What It Is Like

Their bags were packed. The car was mostly loaded. H- was sound asleep as usual. It was midnight.

He finished setting his alarm and closed his laptop for the last time before the trip. Experiencing a feeling that, he thought, must be akin to what the great prophets felt so many years ago, he eagerly picked up his phone for one final text.

“I just got excited because dinner and visit might provide good blog material. 🙂 Watch what you say…lol”

Not being awake at that late hour, his mom didn’t send a reply until morning.

“Ha ha ha. I only say intelligent things,” he read, already three hours into the drive.

What with her life only two-thirds complete, her assertion still awaited final judgement. But he knew he had hit his mark.

“She’d never admit it, but she’s nervous now,” he happily thought as he drove on.

*****

H- played with Uncle Sam’s beanie babies from a time long gone as the adults finished their lazy and uninspiring dinner. Then Sam left. Then Pete put H- to bed.

His mom walked by as he quietly left the bedroom door cracked a little.

Heading the same direction as his mom, he couldn’t help but ask, “Really, Ma, what’s it like?”

She turned, “What’s what like?”

His eyes led his answer.

“What’s it like to know that,” he paused, his hand signals emphasized the next bit, “you know, that you, your genes are responsible for creating me?” he asked.

“Hmm. What’s it like?”

He nodded, smiling with great anticipation.

“I guess I’d say that I feel like I’m getting Eve’s full punishment.”

“Nice Ma. I mean, you did have two days to prepare but nice just the same.”

Black People Does Not Exist

Black People does not exist. Black People is not an organization. Black People has no leader. Black People has no agenda. Black People has no logo. Black People is not looking to increase its membership. Black People has no bank account. Black People has no buildings.

Black People does not hate White People. Black People does not believe in looting. Black People does not encourage lawlessness. Black People does not teach its young members to ignore policemen. Black People does not fear for its life.

Black People does not align itself with views held by Al Sharpton, Eric Holder, Barack Obama, or Bill Cosby. Black People does not have a dress code. Black People does not believe the dream is deferred.

Black People is not responsible for Ferguson. Black People does not support Michael Brown’s family. Black People is not angry at Darren Wilson. Black People is not angry, period. That’s because there is no Black People.

You may wonder where Black People came from if it does not exist. You may be curious and ask, “Did Black People ever exist?” The answer is irrelevant to the universal goal. The goal is to get there. And no, there will never be defined more clearly than as an abstract place that I want to arrive at safely–with you.

The only way to get there is together. It’s the slogan of this blog. It is by no means an original concept. Air Force pilots and flight crews say it in the negative or inverse, well, they say it this way: “You don’t crash in compartments.” It is a stark reminder that aircrews use to eloquently express the concept if you know something is wrong with the flight and choose to let an outside pressure–real or perceived–prevent you from sharing the information and consequently the aircraft crashes, you die too. In this case, the mechanical problem is the widespread belief of a falsehood–that Black People is a real thing.

Crew, Black People does not exist. This has been true for some time, but it is now clear that the safe landing of this flight depends on you believing it. Black People does not exist. There is no Black People. Believe it.

It’s Time To Give Thanks

Damyanti, Stephswint, iGamemom, Stuart M. Perkins, Frausto, E.I. Wong, Man of Many Thoughts, theryanlanz, RobertOkaji, Elan Mudrow, Dennis Cardiff, KidazzleInk, Dieter Rogiers, Christine Fichtner, Betsy, Karen, Daedalus, Ron, Drew, David, Joan, Vince, Alex, Joe, Eileen, Elliani, Susan, Greeny, Schoen, Tripp, Andy, Garrett, Shannon, Preston, Janet, Larry, Kate, Sam, (Mike?), Grandma, Grandpa, Noa, and K-: Thank you for reading. Some of you have read every single post, and it seems that the rest of you have read nearly every post. Thank you. You give me your time and that means the world to me. Thank you.

We’re all busy today, but in exchange for two minutes more, I’ll give you guys tomorrow off. Please keep reading.

I have quit every  job I have had since leaving the Air Force. The other day I finally figured out why. The reason has to do with time and energy. I gave all my time and all my energy to my singular goal of becoming a hero pilot for the United States of America for over a decade. And now when I unintentionally find myself in front of a news source, I see stuff about ISIS. To be clear, I can’t shake the feeling that I wasted my time and energy. If I believe serving in the Air Force of a country whose way of life is worth defending to the death is a waste, you needn’t read my anti-carwash/anti-customer posts to empathize with how I might feel about working at a carwash. Simply put, I realized I’m once bitten, twice shy as they say.

