sounds so Je ne sais quoi.  How about ‘Abbattoir’?  Sounds French, n’est pas?”

"Oh yeah, I forgot.  We’re going to Perry.  Might as well brush up on the ol’ fran-say."

“Exactement!”

“Ferme la bouche!” 

~~

Boomer and I had both taken French in High School.  The school was in downtown Omaha.  It had been the Douglas County Courthouse before it became a school.  It was a very old building.  The walls of the classrooms were made of this concrete like material known as ‘Plaster’.  Running along the length of all the walls at about 4 feet from the wood floors was a trim made completely out of Oak or some other hard wood.  The wood was made harder by the fact that it was about 1000 years old.  The French teacher was a peculiar little fellow by the name of “Monsieur Throne”.  I don’t know if M. Throne liked Boomer or not.  I’m fairly certain that he spent his spare time thinking about how much he despised me.

Boomer and I sat in the very back of the room, about 2 or 3 rows from each other.  Leaning the desks back against the wall, the backs of our heads were even with the oak trim.  Boomer started it.

“Attention class.  Voulez vous , un deux trios, blah, blah blah …”  M. Throne was droning on about something in French.  Then, due to the acoustic qualities of the squarish plaster room, the source of the extraordinarily loud knocking sound that interrupted M. Throne was difficult to determine (unless you were right next to it like I was).

“Que’st que ce?” M. Throne asked.  Silence.  Then with a shrug, M. Throne continued, “Alors, Petit fours, Salle de bain, eau de toilette, blah blah blah …”

After a couple more minutes of the French talking teacher guy, another loud knock.  I had figured out what had happened.  Hitting the bone part of the back of your head against the trim made an unbelievably loud noise. 

“D’accord.  Maintenent qu’il fait la,” Pardon M. Throne’s French.  It was 30 years ago.  I didn’t really listen then and even if I had, I wouldn’t remember what he said, let alone the proper French grammar and everything.   For all of these reasons, M. Throne was forced to transform into Mr. Throne and speak English.   

“What is making that noise,” Came Mr. Throne’s high pitched nasally query.

“Um, excuzay mwa Misher Throne,”  I began.

“What is it, Cube?”

“I thought that high pitched nasally voice thing was just for when you speak French,” I said to the great satisfaction of much of the classroom, securing my spot at a local community college somewhere.

As I waited for Mr. Throne to finish deciding whether he was going to have a sense of humor or be a dick, Boomer saved me.  “Crack!” came another loud knock.  Since Mr. Throne was looking directly at me when it happened, he knew I had nothing to do with it, but he was now looking at Boomer suspiciously.  As he partially squinted his left eye and paced about the front of the classroom, glaring at Boomer, “Kaboom!”  I think I dented the wood on that one.  Giggles all around.  That’s right ladies, I’m here through Thursday.

So that was the reason that Boomer and I were so good at French.  Shortly after we started back up at KMA, we were told we were going to spend the week surveying the grounds of a slaughterhouse near Des Moines, Iowa. 

“Des Moines?  Sounds French,” Boomer said.

“Of course it’s French.  It means ‘The Minuses’,” I thought it did anyway.  I only passed French class as part of an agreement I had with M. Throne to never take French again.   That is absolutely 100% true.

“We’ll be perfect for the mission, chief,” Boomer explained, “See Cube and I both took Fran-say in ‘lay – cole - oat’” 

“Well don’t sweat it, garcons,” You’re not going to Des Moines.  You’re going to Perry,” the boss said, 2 seconds before regretting it for the rest of his life (15 years, if you’re wondering how long the rest of his life was).

“Ah Magnifique!”, both Boomer and I exclaimed.  Paris is even better, we thought.

“J’ai jamias va a Paris,” I said in my nearly perfect French accent, complete with high pitched nasallyness.

“Whatever boys”, the boss said, “We leave tomorrow at 6.  Don’t be late or you don’t go.”

“A.M.?”, Boomer verified.

To us, there was only one way to be sure to not oversleep.  At 4:30 in the morning, Boomer asked if I wanted any more coffee.  I was getting kind of shaky, thinking maybe a better idea might have been to just set an alarm clock rather than the all-nighter route. “I don’t know, man.  You got any food or anything in here?”

“Do I have food?  Of course I have …,” Boomer started

“I mean anything besides Peanut-Butter/Apple-Butter sandwiches.”

“Oh.  Uh.  What's wrong with Peanut-Butter/Apple-Butter sandwiches?”

~~

“They no work here again still yet,” Renaud was explaining to Marilyn and Burt.

“Do you have any idea where they might have gone.  It is vitally important that we get in touch with them,” Burt said, hoping the Haitian could understand.

“They say they like Zombie Bar.  But Renaud not remember what name it,”

“Zombie bar,” Marilyn and Burt exchanged a confused glance.

“Not real zombies.  Renaud try to explain real zombies, but then break end before my story,”

Marilyn and Burt exchanged a confused glance.

“You see it all start when Renaud was a happy little boy in Haiti …” Renaud began, but when he said ‘Haiti’  It sounded like he was saying Hi-80.

Marilyn jumped in, “We really want to hear about your childhood in Haiti, Renaud.  But right now we have lost something and BoomCube can help us find it.  Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Oh Renaud,” Renaud said, remembering the Plaque, “Sometimes you mindless like real Zombie.  Maybe because Renaud almost turned into zombie by uncle-he, Renaud’s brain slow sometimes.  Cube was working on something to give zombie bar owner, Chico.”

“Chico’s?  Of course.  We’ll find them at Chico’s.  Thanks Renaud.  We will come back some time for that childhood story.  We swear,” They lied as they bolted for Marilyn’s car.  Marilyn liked to drive her man around.  It pleased her to have full control while Burt enjoyed a bracing jigger of Gin.

~~

“Nasty, Boomer,” I was disgusted by the horrible smell engulfing the crew truck.

“It wasn’t me,” Boomer said all innocent-like.  But I knew better.  An all nighter of Coffee and PBAB sandwiches had done their dirty work.  I was sure of it.

“It sure as fuckin’ shit I smell was you, mother fucker,” I mean I was really irritable. Cubey needs his rest.

“Pipe down back there,” shouted the crew chief.  He was such an asshole.  “That ain’t Boomer you smell.  That’s Perry.”

“Don’t you hate Perry’s wife,” I said, quoting my favorite line from Arthur.

“It means we’re about 10 clicks out.  You don’t like the smell now?  Wait ‘til we get there.  Hahahahahahahahahaha,” I mean I really hated the crew chief.

“Yeah, that was me,” Boomer admitted to me in a whisper.  Then we both laughed uncontrollably because the smell just kept getting worse as we approached the plant.  Also, we were hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

“Hey you got ‘Burt’,” I asked Boomer.  I had lost my lighter and I thought maybe a smoke would cover the smell of the rancid pig shit still 10 miles away.  Boomer handed me his dad’s lighter and I saw the date on the bottom.  As an Elvis fan, I recognized it instantly.  “Hey, did you see this Boomer,” I asked.

“Yeah.  The King’s Birthday in like 400 years from now,” He said.

“What’s it mean?”  I asked.

“I dunno.  I asked dad, but he says it’s not his lighter.  Maybe Elvis didn’t die.  Maybe he just went into the future.”  Boomer theorized

“I can buy that,” I said, exhaling the relatively tasty tobacco from my pig shit odor riddled lungs.