Last Friday night, Diana and I went to see the Elders’ concert at a Catholic church in Lee’s Summit. Now, I’ll not name said church so that none of their lawyers will be able to come back later and sue me for libel, because this tale is far from complimentary.
It’s also true.
The Elders, if you don’t know, is an Irish-Rock band from Kansas City. That’s all I’ll say about them this time, though, because this tale isn’t about them. It’s about what happened before their concert.
The concert was part of a community festival that the church was having, so its parking lot was filled with booths of one sort or another and a large stage for concerts. This meant, of course, that visitors had to park elsewhere. There were two such areas, both being large, grassy fields nearby. One was the “VIP lot” where, for $5, one could park hiser vehicle and not have to walk all that far to the nearest junk food booth. The other was for the riff-raff and was free. Of course, the price was a considerably longer walk.
Being a good Scot – and a card-carrying member of the riff-raff – I turned right into the free parking rather than left.
It was like any such parking venue: citizen-volunteers in orange vests pointed one to another volunteer in an orange vest, who … I’m sure you get the picture. I followed the pointing fingers until there were no more to be seen. I saw an open slot and began to pull in. But, no, ‘twas not to be. Here’s where I met The Fuehrer.
A teenaged boy came running up to me as I was pulling into the slot and told me I couldn’t park there. I asked why, since it was an open slot and would block nothing. He said he didn’t know, but that “he’d” – pointing to a man some 100 yards or so farther on – said I couldn’t. I had to go to this man to be told where I could park. Neither of these two were visible when I first drove up.
Okay, it was a nuisance, but I did as I was told. I drove up to the older man, who just smiled and asked me how I was.
“Where do you want me to park?” I asked, already a bit irked and not really interested in exchanging pleasantries.
“Anywhere you’d like,” he said, innocence dripping from his voice.
“Wait a minute. I’d already chosen a spot, but you apparently didn’t like that. So, you tell me where to park.”
Again, the smile.
Finally, after a minute or two of silence, he said I could park “right there,” pointing to the end of the row where he was standing. Exasperated, I just parked and walked away.
He never gave me a reason for this display of petty power. I don’t think there was a reason, except a chance for him to feel like a man. The most aggravating thing about it – and the thing that really enraged me is that I saw another vehicle park in the exact spot I’d originally chosen – and the parking lot fuehrer at the end of the row said absolutely nothing about it. Nada. Zip.
I don’t know if this nazi idjit was associated with the church or not, although I suspect he was. Why else would he consent to voluntarily work in the car park? So, he’s probably a fine, upstanding member of the church. Probably goes to mass every week and piously prays for whatever they pray for … and screws people over so he can feel a rush of importance.
Do I blame the church? No. I blame the man. He’s obviously wanting for self-esteem, so feels it necessary to abuse what little authority he actually possesses. Other than that, hey, maybe he’s a good guy. Maybe he prays to his god and loves his family and his nation and may even pay his taxes – most of ‘em, anyway.
Doesn’t matter. He’s a fascist.
21 July 2008
17 July 2008
A Dog’s Tale
A Scotsman walks intae a pub in Inverness one fine day, approaches the publican, and orders a pint o’ stout. Noo, accompanyin’ our fine Scot is a large, scruffy ruffian o’ a dog. Och, wiry hair, severe overbite – a right worrisome sight, this dog.
The publican sets the pint doon next tae our Scot. He proceeds tae drink it doon in a gulp or twa, then picks the dog up by its legs, swings it in a circle over his haid, then puts the dog back doon. He then orders a second pint.
Once again, the barman delivers the pint, the Scot drinks it doon, picks the dog up by its legs, swings it aroond, and sets it back doon. And orders yet a third pint.
For the third time, our fine publican places the pint in front o’ our Scot. Said Jock does just as he did both times before: drinks the pint doon, picks the dog up by its legs … ye get the picture.
By this time, the publican is beside himself wi’ curiosity.
