blogorahmah

This is me, eating a bite of hamburger at Winstead's.

A moment or two later there was another report which, this time, was preceded by a thud in the dirt just before the truck, an instantly formed, small cloud of dust, and a rattling crack followed by a downward, high-pressure stream of brake fluid that began forming a dark, oily spot on the ground below the truck’s frame. Zach watched it grow in dismay, then duck-walked backwards, away from his protective rear wheel and the truck he must now abandon. 

Still crouching, he retreated inelegantly until far enough down the side that he felt safe enough to stand and turn and walk down the rest of the way. He headed south through a field of neat rows of soy bean toward a small faraway cluster of white buildings. He would skirt around those and head for the nearby town of Sibley another mile or so beyond it, he knew. With no brakes, the truck was no help now, but at least the Missouri Highway 291 bridge was 20 miles up river, giving Zach at least a little time before the shooter could get over here, if that was his intention. 

As high noon approached, the day proved to be a hot one, and the sun beat down unimpeded by a clear, stark blue sky.  Zach was glad when he happened across a gravel county road lined on one side with hedge trees. He walked along the shady side and was starting to feel pretty good when he heard high-pitched barking just beyond a curve in the gravel roadway. 

Zach slowed and was able to peer just past the trees. He saw a small, short haired yellow dog confronting a mangy coyote. The coyote was circling the dog, keeping it's eyes on it as he did so. The dog barked sporadically as it spun, ever wary and keeping himself pointed at the lanky predator.  As Zach watched, the coyote grew bolder and was running in close to the dog before backing away, still circling. 

Well that's somebody's pet, Zach thought, and he assigned the role of bad-guy to the coyote and bent over and picked up a big rock. He walked quickly three or four long strides toward the two animals and threw the rock at the coyote as hard as he could. It struck the ground at the coyote's feet and bounced up and hit his midsection. Unhurt, the coyote abruptly turned and eyed Zach and then scurried off into the brush in the treeline. The little yellow dog barked at the retreating figure and then turned and watched Zach as he approached. His tail wagged.

"Well, who are you?" Zach asked. He bent down and patted the dogs head.  From the leather collar around his neck a small metal tag dangled. Zach leaned down and in closer to read it. It was just a series of numbers. It read: 18436572.

Zach smiled. That was the spark plug firing order for Chevrolet's small V8 engines manufactured from 1954 to 2003, referred to affectionately by its fans as the "small-block engine." 

"Is your name Small Block?" 

Small Block's tail wagged enthusiastically and a short, polite bark escaped his panting smile. 

"C'mon, Small Block. You wanna go to town?" Zach started walking and Small Block followed, only once turning to check if the coyote was still gone.  It was. 

 Having read a very interesting post from Jewish Young Professional, over here, and realizing how rare that attitude, her take, on this is, I thought I would write my own on the same subject. It is about self-deprecating behavior and speech. It is kind of how some people talk when they don't want to appear conceited, or to seem to be bragging. Bragging is something we regard as negative. 

Journalist: How does it feel to be the best guitar player in the world?

Jimi Hendrix: I don't know. You'd have to ask Leo Kottke. 

Why do we do this?  To avoid looking like its opposite. From the site, Word Hippo, we get these antonyms: 

Boastful, pompous, conceited, arrogant, vain, egotistical, snooty, big-headed, loudmouth, strutting, braggart--the list goes on and on. There were, in fact, 36 words listed, with a link below them to find even more. Not one of them had a positive connotation. We don't want to be any of those. 

But the phrase "self deprecating" doesn't sound so flattering either, does it? Is it like false modesty, or shyness, both of which are weak, or is it, ironically, a sneaky form of egotism? Like, not only am I not bragging, but I'm probably, in fact, actually pretty good, truth be told? 

Off the top of my head, I can't think of any single word to replace the phrase "self-deprecating" with something positive. What is the word for having a realistic and useful recognition and/or appreciation of one's own strengths? If this isn't a bad thing, why is the idea hidden behind all this obfuscation? 

I don't have an answer here. Just a question worthy of thought. 

The author of Jewish Young Professional blog asks the question, what are the five things we are good at? Scary idea, to throw something like that out there. But it reminds me of one of my favorite T-shirts, seen on the skinny torso of some skateboard kid hanging out with his skateboard buddies downtown. It read: "I suck, but I'm better than you." 

He's saying, among my friends, who are all avid skateboard riders, I am the least talented, but we're all in a different league than you, and we're all better than you--including me. 

What a way to finesse the self-deprecation trap. 

1.) I have a good eye for composition in photographs.

2.) I'm good at figuring out how to solve a problem or fix stuff using things I can (usually) find in my garage. 

3.) On a good day, at least, I'm a pretty good writer. 

4.) I can visualize things well--I can turn things around, inside out and upside-down in my head. 

5. ) I play the guitar better than Bob Dylan. I mean, I suck at playing the guitar, but I'm better than you. And just in case you're reading this, and you're Leo Kottke, just kidding!  

PS: If you did click on the Leo Kottke link above and liked what you heard, you might also enjoy this video of Leo and Chet Atkins playing "Sleepwalk" on the last Prairie Home Companion live broadcast June 13, 1987.  

 I keep doing this. I did make a Wordpress blog, again, placed some posts in it, and see that the Wordpress people, or algorithms or whatever, placed three ads in my first post. In three different places. I could do maybe one ad, in between posts, but not in the middle, in three different places. 

