Candid Conversations With George, Did You Smell That?

So every once in a while I post a scene from a day in the life with George. For organizational purposes these post’s title will now be prefaced with CCWG. I also added a CCWG category at the bottom of the page for easy reference to past conversations. On with it!

The driver and passenger doors shut near simultaneously as the two men got in the car.

“I didn’t want to say anything during the service, but did you smell that?” Pete asked, starting the car.

“Hmm, no,” George answered without confidence. “Smell what? What are you talking about?”

“Back in the church. I kept smelling something pretty rank. I even kept my mouth closed in an effort to eliminate the possibility it was just my own breath,” Pete explained.

“Ha. No, I can’t say that I did smell anything.”

“Weird. I felt bad because A- was right there too and he had invited us and all. A lot of people were lifting their hands in the air, so I guess it could’ve been just the B.O. from that,” Pete said.

“Yeah, it’s always possible. That was a lot of people in there,” George said.

“But it was pretty awful. As predicted, there were a lot of women there too. And you know how bad their farts smell,” Pete suggested.

“Oh yeah. Women’s farts are the worst!” George said. Pete couldn’t help but notice George’s energy go from zero to a hundred in an instant. “It’s all because they hold them in for sooooo long!”

“What? This is great,” said Pete, laughing.

“Yeah. They hold it and hold it and hold it. And then you let them into a large auditorium like that and they let them rip. They figure nobody will suspect them,” George articulated. Continuing the flawless rationale, he explained, “My older sister used to never fart. Never. She actually had me convinced that women don’t fart.”

“Come on,” Pete questioned.

“Dude, I was like seven,” George clarified. “Anyhow, one Christmas I heard her just rip one. She couldn’t deny it, so then she convinced me women only fart one day a year–Christmas.”

Enough About Change, Enough!

Daily, so-called experts advise us to change our perspective, change our job, change our life. They believe we should change our world. It’s sickening. Like you, I’ve followed that message too many times to count and for what? It is a false hope. Change? No thank you.

As the year wraps up I’m happy to report I like life the way it is. And I know you do too. Here’s how I know.

Forgiveness – You forgive me daily. I struggle with why, but am sure you’re the better person for it. It is at once free and invaluable.

Friendship – Again, you give it freely. I cannot imagine a world without the ability to make friends. I don’t want to either.

Peace – The world is close. Real close. Some want to keep the focus on the unrest. The rest of us know to keep peace the focus, and rightly so. Focus on the peace and see what unfolds, I say.

Compassion – Everyone I have ever met understands compassion. While not always possible to act on, their feelings of compassion are always real. I cannot imagine this world before it was filled with compassion. Like most good things, once conceived, the concept of compassion cannot be forgotten. And it never will be.

Love – There is no greater source of strength than the fact that the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean, I’m talking about the most wretched wretch, this man or woman is still loved by at least one person if they’ll only let themselves feel it.

Change that? Never.

Teaser for Pete Deakon’s New Book: The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor

You know how movie teasers and trailers are fun in and of themselves? Well, here’s the teaser for my new book. Enjoy!

A black screen disappears in favor of a silent scene of a bloodied, weeping man trying desperately to beat down an apartment door; inside the apartment is a slouching drunk wearing a look of frightening resignation and throwing his nearly empty tumbler at that door; curious music now accompanies the camera as it closes in on the drunkard’s painful expression of doom. As if a film projected onto his eyes we see video of a beautiful woman leaning in expectantly towards that same man, though younger and full of life. His eyes dissolve out of the background and we now see the man jealous of the woman as she dances the night away with others; then an engagement; then the music quickens to frantic as the pace of the montage of already short video clips speeds up until they are not much more than still images in which we see yelling, fighting, painful looks, divorce papers, fear, and hurt.

Then the screen returns to silent black and the text “The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor” appears. As it fades away the text “Coming Soon” takes its place almost in a whisper.

Meanwhile…Back At The Workshop

Venspu would have knocked but when he saw Santa at the window he decided against it. He was looking outside, his head resting on his forearm which was pressed against the glass.

“What is it, Venspu?” Santa asked, startling him.

“I can come back,” Venspu began, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing wouldn’t have led you here tonight, not this night,” Santa said.

Santa’s back was still turned, but Venspu could see his eye’s reflection. They never lost their twinkle, no matter how tired he was. Remarkable, he thought.