“Oy,” he says. “I’ve been noticin’ wha’ ye’re doin’ wi’ tha’ dog. Could ye tell me wha’ tha’s all aboot, lad?”
“Och!” Our hero says. “No’ tae worry. ‘Tis a watchdog, y’see, and I’m just givin’ him a wee look aroond.”
And may yer days be filled wi’ laughter, fun, and a wee dram or pint or twa. By the way, this tale was unapologetically lifted from a wee book o’ Scot’s jokes, an’ nae copyright infringement nor pairsonal gain is asked for or expected.
Slainte!
The Auld Scot
The publican sets the pint doon next tae our Scot. He proceeds tae drink it doon in a gulp or twa, then picks the dog up by its legs, swings it in a circle over his haid, then puts the dog back doon. He then orders a second pint.
Once again, the barman delivers the pint, the Scot drinks it doon, picks the dog up by its legs, swings it aroond, and sets it back doon. And orders yet a third pint.
For the third time, our fine publican places the pint in front o’ our Scot. Said Jock does just as he did both times before: drinks the pint doon, picks the dog up by its legs … ye get the picture.
By this time, the publican is beside himself wi’ curiosity.
“Oy,” he says. “I’ve been noticin’ wha’ ye’re doin’ wi’ tha’ dog. Could ye tell me wha’ tha’s all aboot, lad?”
“Och!” Our hero says. “No’ tae worry. ‘Tis a watchdog, y’see, and I’m just givin’ him a wee look aroond.”
And may yer days be filled wi’ laughter, fun, and a wee dram or pint or twa. By the way, this tale was unapologetically lifted from a wee book o’ Scot’s jokes, an’ nae copyright infringement nor pairsonal gain is asked for or expected.
Slainte!
The Auld Scot
10 July 2008
A tale for another time
In my story about fireworks, I mentioned that I’d had a close encounter with the things and said that would be another story for another time. Well, this is the story and this is the time. Bear with me – I promise the tale will be mercifully short.
Several years ago, I was at a backyard barbecue with some friends. Beer and other beverages of the ethanol species were in plentiful supply, as were willing partakers thereof. That, coupled with really good barbecued ribs, was a recipe for disaster.
We were sitting around the patio table after eating, just chatting and joking, when Tom, one of the guys, hopped up and ran inside the house. I suppose I should mention that the party was at Tom’s house, just for completeness of the saga. Anyway, he came running out a few minutes later carrying a large coffee can that was stuffed to the brim and beyond with 1½” firecrackers.
He sat back down and proceeded to light the things one at a time and toss or flip them out into his yard. I guess he needed to put more bang into the party or something. Apparently so did everyone else, because we all started laughing and making snide comments. You know: partying.
Until.
Tom lit one of the firecrackers and flipped it, ostensibly down-range as he’d been doing. The problem is that this one hit the table’s edge and ricocheted down to the patio, then off Diana’s foot, and came to rest an inch or so away. The fuse, of course, continued merrily smoking away and growing shorter and shorter.
Without thinking, I reached down to grab the thing, intending to scoop it up and toss it into the yard. Yeah, right. It exploded just as my hand closed around it. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my hand, followed by a blow torch. And this person hadn’t bothered being any sort of gentle about it, either. I was initially too stunned to do anything, then sure that I’d find my fingers somewhere out in Tom’s back yard. I took a quick inventory, though, and realized my hand and fingers were still intact, although blackened by the gunpowder.
Everyone, it seemed, was yelling – or laughing, the louts – and asking me if I was okay. Hel, NO, I wasn’t okay – I’d just had an explosive device go off in my hand, ferchrissake! I needed medical attention, dammit! And I needed copious amounts of anesthetic, preferably of the liquid variety. And I needed sympathy – lots of it. Well, since I’m a medic, I managed to get the medical attention – lessee, normally there are five fingers, four of which have three parts and the other two: check. And I made sure I got that anesthetic. Dr. Guinness makes some wonderful and powerful anesthetic medicine, let me tell you.
