1963 Magnavox

 

A friend has done a series of posts about her and Jeffs lifelong romance, and all they had been through.
Jeff  hired me to work for his tile company back about 2001. I worked for Jeff about a year. I didn’t do very good work for him, but he hung with me and did everything he could to help me. It was a time in my life that help was a bit wasted on me. But that didn’t stop Jeff from trying. I think our association and my employment ceased when I spent two weeks in jail.

Years passed and I got better. Took an office job in 2004. Twenty three years later, I’m still there.

One of my fondest memories was answering the phone at work one day. We get calls from people wanting their television repaired. But we don't repair televisions. Usually I cut them off and refer them to Hurst TV and Appliance . Sometimes rather rudely.
 But this one day at work the phone rang and the man was telling me about his television, and how he needed it repaired. He sounded a bit elderly.  He had a kind warm unhurried voice with a wonderful Southern drawl.

He said “I have a stereo and television console. It’s a Magnavox, we bought it in 1963, and we never had a problem with it. But lately it seems to take a long time to warm up, and the color is off, and the stereo sounds kind of scratchy.  I don’t know anything about these things. Can you repair it for me?”
I just listened , and I listened long enough that the voice became familiar.
‘Sir, if you have had that since 1963 I’d say you got your money’s worth. Most people these days just go out and buy a new one. I’m sad to say that we don’t repair things like that. But you can call Hurst TV and Appliance. They may be able to help you”
And then It hit me, where I’d heard that voice before. Jeff had had me do some work for his parents. They treated me like one of their own. Fed me lunch and dinner, and some kind of wonderful Anastasi dried beans and had Nora Jones playing on the 1963 Magnavox stereo. Jeff and his dad had the same voice, and same manner of speech and I was talking to Jeffs dad.
I was sure of it so I added “This wouldn’t happen to be Mr Maddox, would it?”

And sure as hell it was.

Here's the thing. It changed the way I answer the phone at work. I'm never short or rude anymore. I even hung up a post it note with the phone number for Hurst TV and Appliance so that I can provide that to folks that call, looking for help

And when I get those calls, I always think of Jeff and his father.
It’s a good thing to let good people influence us. Jeff and his father, they were good people.

Mohawk

Dad used to tell me he and the guys sported Mohawks during WWII. He was a pretty tight lipped, serious, and conservative man, and I didnt know whether to believe him or not. But here it is, somewhere around Capistrano Italy, and dad about 25 years old. Looks like he might be firing up a grill.

My Furry Mothership Hat

In 1977 and everybody was doing Disco, I decided to go full on Funk. It was my way of rebelling while also joining in on the fun. I got myself a pair of Whalebones shoes, a stretchy nylon shirt with a big train on it, bought some Curtis Mayfield and Sly and the Family Stone albums, and that’s when it happened . I ran head on into George Clinton and Parliament Funk!
With its Mothership Connection, tunes like “Dr. Funkentstein's Supergroovalisticprosifunkstication Medley”, “Night Of The Thumpasorus People” the big hit “Tear The Roof Off The Sucker” and Bootsy Collins slappin’ his Space Bass, I was hooked on funk..
This wasn’t Disco, this was Disco on a bad batch of STP, a cross between downtown Detroit and Hollywood from some other dimension.
It was another one of those albums that when I took it to a party, I was handed back my big furry Mothership hat.

You're Not Misunderstood, You're Just Doing Stupid Stuff

Its OK to joke yourself, but you shouldn't joke other people.
Like the time I took a bite out of Joanna Rodriguez's sandwich in the LD Bell lunchroom and put it back in her bag. It was supposed to be a mystery, a secret, like a funny (haha) who-done-it. She would open her bag and see the big bite out of it and smile, and say "Who is the comic genius that took a bite out of my sandwich." I would fess up, and I would be completely endeared to her (even though we had not been formally introduced) saying "Oh how clever you are!" But it wasn’t a secret for long because of my overbite, and the peanut butter and jelly on the corners of my mouth. That was a dead give-away. It wasn’t funny either, haha, especially to Joanna who was pissed that some asshole with an overbite had secretly taken a bite out of her sandwich her mama had packed for her. Right there in the lunchroom, while she went to get her milk.
What was the country coming to, that you couldn’t set your lunch down for not even a minute?
In my minds eye I can still see Joanna, as I'm sure you must be seeing her as well, disgusted and fuming, unceremoniously stuffing the sandwich back into the bag, marching to the trash can and slam dunking it, madder'n Charles Barkley.
And it wasn’t funny to me, now suddenly being absolutely horrified at the realization of what I had done, and the fact that it wasn't a secret, or the least bit funny-- which is what I was shooting for, haha-- at all. No sir, it wasn’t funny at all.
Addendum:
This story came up during an online recovery zoom meeting today. The topic was the masks that we wear and our true selves. I shared that even on a good day when I seem confident, polite, courageous, smart, friendly, funny, well spoken, urbane, and on the odd occasion, sophisticated, that deep down I'm like an awkward little boy that just wants attention, approval, and acceptance. And I'm afraid that I won't get it.
I think about this story often.
Sometimes you think maybe you're misunderstood. But you're not misunderstood, you're just doing stupid stuff. Fifty years later I still have to remind myself not to take a bite out of other people's sandwiches in order to get attention, and live in a certain amount of fear that I will have a momentary lapse of reason and resort to such tactics.
I get a lot of mileage out of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich don't I?