“Speaking plainly, the elves are tired,” Venspu said hurriedly. “There’s six days to go. I’ve crunched the numbers. It’ll be close, but if you give them a break tonight, we’ll still be finished before the big night.”

“Think so?” Santa asked, finally turning to face his lead foreman.

“I do,” he said, careful not to betray his hope.

“And just what would the elves do with their time tonight if they didn’t work?” Santa asked.

Could he know? Venspu thought. No. There’s no way. Not this time.

Exhaling, Venspu said, “Sleep, Santa. They’d sleep.”

Santa loved the elves. He couldn’t understand why they were so ready to turn on him. He only enslaved them because he knew they would be happier working for him than facing the cold reality of the human world. Yet here was one of his finest workman, Venspu, looking him dead in the eye and lying. As a tear formed, Santa turned back to the window.

“Give them the night off,” Santa said.

“Thank you, Santa,” Venspu said, adding, “You can count on me to be sure they’re ready for work at first light.”

“Good night, Venspu. You may go,” Santa said, only too aware of the slaughter to come.

You Have Listened To Good Music, Right?

For Sam

Dear Stereo Makers,

How many times have you ever broken a nail with a hammer? Or how many times have you sat on a chair and had the chair just simply break? I know! I know! How many times have you turned on a faucet and the water came out so fast that it put a hole in the sink? No, better yet, how many times have you read a book so fast that it broke?

Zero, right?

Then why, for the love, do you sell a product which allows me to turn up the volume so loud that it breaks my speakers? Why? Surely there’s a way you can prevent this. Surely you can put a line on the knob that lets me know “any louder now, Bub, and you might break your speakers”. I would obey. Promise.

Thank you for reading. Just do better.

Pete

****

PS – If you’re interested, I ended the affair. The End.

A Bitter End to Christmas

“Shhh,” Tinsel mouthed to Mercutious, as he deftly and silently approached his target. Mercutious sat opposite the campfire from Jupton. He couldn’t watch, but neither could he look away as Tinsel, the leader of the Elven resistance, lined up his first officer’s pointy ear for a playful–though painful–flick.

“Ahh!” Jupton cried, as he leaned forward and away from the assailant. Seeing Tinsel standing there with an ear-to-ear grin infuriated and invigorated him. “So you’re back! This is good. How does it look?”

Tinsel informed the rebel Elven leaders that since their last attack, Santa had doubled the number of guards at the wall.

“Were you able to get a response from Venspu? Do they know tomorrow is the day?” Jupton asked.

“I was. They do,” Tinsel replied.

“So this is it,” Jupton pronounced. “The end of Christmas. The end of Santa’s unlawful reign, and the end of the enslavement of two million innocent elves.”

“God willing,” Tinsel said. “You know the plan. We know the plan. Stick to the plan. Venspu wrote that he only has two thousand elves willing to fight. Of those, he personally vouches for only fifteen hundred,” he stopped, harnessed a grave look and continued, “that means the fight is ours.”

“The fight is ours,” muttered the small group of officers in unison.

“Santa is not going to go down easy,” Tinsel lectured. “He has his lists. He remembers everything.” A few of the men chuckled. “What?” Tinsel asked.

Mercutious couldn’t help but sing, “He’s making a list, checking it twice.” Soon the others joined in, “He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”

A thunderous laughter erupted among the rebel leaders.

“That’s funny,” Tinsel assented. “You’re right. I talk too much. Get some sleep. Be ready at first light.”

Review of Entering the Real World, by David Kramer

Entering the Real World

Christmas is around the corner. Going free association for a minute here, I’m thinking kids opening presents. Kids means youth. Youth means ignorance. Ignorance means needing instruction. Needing instruction leads me to push responsibility to someone who cares to teach and has a knack for it. And that leads to David Kramer. Since he can’t be everywhere at once, he wrote a book. It is called Entering the Real World: Timeless Ideas Not Learned In School.  (Buy it today and use promo code RLEGEN14 for 20% off).

Like his namesake, in his new book David stares down and defeats the Goliath that is the real world. Kramer moves swiftly and purposefully through his list of 149 helpful tips. Yet he goes further than most of his peer’s books and provides substantive “take action” steps to help those of us who read this genre and often think, “Great. But how do I actually do it?”

You know who you are. You have children, nieces, nephews, maybe grandkids that need useful gifts this holiday season. Schools don’t teach what we all know would’ve been nice to learn before we entered the real world. David does though. And he’s good at it. Buy the book. Give it to a young person. Improve a life.