But through it all it’s been seeing your gravatars at the bottom of the posts that keeps me writing. I don’t think it’s a waste of my time to improve my writing, because I think I have something to say. Whether I do have anything of value to contribute on a large-scale is yet to be seen. What I know is that you make me feel like I might. While this blog is primarily a sounding board, I spend hours making sure I don’t think I’m wasting your time. And I think my writing has improved. I’m especially proud of Piano Practice and there is no way I could’ve written that without two years of your encouragement. Again, thank you.

Next to H- and the Mark Twain Listening Club, this blog is the only other thing I give my full attention to. If your name is in the list above, whether you care or not, know that you are one of my top three reasons to try–to fight–in this life. But there is one name missing.

George.

I met George two years ago. He is a constant source of inspiration. He is as principled a man as I have met, moreover he reads and responds sincerely to every post. I have moved away from nearly every friend I’ve ever had for one reason or another and will not hesitate to admit that I’m scared to ever lose George. Honestly, regarding my writing, his encouragement falls under the “dangerous” category.

To know that someone believes in you is probably the most empowering/powerful feeling we can experience as humans. Only I know how I’ve handled this life, and despite the tone that I’m sure comes through in my words, the great “I Am” knows that the truth is not pretty. But that’s the thing about believing in someone. It’s contagious. I know George believes in me. And that makes me believe in me. That makes me believe that no matter what mistakes–sometimes terrible mistakes–I’ve made, the fight is winnable and worth winning.

Thank you George.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

The only way to get there is together.

Trolls and Tolls

“I just realized something, H-” he announced, turning down the car stereo.

“What, daddy?”

“I just remembered that on our trip today we’re going to be passing through the toll booths again,” he said. “You know, the ones that have the trolls in them–the trolls that look like people.”

“Trolls that look like people?” she asked, her tone signalling that memories were beginning to solidify.

“Trolls collecting tolls, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” she said.

“Do you want to practice your song now? Or do you think you’ll be ready to sing the beautiful flower song when we get to where they are?” he asked.

“I can practice now,” she answered. “And daddy?”

“What?”

“If I don’t sing a beautiful flower song,” she began earnestly, “then the trolls will chase us down and eat us.”

“That’s right, H-. I gotta pay the toll, and you gotta sing a beautiful flower song as I do. Do you think you’re up to it today?”

“Yep,” she said.

The little girl then began to sing.

Flowers are up in the sky

Flowers are up in the sky

Flowers are dying and some flowers are dying-

“Wait, H-,” he interrupted. “Why are flowers dying? I don’t think that’s going to pass the test. Dying flowers aren’t beautiful.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing he may be telling the truth.

“That’s okay, H-. Just start again.”

The little girl began again.

Flowers are up in the sky

Some flowers are unhappy and other flowers are unhappy-

“H-!” he interrupted a second time. “What is going on here? Why are you singing about flowers dying and being unhappy? The song to keep the trolls from eating us has to be a beautiful flower song. Beautiful. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, daddy, I can.”

And so again, H- began to sing.

Flowers, flowers are up in the sky

Some flowers are happy 

And some flowers-

She cut herself off as soon as the “D” sound began. Laughing at her perfect demonstration of what pilot’s call “strength of an idea”, he suggested she wait until they were at the toll booth and just shoot from the hip then.

Luckily for our duo, on cue H- put together a beautiful number as he paid the toll to the troll.

“That’s my girl. You did good, H-, real good,” he said as they sped away from the danger.

Piano Practice

Jessica’s little legs hung off the side of the hospital bed as she sat alone with her mother. Looking directly into her mother’s eyes, Jessica used all her energy to not cry and seemed unaware that her left heel rapidly tapped against the side of the bed.

Just before her last breath, Jessica’s mom told her, “Make sure and practice for me, okay? Your dad loves that piano.”

After the funeral Nick tucked Jessica into bed and leaving the lights off, poured himself a drink.

The next morning a sloppy and slow rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” aroused him to the full force of a hangover.

“Just stop, Jessica,” he groaned.

Slowing and softening just a bit, she pretended not to hear.

“I said stop!” he roared.

Confused and unused to him yelling, she pulled her delicate hands from the keys and as he rapidly approached instinctively raised them to protect herself from the blow that never came. The sound of the piano’s keylid slamming shut opened her clenched eyes just in time to see him turn towards her. She stared right back at him. Embarrassed, ashamed, and now uncertain of what he was capable of, he hurriedly walked away. She turned back to the piano, lifted the keylid, and began to practice.

As he whirled around in disbelief, he felt an unnatural warmness come over his head. He raced to the bathroom. She heard him try to cover up his sickness with coughing. His head pounded as he walked from the flushing toilet to where she was in the living room.

“What did I tell you?” he barked.

This time as he reached for the keylid, the little girl was ready. Matching his determination but not his strength, she pushed back against it with both hands, arms locked.