I could buy a plan, cheapest being $4/month. Too many dollars being syphoned off already. And I sort of feel like Wordpress should pay me, not the other way round, if people reading my blog also read their ads. 

I know that sounds kind of presumptuous, and I don't seriously mean that. But I'm still not moving over to Wordpress. 

The pharmacologically induced epiphany Zach Hays hoped for never materialized. Instead, he woke up sharply conscious, lying diagonally across the bed of his old '52 Dodge pickup. Overhead, the sky was a hazy, metallic blue, the sun a hot spotlight. Sweat ran down the sides of  Zach's face, and his T-shirt and blue jeans were soaked.

Some of it was spilled beer. Empty cans were scattered around Zach. A pool of warm beer was just beneath the small of his back, as a matter of fact. A light breeze brought momentary relief from the noon sun as boughs of locust trees moved gracefully with a soft sigh. Zach remembered he had parked his truck on the levee near Sibley last night. He knew without looking that to his left the Missouri River oozed slowly eastward between tree-choked banks a quarter mile apart. He sat up and his head hurt.

Before he woke he was dreaming about the dead child again. And the river--wider than his own Missouri River: slower, wilder. A dream River. There the sun was also hot, and a steamy mist rose from the slow water. The toes of Zach's boots touched the water. The child lay on its back, no longer floating except for one arm that dangled slightly away from its torso, moving ever so slightly with the tiny, lapping waves. There was gunfire. One, two shots.

Now, no longer asleep and dreaming, Zach heard a third sound. It was a sharp metallic click. A "tink," that however brief, Zach knew to be the sound of a bullet piercing sheet metal. A second later the little sound was followed by the distant, muffled crack of a gunshot. Zach rolled on the truck bed, righting himself before he vaulted over the side rail facing the river. He saw the fresh bullet hole through the lower corner of the driver's door, cursed under his breath, and ran around the truck to the other side, opposite the shooter.

"What the fuck," he said out loud.

He crouched by the rear wheel and took a moment to gather his thoughts. 

I'm not feeling too journalistic this evening. I had a brief conversation with some friends about what we remembered we were doing and where we were when we first heard about the 9-11 attacks. We used to do that with John Kennedy's assassination.  

I wish you all a peaceful September 11, 2021, and may it be a slow news day. 

 The big Labor Day weekend is over. The big thing around here was something called the SantaCaliGon Festival. As you may or may not know, Independence, Missouri, is "famous" for being the head of the three trails so important to western expansion back in the day--the Santa Fe, the California, and the Oregon trails. Back then, Independence was the hub of a lot of commerce and general activity and, actually, was quite important. One of the richest men in the country at that time was a freed slave by the name of Hiram Young. He owned a company that constructed and repaired wagons for pioneers who made it to Independence and looked to kick off from here on their journey to out west somewhere. 

The festival started in 1973 and has been held at the town square every Labor Day weekend since then with the exception of last year, when Covid-19 effectively shut it down in the planning stages. It had gotten big. Last year the estimated attendance over the four days was 300,000. The population of Independence is only 120,000 or so now. 

Since its beginning, the whole thing had devolved into a bunch of "craft tents" and booths which lined the streets of the square, along with booths and tents selling tasty pioneer treats like funnel cakes and deep fried turkey legs, cotton candy, kettle-corn, and so on. The streets were filled with a slow, thick stream of Independence residents looking, it seemed, to defy the deleterious effects of these offerings, while the more adventurous opted to wander down to the south end of the fair where a carnival run by itinerant, stoned ex-convicts was set up. Another slow, thick stream of residents, these much younger, moved among the rides, side-stepping electrical cables and puddles of vomit and God knows what-all, to defy the odds of a screaming, horrifying end on the apex of some creaking ride whose mechanical integrity peaked during the Nixon administration. 

At this point you may be wondering about the transmission of Covid-19, this year. And well you might. Jackson County (of which Independence is the seat) and Kansas City proper has a mask mandate in effect. The city of Independence does not. You do the math. Plus the shootings. In two successive incidents on two successive nights, six people were shot, down by the carnival rides after dark.  No fatalities. 

Some people are saying, get rid of the carnival rides next year. This is where kids hang around when it gets late and things get dicey. Others are saying, just get rid of the whole thing. The Chamber of Commerce, which in effect is the voice of all the local businesses, is saying, step up the security. To me, this is all just one more thing, on top of lackadaisical  and cavalier Covid-19 measures, revealing the priority of business and the economy over public well-being. 

See?  This is kind of why I don't like holidays. I know. Grumpy. 

 As you might say Labor Day weekend has officially started, it being Friday night and even if you only got the three-day weekend and not the four-day, here's my Labor Day post. Since I am a retired union member, having been a telephone company employee for 29 years, the holiday highlights something that is actually relevant in my life, unlike, say Christmas, nowadays, or Easter, ever. That is that "level playing field" the corporations are always whining about wanting--when it suits their purpose--and which the unions imposed on the corporations when they said stuff like, we would like to make enough money to have a life somewhat separated from our jobs, and have a day off (or two) so we have time to actually enjoy said life and then actually made the companies agree with them. I see no problem with that. 

But I'm not here to rile anybody up. Hope you all have a good weekend, whatever it is you're doing. Rather uninspired post because pain meds. Not to worry.