What to Write?

What do you talk about when there is really nothing going on?
What do you write about when you cant think?
Its that awkward pause in the conversation when you realize that you really have nothing more to say.
Some people call it writers block. I prefer the term "Brain Constipation"
You must admit, my term is much more......picturesque.
It seems that I am actually nervous to write about a lot of the really funny stuff that has happened. For various reasons, prosecution being one of them. The other participants in said hilarity still being alive would be another.
I am eagerly awaiting the demise of a few people just so i can tell a really funny story.
That sounds so wrong.
I am certain if I told it whilst they were still amongst the living, they would slay me. So, I will tell a lessor story. Still funny.... Just not AS funny.

I once worked with this fellow, lets call him Berry for the sake of a name. He was young and full of the devil. He liked to play practical and impractical jokes on people.
Impractical meaning that the probability of anyone else in the world finding the joke funny was highly unlikely. I blame Jackass. Damn that Bam.
I was in a toilet stall one fine day. Don't cringe, but you too have been in those same stalls. Looking out.
I was minding my own business, actually and literally, when a handful of wet toilet paper hit me right in the face.
It was cold.
Shocking.
and very very wet.
Berry! In my heart I swore vengeance!
I may have mentioned this before, i may not have mentioned it at all, I don't do these sort of things. Not usually. Mostly because when I do them, they end badly.
I am not smart.
I forgot that my revenges always end poorly.
One day a little after this.
I was walking out of the bathroom and Berry walked in. Alone. I knew he was alone because I had just left and I had been alone.
I am sure, that as I gathered an entire sink full of toilet paper and turned the cold water on that I was grinning in a deranged manner.
I know I was, saw it in the mirror.
I carried fully ten pounds of dripping wet nastiness to the stall, saw the boots under it.
REVENGE!!!!
I leapt in the air and slam dunked the entire wad right on Berry's face!!!
SHAZAM!!!!
I was laughing in a deranged manner as I ran out of the bathroom and slammed right into Berry.
Standing right outside the door.
The look on my face went from deranged glee to oh shit in less then an eye blink.
Stunned.
I was only able to turn slowly and see the door slowly opening.
My Boss.
Wearing ten pounds of splattered toilet paper.
Blinking.
Berry was laughing like a deranged person.
sigh.
I never learn

Perils of AEC

Its an unavoidable part of adult human life in the good old USA. I will give you the absolute guaranty that if this has not happened to you at least twice already in your life it will happen in the next day or so.
Absolutely
Certifiable
take it to the bank Guaranteed.
AEC.
By the time you are done reading this brief Public service announcement you will have remembered several times in your life that it has happened and dread (or anticipate happily) your next occurrence
AEC.
It is such a common thing, so far as of yet unexplained by modern medical science, the changing of the zodiac or the twilight books. (yes, ok, enough)
AEC.
This is how it happens. You, or someone exactly like you enters a public restroom. With mind intent on what is to come you walk with a purpose to the nearest available stall/cubicle/urinal and in passing your eyes wander over a closed, locked and occupied stall. And it happens. ACCIDENTAL EYE CONTACT.
The persyn sitting inside this paradox of privacy and you lock gazes. Such times test our mettle. Do we look away quickly? Raise Eyebrows in the universal sign of  "really"? Or, smile and mouth the words "peek-a-boo".
If you are a man I would advise against options B and C. Perhaps if you are a women as well. Not being a women I am not versed in the correct etiquette. Possibly a finger wave?
 The conspiratorial glance shared between fellow sufferers at children's birthday parties, the eye roll shared between siblings when one of the feeble minded parents starts to tell yet another anecdote for the umpteenth time, the come hither burning gaze from a member of the opposite sex at a party inviting you to delights best left unmentioned in this blog. These are not, strictly speaking, AED.
Ok, the last one has never happened to me personally but I have friends that swear it has happened to a friend. The one time I thought it was happening to me I had the foresight to turn around and see Gerard Butler  standing behind me.
But all of those can not properly be described as true AEC.
AEC is as common as dirt, it befalls all. Both high and low come under its malignant (or benevolent?) gaze from time to time.
The couple making out in a public place, an innocent glance can become AEC.
A criminal in the backseat of a police cruiser being transported to durance vile, AEC.
The plumber who pulls a wad of WTHs out of your clogged toilet. AEC.
The pretty women at the gym who strains a mite to hard and adds her toot to the symphonic accompaniment, AEC.
The man caught in an obvious leer by the ? leery ? or would that be ? leerer ? AEC.
All in all, it can happen to anyone. anytime. anywhere.
Well, except to this kid.