But did I get the sympathy? Do I even need to ask? Not only were these, my so-called friends and family, unsympathetic (after the initial inquiry into my health, to their credit), they were downright derisive. Hmph! I could have just gone to work if I’d wanted that kind of ‘tude.
Here’s the thing: I was lucky. We’ve all heard of these things blowing hands and fingers off. Instead, my paw was only swollen and painful for about a week or so. The palm also had a mild burn ... but it was still firmly attached to my wrist. Lucky.
You know, I told this to a friend a day or so ago. She asked me if I thought I was the type who would have thrown himself onto a grenade to save his buddies. The sobering truth is that I think I am.
The Auld Scot
Several years ago, I was at a backyard barbecue with some friends. Beer and other beverages of the ethanol species were in plentiful supply, as were willing partakers thereof. That, coupled with really good barbecued ribs, was a recipe for disaster.
We were sitting around the patio table after eating, just chatting and joking, when Tom, one of the guys, hopped up and ran inside the house. I suppose I should mention that the party was at Tom’s house, just for completeness of the saga. Anyway, he came running out a few minutes later carrying a large coffee can that was stuffed to the brim and beyond with 1½” firecrackers.
He sat back down and proceeded to light the things one at a time and toss or flip them out into his yard. I guess he needed to put more bang into the party or something. Apparently so did everyone else, because we all started laughing and making snide comments. You know: partying.
Until.
Tom lit one of the firecrackers and flipped it, ostensibly down-range as he’d been doing. The problem is that this one hit the table’s edge and ricocheted down to the patio, then off Diana’s foot, and came to rest an inch or so away. The fuse, of course, continued merrily smoking away and growing shorter and shorter.
Without thinking, I reached down to grab the thing, intending to scoop it up and toss it into the yard. Yeah, right. It exploded just as my hand closed around it. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my hand, followed by a blow torch. And this person hadn’t bothered being any sort of gentle about it, either. I was initially too stunned to do anything, then sure that I’d find my fingers somewhere out in Tom’s back yard. I took a quick inventory, though, and realized my hand and fingers were still intact, although blackened by the gunpowder.
Everyone, it seemed, was yelling – or laughing, the louts – and asking me if I was okay. Hel, NO, I wasn’t okay – I’d just had an explosive device go off in my hand, ferchrissake! I needed medical attention, dammit! And I needed copious amounts of anesthetic, preferably of the liquid variety. And I needed sympathy – lots of it. Well, since I’m a medic, I managed to get the medical attention – lessee, normally there are five fingers, four of which have three parts and the other two: check. And I made sure I got that anesthetic. Dr. Guinness makes some wonderful and powerful anesthetic medicine, let me tell you.
But did I get the sympathy? Do I even need to ask? Not only were these, my so-called friends and family, unsympathetic (after the initial inquiry into my health, to their credit), they were downright derisive. Hmph! I could have just gone to work if I’d wanted that kind of ‘tude.
Here’s the thing: I was lucky. We’ve all heard of these things blowing hands and fingers off. Instead, my paw was only swollen and painful for about a week or so. The palm also had a mild burn ... but it was still firmly attached to my wrist. Lucky.
You know, I told this to a friend a day or so ago. She asked me if I thought I was the type who would have thrown himself onto a grenade to save his buddies. The sobering truth is that I think I am.
The Auld Scot
07 July 2008
A still, small voice in the wilderness
Last Friday, I did what most Americans did: I participated in our great national orgy of explosions and symbolic destruction (far too much of which was literal as well as symbolic). I say I participated, but I did so by going to an acquaintance's house and watching the aerial displays there. I gave up shooting the things off several years ago when I damned near blew my hand off, but that's another story for another time. Now, I just watch.
And react at a level that surprised me, as much as it sobered me.