Murder One

For Preston

Billionaire playboy, philanthropist, media mogul, and three-time Olympic gold medalist Maxwell Rudolfson was being heralded as the most benevolent creative genius America has ever produced. The streets felt safer, violent crime statistics were at an all-time low, and for the first time ever maximum security prisons had vacancies.

“As you know, I spent a lot of time contemplating the problem of violent crime in this country. One day it hit me. Certainty is security. And as awful as the idea sounded at first, I realized that it was the best solution to the rampant and ever-increasing violence that kept people locked inside their homes, living in fear. It is no lie that it took a little convincing,” Maxwell continued to a chuckling crowd, “but, the proof of the pudding is in the tasting.” Cheers arose all along the mall.

Sure, life in the city had improved since the new legal code allowed each adult to murder one person so long as they filled out the proper application paperwork and notified their requested victim. Most people couldn’t believe how the general public responded so many years ago. Rather than rush into a murderous feeding frenzy, the whole of the country took a deliberate approach. Many people decided to save their kill for truly the right person. Then something astonishing happened. As the society waited to commit the unspeakable act, people lost interest. Looking back, it should have been no surprise that as we got older, we calmed down and wisened up. But still, no one, not even Maxwell Rudolfson himself, could have predicted the immensity and totality of the new-found peace and security that blanketed the country.

Meanwhile, in a nearly empty government building a department of justice official couldn’t believe his eyes. He asked the young man standing before him to wait at the counter for minute.

“Sir. You’re not going to believe this. Maxwell Rudolfson’s son just filled out an application for murder,” the official reported to his supervisor.

“Yeah. Ol’ Max figured this day would come. Who does Jr. want to kill?”

“His father.”

Happy Birthday Sam

Brother,

I started this in my head about fifteen times and always discard it because it is too much about me. How to proceed, then?

I shut you down big time earlier this year, as you know. Believe me when I say (again) how embarrassed I am for that.

I can’t promise that I’ll believe this tomorrow, but special for today let me say that I think your life has proven that despite your being the younger brother, you lead the way in exemplifying the best qualities a man can possess, especially when measured against a certain “know-it-all who can’t keep his trap shut.” See? What is the problem?

I’m proud of you. I love you. The last two visits have been very nice. H- seems very nice. Hold her like a butterfly.

Happy Birthday.

Pete

PS – I’m so excited for the speech come April. You are not going to regret your decision. (You should be nervous enough to consider if maybe you should pick someone else, but not so nervous that you do more than consider it. Part of the reason I’m struggling now is I can’t say a lot that I’m saving for that more appropriate setting.)

PPS – I need the next month to go by slow; the fast-approaching trip to Copper is having the opposite effect, no thanks to you.

Mission Commander Stevenson

The planet’s Earth-like gravity had an unexpected welcoming effect on Mission Commander Stevenson as he stepped out of the craft. This was the forty-first world he had visited on this particular eighteen month mission. He hadn’t shared with anyone yet that it would be his last. He was sixty-four years old and while his mind was never sharper, his body was starting to say no.

NASA probably expected him to call it quits sooner rather than later, but he knew they would be sorry to see him leave. Not the first mission commander to make a career of exploring new galaxies, he hoped he would prove to be the most steadfast. He had personally stepped foot on six hundred thirty-five extraterrestrial worlds. Not one of them contained life.

Oh, sure, he had had plenty of R and R back on Earth between missions, but it was all beginning to wear on him. As evidence of this, to a person, all the other astronauts could even deliver his famous “one complaint” speech–accent and all–verbatim.

Month thirteen, almost to the day, he’d say, “For someone as fortunate as me, someone who has seen the glory of the cosmos up close and in person, to complain would be criminal.” The imitator would then pause, just like Stevenson always did. “But I am human. I do have my own thoughts. And if I had to pick one thing that I would change about the program, it would be the gloves! I have spent over half my life feeling the inside of a pair of gloves. Every celebratory hug we’ve had after discovering we got a chance to live on after opening the door, every rock I’ve lifted, every flagpole I’ve planted, every tool I’ve used, everything has felt the same. I just wish something could be done about that.” Every newbie expected the speech to end at that point and just about interrupted the old man as he continued undeterred, which made it all the more amusing for everyone else. “I miss the feel of a woman, the feel of a Christmas tree, the feel of not quite warm enough shower water. Most of all, I miss the feel of dirt–my dirt.”

As he looked back for the others to join him on the ritual first walk around the new world, he unconsciously reached for the fastener on his glove.