Begining

Its all about the first few words. Grab the reader with that and chances are they will finnish reading what you have written. Even if the rest is munge they will plow through with the hope that the feeling captured in those first few words will repeat.
I read a lot. I mean I READ A LOT. One book a night if I average it out. That's a lot. When I was but a callow youth I made a goal that I would never start a book and not finnish it.
Because of that, and my extreme stubbornness I have read some really horrible books over the years. Some of them were just dumb, some were offensive, a couple were pure and unadulterated crap. The kind of thing that sullies your brain (at least mine) forever.
I have also been rewarded from time to time, by a book that starts out bad, but ends well.
I have learned to Judge books by the covers and publishers, not always a good thing but pretty accurate over time.
I wonder if life is like that?
If it starts out good will it hold enough to interest you to the end?
When does it start?
Do you all of a sudden one day look into a mirror, focus on you, the you that is looking back from the magical depths of the mirror, focus on everything that you are, everything that has formed and shaped and moulded you. Focus on everything your mind can encompass, and say "Once upon a time......."
Start from there.
Works For me.

Fear is after

The ride down was great.
The road was clear and twisty and the traffic light. Only had to stop for road construction once but ever since we whored ourselves out to get the Olympics that's been unending. It was spring and the air was just chilly enough to warrant heavy gloves and a sweater under my jacket.
Weather report was talking about a light storm but aside from a little tiny bit of rain over the summit it was dry and marvelous.
The job went great. I had a small part in a big movie and the Director was great to work with. The other actors were all out of LA but the crew was all local. I had a GREAT time. About midnight one of the sound guys came in and told me about a change in the weather.
Big storm coming in.
I did listen, I really did. But this was a great party and I really did not want to ride 3 hours right then. So I waited. Figured if I left at 5ish I could beat the storm and make the last and twistiest part of the canyon as the sun came up.
The best laid plans.
I left at 5. Put on all the gear I had, borrowed a pair of sweat pants to wear under my riding leathers. It was cold. Really cold. I made it out of town and headed up the canyon in record time, I had in my head this idea that I needed to beat the storm.
It happened really fast. Far less time then it will take you to read this.
Coming around the last corner before the summit I discovered two very unpleasant things simultaneously. Three inches of new snow on the road and a fully loaded semi tractor trailer sliding sideways straight towards me. I was going too fast and not expecting snow. I didn't dare hit the brakes. Two wheels under you on snow can very quickly become catastrophic.
Problem.
I was slowing to a stop and getting as far to the right as I could. The semi was about 60 feet away and looking to slide right over the top of me.
This is when I discovered the third bad thing.
My boots were frozen solid to my floorboards.
I panicked and started yanking my feet as hard as i could. My left boot was a little looser from shifting and two good yanks broke it free. My right boot might as well have been super glued on. Couldn't even budge it.
I got right next to the guardrail and stopped.
Put my left foot down and looked up.
20 feet, 15 feet, 10.
My life didn't flash. I didn't see a light. I was still yanking on my boot. Thinking if I could break it free I could dive over the rail. A 200 foot slide to the river was looking much better then getting squished.
The very corner, the last two inches, the very barest edge of the bumper on the trailer hit me.
Cut a three inch gash in my vest, scratched my jacket. My boot came free. The semi slid of the road, smashing the barricade into scrap and grinding to a stop 30 feet behind me.
No lesson. No moral. No regrets.
The Film, incidentally. Is playing at Sundance right now.

Dr. Doolittle

I speak cat.

I can also understand some dog.

Monkey is just gibberish and I doubt that chickens even have a language. 

I realized this about two years ago when I found Fat Jack with his throat ripped out laying on my porch bleeding out life number two.

I said, "Oh shit, are you OK?" and I very distinctly heard in my head

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I AM OK? GET ME TO THE MEDIC! dumb-ass"

The odd thing to me at the time was that he sounded just like Barry White.

Since then we have meaningful conversations all the time.

He is pretty wise for a 45lb fur-ball that only has 2, maybe 3 lives left.

We had a very long talk one day after we had rescued him from the cat hoarder. He was telling me about all the other cats in the garage with him. It had never occurred to me that other animals than humans could be racist. But Fat Jack has a deep and abiding hatred for orange cats and long hairs. He couldn't tell me why, and when I pushed him for a reason he just looked at me out of his good eye (the one that shuts) and said "Son, some things is just things" then he farted on me.

He calls me Son when he thinks I have said something dumb.  Let me rephrase that. He calls me Tom seldom and refers to me as Son the rest of the time. It’s quite odd, being addressed by an animal I once punted through the door for yakking half digested dog food all over the carpet on Christmas eve referring to me as "Son". 

The Dog,  Mr. Henry speaks much less. He has a really high excited sounding voice, and repeats things. "Ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball ball" (you get the idea) is a pretty common litany.  Another is "water" "food" and other such mundane things. 

Every once in a long while he surprises me.

One morning, he was chanting "Tom! Tom! Tom!" over and over and over until I threw a shoe at him. The next thing I heard was this splashing sound as he projectile shat all over the hall.

When I got up to beat the hell out of him he just looked at me. Sitting there in the hall, surrounded by his own splatter and said, slowly and clearly. Enunciating every word "I tried to get your attention old boy, but you were dead to the world. This mess is a direct result of........”

That’s when I kicked him.

Did I mention he has a high voice? The kind that sounds super excited all the time? I know he drives Fat Jack nuts, but I never thought they really understood each other. I figured that it just sounded like yelps and barks and mewls and odd noises. well, I was wrong.

A few months ago I accidentally drilled through my hand.

 It hurt.