“Daddy, stop!”

He let off long enough for her to remove her hands but still closed the lid.

“I don’t want to hear that piano ever again,” he said.

Her face always flushed red before the tears came and this time was no different.

“But mommy told me to practice!” she said as she lifted the lid and, again, began to practice.

Review of There Will Be Blood, by Paul Thomas Anderson’s Agenda

The only reason anyone works to pump oil out of the earth is greed. Greed only spawns more greed which eventually creates (or perhaps is a catalyst for) a downward spiral of human vice that passes through selfishness, hate, betrayal, and ultimately murder. Or at least that’s what Paul Thomas Anderson’s award-winning There Will Be Blood wants us to believe. As much as false-prophets–con-men–deserve to be hated, it is impossible not to hate Daniel Day-Lewis’s remarkable portrayal of oil tycoon Daniel Plainview more. And in hating Plainview, it’s difficult not to hate oil.

People hate oil.

Funny to read, isn’t it? It rings true, but it really isn’t. It’s no more true than if we said people hate dirt or people hate wood. It is foolish to make these inanimate, naturally occurring objects the object of our hate, just as it would be to make them the object of our love. They merely are. But we can certainly hate people. We can certainly hate ideas.

Maybe people hate oil men. Maybe people hate their own ignorance of geology. Maybe people hate what they don’t understand. Surely people hate greed.

It seems wherever oil is under the earth American troops are over it, and service members who deploy to the middle-east are bombarded by activist’s propaganda filled with facts and figures which encourage hating Texas Oil Men George W. and Dick Cheney. And Halliburton and KBR and Lockheed Martin and every other group of people that could be lumped into the war-for-profit-is-clearly-a-bad-idea category. Tightening the frame dramatically, I needed no encouragement to hate my aircraft commander on my last deployment. I astonished even myself with how little prompting it took for me to heap some hate on my sister and her small group.

Finding myself in the oilfield here in Colorado, I occasionally hated living in the man-camps. I hated being away from my daughter. I hated her mom for wanting to see her for more than her half during my days-off.

Similar to all men, hate and I have had a long and storied history. Luckily, I have a friend named Kirk. One day, years ago, I told my friend that I was floored to discover that a Kelly Clarkson pop song included the sage lyric, “For hating you I blame myself.” Being the good-natured midwesterner that he is Kirk didn’t miss a beat and replied, “That’s right Pete. Hate comes from within.” Doesn’t it though?

And that begs the question, “Will there be blood?”

Anderson made an excellent film. It is an excellent portrayal of greed from both ends of the spectrum. But in making the film relevant for the masses, in using oil as the backdrop, he, perhaps unintentionally, allowed the oil to obscure a greater truth. Hate, greed, everything comes from within.

Full Text – Afternoon Delight

Apologies, I didn’t realize my tinkering changed the setting about whether just the opening or full text was emailed out. Here is today’s post again.

Below is a chat conversation I had with Ariel Johnson from AT&T. Try and enjoy it as much as I did.

Thank you for your patience! Your AT&T Representative will be with you shortly.

Welcome! You are now chatting with ‘Ariel Johnson’

Ariel Johnson: Thank you for using AT&T Chat Services today. I will be happy to assist you.

Ariel Johnson: I can definitely  review the account to see when will be the autopay will be fully effective.

Ariel Johnson: By the way I hope you are enjoying your day!

Pete: Do you just copy and paste messages, or do you type them out like I am?

Ariel Johnson: I do type Pete.

Pete: ha

Pete: okay

Pete: lol

Pete: I’m dying here.

Pete: Do you know what a proof of life is?

Ariel Johnson: Sorry  no.

Pete: Well, in any case, I am enjoying my day.

Ariel Johnson: Awesome!

Pete: But I’m still not convinced you’re real. 🙂

Ariel Johnson: Yes I am.

Ariel Johnson: Please be advised  that the  autopay will be fully effective after 30 days upon enrollment.

Pete: You definitely did not type that.

Pete: So I should pay my bill today, but next month, it’ll be automatic/

Pete: ?

Ariel Johnson: Yes

Ariel Johnson: For the current bill it will be paid manually.

Ariel Johnson: Rest assured that this will be the last time that you will be paying the bill manually.

Pete: What is your namesake’s dad’s name in the little mermaid?

Ariel Johnson: I don’t know sorry.

Pete: Robot

Pete: ha

Pete: thanks for the help.

Ariel Johnson: If you know the answer is much appreciated.

Ariel Johnson: Since you are online I can assist you to process the payment now.

Pete: No need. I can do it. Have a great day.

Ariel Johnson: Please be advised that the autopay deduction will takes place two days prior to the due date on the account.

Ariel Johnson: Do you have any other concerns that I may assist you with?