Why is it that we Americans take so much joy in blowing things up? Why do we apparently get off on destroying things? Now, before you go ballistic here, I'm not necessarily talking about any one person in particular, but about the American culture as a whole. If you feel that I'm talking to you personally, then perhaps you should give that some very deep thought; otherwise, please just read on.
You see, I was sitting there Friday night, watching the displays. Now, this guy lives in the county, so there were looots of fireworks being blown up, from all around us and at varying distances. And, of course, there were the bozos who just had to shoot off 3" and 5" mortars.
As I sat there, it suddenly occurred to me that this was very much like combat - I remember that, believe me. The small stuff (1-1/2" firecrackers and the like) were rifles being fired, or machineguns when someone lit off a string of the things. They popped and cracked in exchanges of rifle fire. The larger devices were artillery - complete with aerial trails, multi-colored flashes, the whole enchilada. Oh, yeah, there was even debris falling from out the sky - and shrapnel if you were unlucky enough to be too close to one of these things. As I said, there was a battle raging around me. This veteran began to get just a tad hinky, y'know?
What really did it for me, though - what sent me spinning into the surreality of the Twilight Zone - was during one of the inevitable lulls in the battle. The rifles and big guns fell silent ... and I heard the unbridled giggling and joyful shrieks of the children simply being children.
Maybe I read too much into it. Maybe I was thinking or remembering too much. Maybe I'd just had some bad beef or something. It doesn't matter, y'see. I was struck with the ludicry and hypocrisy of it all. We Americans take so many pains to pass ourselves off as peace-loving folk ... but we celebrate the birth of our nation by destroying things. Oh, sure, the destruction is "just fireworks," but it's the symbolism. We worship destruction. Peace? That's positively unAmmurican, by gawd.
There's an old folk song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone. Some of you may remember that song - it was very popular during the folk era in the 1960s/1970s. The chorus asks, "when will they ever learn?" I ask when will WE ever learn?
And react at a level that surprised me, as much as it sobered me.
Why is it that we Americans take so much joy in blowing things up? Why do we apparently get off on destroying things? Now, before you go ballistic here, I'm not necessarily talking about any one person in particular, but about the American culture as a whole. If you feel that I'm talking to you personally, then perhaps you should give that some very deep thought; otherwise, please just read on.
You see, I was sitting there Friday night, watching the displays. Now, this guy lives in the county, so there were looots of fireworks being blown up, from all around us and at varying distances. And, of course, there were the bozos who just had to shoot off 3" and 5" mortars.
As I sat there, it suddenly occurred to me that this was very much like combat - I remember that, believe me. The small stuff (1-1/2" firecrackers and the like) were rifles being fired, or machineguns when someone lit off a string of the things. They popped and cracked in exchanges of rifle fire. The larger devices were artillery - complete with aerial trails, multi-colored flashes, the whole enchilada. Oh, yeah, there was even debris falling from out the sky - and shrapnel if you were unlucky enough to be too close to one of these things. As I said, there was a battle raging around me. This veteran began to get just a tad hinky, y'know?
What really did it for me, though - what sent me spinning into the surreality of the Twilight Zone - was during one of the inevitable lulls in the battle. The rifles and big guns fell silent ... and I heard the unbridled giggling and joyful shrieks of the children simply being children.
Maybe I read too much into it. Maybe I was thinking or remembering too much. Maybe I'd just had some bad beef or something. It doesn't matter, y'see. I was struck with the ludicry and hypocrisy of it all. We Americans take so many pains to pass ourselves off as peace-loving folk ... but we celebrate the birth of our nation by destroying things. Oh, sure, the destruction is "just fireworks," but it's the symbolism. We worship destruction. Peace? That's positively unAmmurican, by gawd.
There's an old folk song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone. Some of you may remember that song - it was very popular during the folk era in the 1960s/1970s. The chorus asks, "when will they ever learn?" I ask when will WE ever learn?
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