 I was jumping about and trying not to whimper. I sat down to catch my breath and looked over to see both of them, sitting calmly, looking at me.

Mr. Henry (the damn dog) looked over at Fat Jack (the damn cat) and said

 "HEY! did you see THAT!!?" and Fat Jack said, ostentatiously to Henry, but I know he wanted me to hear. "yep, what a dumb-ass"

Epiphany

I cant fly. Or see through walls.
I tried to fly once, actually I threw Justin off the roof first to see if the bushes were soft enough to land in. They weren't.
So I flew down to the mattress after Justin got back from  the hospital.
I have tried my whole life to see through walls, but I cant even manage clothing so walls are pretty much a no go.
I cant run really fast, or hear hardly at all, or even catch bullets. Shit, I cant even DODGE bullets.
I learned pretty early in life that I was not a superhero.
I also am not very smart. So knowing that I wasn't a superhero didn't stop me from trying.
In 9th grade I got the holy hell beat out of me by a teacher. Because I stood up for another kid.
Learned a huge lesson there.
Teachers, for the most part. Are not your friend.
A year after that I got the living tar whaled out of me by a policeman. For refusing to tell him who had thrown a hanky at his car. I didn't tell him, because I didn't know.
Learned a huge lesson there.
Cops, for the most part. Are not your friends.
In high school I had to fight 4 guys at once. Cause the three guys that were with me r-u-n-o-f-t.
HUGE lesson there.
For the most part. Friends are not your friends.
For a superhero, this would have all been cake.
I learn slowly however.
In 9th grade, my 7th grade brother fought two teachers and got slapped down next to me. Because he is my brother.
Learned a life lesson there.
Brothers, for the most part. Are forever.
A year after that, after I had been beat senseless by a policeman. I watched two of my Uncles hold my Dad back while a third calmly explained to the policeman that it was lucky thing for him he was a cop, and why.
Learned a Giant lesson there.
Families can be pretty cool.
In High school, I was left on my own and was feeling sore afraid. Fighting four guys is not fun, when five guys came and rescued me.
Had an epiphany with this one.
Friends, can be as good as Family.

who does that?

Its a damn chicken!
Ok, let me rewind a little.
Earlier today I heard a bit of a ruckus in the front yard. A bit of caterwauling, some small amount of howling and this weird huffing sound. I figured the cats were fighting again. Fat Jack (the cat) would undoubtedly emerge victorious once again and the noise would stop.
But it didn't.
It got louder.
Fat Jack is a big dude, for a cat. He eats small dogs for breakfast and has a platoon of neighborhood toms just waiting for him to use up the last of his nine.
I hope they wait for a long time yet. I like this cat. He is one tough animal.
So I waited with perfect faith in his UFC skills to make the noise abate. It didn't. It not only got louder it started to sound like Fat Jack was tapping out.
So I opened the door.
I held my breath as I did this, I have been surprised in the past by a rabid lap dog, a 40 pound raccoon and once, terrifyingly, by a 13 year old magazine sales girl crying cause she needed to sell ten more subscriptions before she could go home and......
I sort of liked the National Geographic, but the other nine got boring really quick.
So, I opened the door, and slammed it shut.
Did a quick mental inventory and ascertained that I was awake and not currently taking any mind altering substances.
Then I opened the door again. Still there.
Fat Jack was getting his furry big ass handed to him on a plate.
By a chicken.
a chicken.
Once more...
A CHICKEN!
So, I whistled for Mr. Dog thinking that he would go out and have a little chicken dinner.
wrong again.
Mr. Dog made it back inside before the door was even open all the way. The chicken jumped off of Fat Jack and made this sort of huffing sound. Mr. Dog practically turned a somersault trying to get back in the house. I slammed the door in the beak of this foul fowl and looked down. Fat Jack had taken advantage of Mr. Dogs inglorious distraction to make a break for it and was sitting on my chair, licking a split paw and giving me a feline stare down. Mr. Dog was whining by the back door. IBS.
At this point I should have got the shotgun. But owing to a little misunderstanding with the local constabulary, I try not to shoot anything I don't absolutely have too.
So, I opened the door to kick the chicken.
At this point I should undertake to explain that it was not a "chicken" per se, but a "Rooster" the difference being mainly, according to my sources, that a chicken lays eggs. A rooster on the other hand, lays cans of whup-ass!
10 seconds later I was back in the house, breathing heavy and feeling like I had just run a mile in the cats and dogs paws. That Rooster was one scary avian-bird-flu-terror of the southern backwoods escaped from some chicken chain gang on the bayou thug of a feathered fowl.
So.
I called the nice little old lady down the street.
She has a huge nice yard and this summer she rented it out for a wedding. She borrowed a few chickens and a rooster to give the yard that authentic step in livestock poop, farmyard flavor.
I suspected this rooster, was left behind. On purpose.
Two minutes later, she sticks her head out the door and calls "CLUCKY'
a few times. This ferocious hell-bird calmly strutted home.
She named it Clucky.
Clucky.
Fat Jack, Mr. Dog and I just looked at each other.
Clucky.
She named it Clucky.
Who does that?