Pete: Nope. I’m out.

Ariel Johnson: For convenience in the future, you can also manage your account using the MyATT mobile app on your phone.

Ariel Johnson: It has been a pleasure chatting with you today. AT&T appreciates your business. Again this is Ariel Have a wonderful day!

Ariel Johnson: Bye.

Review of the Critics of Transformers 4, By Michael Bay

The first Transformers movie will always have a special place in my heart. Instructor pilots of mine piloted the MH-53 that was the movie-opening Decepticon “Blackout”. Michael Bay even hand chose the pilot that marked me “unsatisfactory” once to be the hologram that “piloted” Blackout and later had a scene in the police car that interrogated Ladiesman217 (Shai LaBeouf).

I need a minute.

Okay, back to the review. Then came the second and third installments. Admittedly they were less than inspiring.

Then number four lost LaBeouf, but gained Marky Mark. Not interested enough to see the film in the theater, I started watching it four weeks ago, and finally finished it yesterday. Why did it take so long? And why did I persist, you ask? Because Optimus Prime riding a T-Rex Dynobot only happens once in a lifetime. And because that darn scene didn’t occur until the 133rd minute in the 165 minute film. But I still got goosebumps. It is awesome.

Here’s what some reviewers said about number 4 on Rotten Tomatoes:

“In the end, though, this is still a movie about giant robots fighting each other, which is to say it’s nearly impossible to take seriously on a narrative level.”

“Inflated, interminable and incoherent …”

“Transformers: Age of Extinction is simply more of the same mindless action, flat characters, and utter boredom that we’ve come to expect from these bloated mechanical sequels.”

And my personal favorite:

“Transformers have souls, this movie repeatedly tells us, but does Michael Bay?”

Know what I say? I say Michael Bay has a soul and it is the soul of a genius. Stay with me. I began watching this movie after listening to H- play for hours on end with a Beauty and the Beast doll set. The set included Belle and a few dresses, the human prince, and a Beast suit to put over the prince. (She hasn’t seen the movie yet.) These three characters became Belle, Belle’s father, and Beast (never mind he doesn’t have legs). And soon thereafter a lego character entered the mix so that it was an even two-on-two. Good guys became bad guys; characters that died came back to life; Beast was always asleep in the moments before only he could save the day. You know I love this child, but listening to her play can be mind-numbing.

Now, I can memorize a two hour movie’s story-line after one viewing, yet can’t follow, let alone repeat, H-‘s story-lines. Michael Bay, on the other hand, can. If you watch Transformers 4 as if you’re watching a four-year-old holding the actors and robots alike and performing all the voice acting, then the movie is perfect. Simply perfect. All the characters are yelling, injured, needing help, fighting, crying, whining, dying, or repeating some cheesy line they probably just heard the day before on TV. Even the scene where the boy and girl kiss after the victory seems like a child is forcing the two of them together while saying, “Mmua, Mmua” and thinking, “Eww gross”. The poor kid knows kissing is what happens when good guys win, but doesn’t understand why.

The genius of the movie and what the critics forget is that it is quite literally a movie about toys in the first place. Perhaps it is the 2007 installment that should be viewed as the fluke. But now with the fourth installment we’re finally getting to the heart of why Transformer toys and Transformers 4 are so great. And all these nay-saying critics probably don’t recognize that when they got big, they became the guy from Big who thinks that there’s something fun about a building that turns into a robot.

The Last Bookkeeper

They didn’t quite break the mold after her. It’s more like they just put it away way, way up on the top shelf where it was easily forgotten.

She woke up in the morning because that is what you do in the morning. You wake up. These days she didn’t have to work, but she kind of liked it. What else was she going to do all day?

When asked how she would spend a fantastical lottery win, she replied with events that cost nothing–reading, gardening, sitting outside with coffee.

Gossip flew into her neat and clean office but never out of it. Despite working with money all day she never talked of it. Not even to her husband. The most she would do is close her eyes and shake her head to confirm that other’s interrogations were on the right track.

It would be a mistake to say she saw the world in black and white. But life was certainly divided by conspicuously sharp lines. The boldest of these lines brought to the front what you and I might call life’s “have to’s” but she might call her duty. From raising her brothers, to raising her family, to offering a dissenting opinion just when consensus was near, to making her bed every morning, to being on-time, to not leaving dishes in the sink, to putting the cap back on, to cleaning the house on the same day every week, to keeping the washing machine off for at least one day a week, she did these things not because she wanted to, but because if she didn’t they wouldn’t get done. It could be a very tiring existence.

And yet despite the wear and tear that always seems ready to take its toll, our bookkeeper frequently experienced a feeling which most of us do not–satisfaction.

I Killed Church

Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.

I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.

Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.

I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.

So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.

I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.

He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.

I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.