An Artificial Intelligence Edit

 My favorite memory is always the freshest one—the thing that suddenly floats back into my mind after years of being forgotten. Today it might be those nighttime walks down our street when I was four, my small hand swallowed up in my dad’s. The air was cool and a little damp, the kind that made the hairs on my arms stand up. Under the road, the creek murmured and gurgled, and above it the streetlight buzzed with a faint electrical hum. Thousands of tiny toads, their backs slick and cold-looking, dotted the warm pavement as they snapped at moths swirling in the yellow glow. But I’ve remembered that one before, so it can’t be today’s favorite.

Maybe instead it was around the same time Dad taught me how to catch a rabbit. We turned a wooden box upside down on the grass, the wood rough and splintery under my fingers. One end was propped up with a stick, and from the stick dangled a carrot that smelled grassy and sweet. I remember sitting there in the warm twilight, the chorus of crickets rising around us, imagining the soft thump of a rabbit hopping inside. Only it never happened—we never caught anything—and I’ve remembered that too, so I guess it doesn’t count either.

Maybe it was like the morning after I saw the movie Godzilla. The world outside was wrapped in fog, thick and pale, tasting a little like metal on my tongue. I stood in the garage doorway, breathing the cool mist, and in my mind’s eye—maybe like you’re seeing now—I imagined Godzilla rising up from the creek bed where the toads and the rabbits lived. His huge shape pushing through the fog, headed up the hill. Headed toward me. I’ve remembered that one before, though not too many times, and I don’t know why something so scary—a monster coming through the mist for you—feels like such a good memory to hold onto.

I think it was that same week they took the training wheels off my bike. I was terrified—shaking, crying, the kind of tears that taste salty and hot on your lips. “Momma, no!” I yelled, voice cracking. But when I finally pushed off, the tires hummed on the pavement and suddenly it was easy, smoother than I’d imagined. Wind slapped against my cheeks, drying the last streaks of tears as I flew down the hill toward the creek where the toads chirped. I sailed past the spot where I’d had that bad tricycle wreck the year before. Then I hit the curb, hopped it, shouting and laughing as the bike rattled beneath me, bouncing down the dirt bunny trail. Straight toward Godzilla, or where he would’ve been in the fog.

And I think I had forgotten that. But now I remember, and it’s alright.
Yeah, it’s alright.

Here is the original, from 15 years ago.
https://srevestories.blogspot.com/search?q=tricycle

This Sophomoric Trickery

George Will on congress and the renaming of the renaming of Army bases, including Fort Bragg, renamed to Fort Liberty, and back again:


 "The legislation, which included a stipulation that no base would ever again have a Confederate’s name, inspired a provision in the 2021 defense authorization bill [passed by congress] that became law over President Donald Trump’s veto. In 2025, however, the second Trump administration, practicing what it evidently considers sophisticated trickery, restored the names. Sort of.

"Fort Bragg, which briefly was Fort Liberty, is now renamed back to Fort Bragg. Not, however, for Confederate Gen. Braxton Bragg, but for Pfc. Roland L. Bragg, who won a Silver Star in World War II. Fort Pickett, which briefly became Fort Barfoot, is again Fort Pickett. This time, however, the name (we are supposed to believe) honors not the Virginian who led Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg, but Vernon W. Pickett, a lieutenant who in World War II won a Distinguished Service Cross.

"This sophomoric trickery — the cleverness of the dim-witted — by the commander in chief is intended to mock the law. This is what now passes for fulfilling the president’s constitutional duty to “take care that the laws be faithfully executed.”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/.../nebraska-rep-don.../

See less

Clean and Sober, Or Just Clean?

I say clean and sober. I happen to be both, even if the one is known to be all inclusive to us.. Just saying I’m clean might be a bit vague for some folks not in the fellowship.
A few years back I went to a birthday paty at the Chicken Pickle place. A cute little red haired girl came wiggling up to me. We really seemed to hit it off.
At some point I told her I had 16 years clean and sober.
“oh that’s great” she says “but do you get high?”
“Well no” I said “I’ve got 16 years clean and sober. No booze or dope”
And she says again “But do you get high?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She says “You know, like pot and gummies”

LOL, well no, my darling new friend, those are off the menu too.

Forty Mother's Days Gone

Aw man, I had that dream again. You know, the one where you feel bad because you hadn't called your mother in so long, so you flip open your phone and cant figure out why she's not on your list.

You look under mom. Nothing. You look under Doris. Nada.
You take a shot at Mrs Renfro, but that makes no sense. You've never called your mother Mrs Renfro.
Then it hits you, why she is not in your phone.
It's a real shame too because Mrs Renfro loved to talk on the phone. I can see her now on the couch, but without the 20-foot cord that attaches to the yellow wall phone. She has an iPhone. Top of the line. She sent out who knows how many messages this morning. She's yakked up with who knows how many people.
And now she's ordering a pie from Tippin's. Probably a chocolate coconut cream.
Happy Mother's Day Mom!

THE REAL WORLD

 (-3) x (-6)= 18

Huh?
(-3) x (-6)= 18
Multiply two negatives and you get a positive. There is even a logical explanation for it, I know there is because I just read it, but I’ll be damned if I can explain it back to you.
So, (-3) x (-6)= 18.

That’s the one I’m sure I missed on the College Entrance Exam I took last night.
I was never any good at math.
That’s not true.
Once upon a time I was good at math. Good enough to land myself into an Honors Algebra class. But it was there that I learned how to not do my homework and barely pass. Mainly because I had discovered girls. Girls were my new Major. I passed algebra without really being able to do any algebra. That’s a real art man, one that I almost perfected. From there I went on to flunk Geometry, then Chemistry, and find myself as a senior in need of one single math credit in order to graduate from LD Bell.

That’s how I came to walk into room C-3 for my last shot at passing a math for dummies class. There stood Mr. Barker.
Mr. Barker had been my teacher for those failed Geometry and Chemistry classes. He took one look at me and said “Steve, after I call roll you can go to the office and see about a transfer to a different class if you like.”
I stumbled into my desk and said “No, Mr. Barker, I’m going to pass one of your dumb math classes if it’s the last thing I do” and the whole class busted out laughing.
See, I was one of these guys that sat there, and when Mr Barker said “Two plus two equals four” I would loudly proclaim “Yeah, like when will I ever be able to use THAT out in the real world.”

Well, it didn’t take too long to find out. As a chef I learned to do food costs, and price menus; I figured labor percentages, and planned budgets. I actually spent about a year doing light accounting when I was assistant manager at a restaurant.

Even doing tile work, figuring square footage and how much material was needed for a job I utilized more math skills than I ever would have dreamed of as a young punk. I even got to use the Pythagorean Theorem (even though Pythagoras didn’t actually invent it; the Incas and Chinese had been using it for a thousand years before he came along, although I shouldn’t slight the man for that) in order to draw out a perfect right-angle grid for laying a floor.

 So I was surprised last night when I took the math portion of the college entrance exam and thought I was doing pretty well, except for that darn multiplication of a negative. I never had to use that in the real world.
But who knows? Just like 2+2=4, it could come in handy someday.
See?
"If a cat can run up and down a tree in a minute, how many times can a cat and a half run up and down a tree and a half in a minute and a half?"

Addendum~ Apparently I didn't go as well as I thought. The University informed me after grading my exam that before I did any online courses I should go to a local community college and take some math courses..."in person".

“86” Baked Potato

I went out New Years Eve to a nice steakhouse. We went early, like 5:00.
The waiter took our order.
He was sad to say they were out of baked potatoes.
Having been in the foodservice business a number of years I can tell you there is not much that can happen at a steakhouse worse than to have to eighty-six baked potatoes.
No one died, but still...
Total Mission Fail

EARTH DAY~ TOM CLAYTON

Suggested viewing for Earth Day. Tom Wilkinson plays a lawyer defending a chemical company until he discovers what they are covering up. From Tom's dialogue...

Yes! Here we are, all together. Is everyone listening? 'Cause this is the moment you've been waiting for, a very special piece of paper. So let's have a big, paranoid, malignant round of applause… for United Northfield Culcitate Internal Research Memorandum #229!
(Reading from the memo)
"June 19th, 1991. Conclusion: The unanticipated marketing growth for Culcitate by small farms in colder climate demands immediate cost–benefit analysis."
Hah. Would you like a little bit of legal advice? Never let a scientist use the words "unanticipated" and "immediate" in the same sentence. Okay? Okay.
"In-house field studies have indicated small, short-season farms dependent on well water for human consumption are at risk for toxic particulate concentrations at levels significant enough to cause serious human tissue damage."
Well, this is a long way of saying that you don't even have to leave your house to be killed by our product, we'll pipe it into your kitchen sink.
"Culcitate's great market advantage, that it is tasteless, colorless, and does not precipitate, has the potential to mask and intensify these potentially lethal exposures."
Now, I love this. Not only is this a great product, it is a superb cancer delivery system.
"Chemical modifications of the Culcitate product, the addition of a detector molecule such as an odorant or a colorant, would require a top-down redesign of the Culcitate manufacturing process. These costs, while assumed to be significant, were not summarized here."
Which, loosely translated, means: "It's going to cost a fortune to go back on this, and I'm just an asshole in a lab, so could someone else please make the decision?"
"Clearly, the release of these internal research documents would compromise the effective marketing of Culcitate, and must be kept within the protective confines of United Northfield's trade secret language."
You don't need me to tell you what that means. Goodbye!"