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Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on November 29, 2012, 01:39:21 PM

Title: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on November 29, 2012, 01:39:21 PM
franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas.  “You were a real hit at Thanksgiving,” the neighbor’s wife said when she came over this morning.  Usually I see the neighbor’s wife about half a dozen times a week, but she’s been busy.

“They’re still talking about it at the nursing home.”

I figured, I said, although I dunno why.  There had been fourteen of us there, three of whom were from the local nursing home.  They weren’t “bring-in”s for the holiday, just to be kind to ancients, but friends of the hostess and host, contemporaries of theirs.

Fortunately, out the fourteen, franksolich was not the only young one there.  Much to my surprise--and relief--when I’d showed up, there was a niece of the hostess there too.  She’s about 40 years old, Nancy Reagan-sized, lives in another county.  Her husband had to work Thanksgiving, and so she’d packed off their children to the grandparents, and come here to help her ancient aunt.

I was awed at the sensitivity of these people (remember, I don’t know them that well); for fourteen people, there were two tables, the niece at one and myself at the other.  The niece had the mumblers and no-eye-contacters and incoherents (incoherent to me, because of deafness), while I got all the animated ancients.

I sat between the hostess and the retired banker’s wife, the award-winning gardener, and also at this table were Grumpy, the retired banker who wears his polyester pants hiked up to his midriff, the host, the guy who’d been a maitre d’ on the Santa Fe Super Chief during the 1960s, and a long-ago retired school teacher.

I dunno what they found so interesting about franksolich, because I let them do most of the talking.  Grumpy spent a great deal of time and care explaining to me why the farm policies of Dwight Eisenhower had been a disaster for farmers, a subject which engrossed me as much as it engrossed him.  He even managed to come across as undismissive, even warm.

The retired maitre d’, who unfortunately worked the Super Chief after its heyday, rather than than during it, because he couldn’t talk about Hollywood stars riding the train, filled me in on labor problems.  Apparently whenever a white guy was hired as porter or waiter, the union squawked, because they looked at such positions as for their own, not for white guys.

This had been in the 1960s, as early as the 1950s, when such jobs in fact were highly sought-after and well-paid.  He said the whole train went downhill after the Santa Fe combined the all-coach El Capitan with the all-sleeping-car Super Chief, and the coach-class passengers were always trying to get into his dining car, when they already had a top-of-the-line dining car of their own.

(The Super Chief-El Capitan of course evaporated with the foundation of Amtrak in 1971.)

I commented to the neighbor’s wife there were some photographs of the absent guest, mostly black-and-whites taken during the 1960s, much like those of mine.  The absent guest of course is only six weeks older than myself, and I noticed a great many similarities, although he seemed a much friendlier, genial, kid than I’d been.  I wasn’t shown any pictures of him past his eighth-grade graduation, which apparently was about the time he started doing drugs.

“You know, I really would’ve liked to see him,” I said.  “Especially given the way the elections turned out, I really need some assurance that there’s justice in this world.  Of course, there’s justice ultimately with God, but it’d be nice to see a little bit of it in this world, people paying the wages of sloth and greed and decadence and escapism.”

I’d been interested in meeting this primitive, who apparently is now like a waterbed mattress and about as sensate, for scientific purposes of comparison.  We’re the same age, from similar socio-economic backgrounds, and I’d like to see what franksolich would look like, if franksolich had turned out a primitive.

But that hadn’t been possible, the primitive joining us, because the medicals at the nuthouse up in South Dakota had said he was in no shape to travel, even with professionals accompanying him (for which my hostess, the primitive’s aunt, had apparently offered to pay--she’d wanted to see him one last time, before his guardianship is signed over from her to the hard-pressed taxpayers of South Dakota, his enormous trust-fund having been depleted the past thirty years).

The neighbor’s wife had to rush somewhere else, but before leaving, she asked me what I wanted for Christmas.  I told her that all I want for Christmas is a primitive.   
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on November 29, 2012, 01:48:19 PM
I told her that all I want for Christmas is a primitive.

This sounds like a song in the making . . .

"All I want for Christmas is a primitive feast, . . . "

Could someone take over? O-) :whistling:
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Gina on November 29, 2012, 01:56:44 PM

"All I want for Christmas is a primitive feast, . . . "

"Nadin's a beast....
at this primitive feast"
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Randy on November 29, 2012, 03:47:57 PM
Look out, Frank is looking to be like Michonne on The Walking Dead.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on November 29, 2012, 06:14:09 PM
Look out, Frank is looking to be like Michonne on The Walking Dead.

Okay, so I nadined "The Walking Dead;" it's apparently some television series.

But in my defense, the fact in real life is that while decent and civilized people know who and what franksolich is, Democrats, liberals, and primitives tend to get confused--Hell, even scared at times--because franksolich is a phenomenon they just can't figure out.

They don't like dealing with things they can't figure out.

In real life, I could drive Atman nuts in.....less than a minute.  Absolutely raving nuts.

<<done it before.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on November 29, 2012, 06:38:23 PM
In real life, I could drive Atman nuts in.....less than a minute.  Absolutely raving nuts.

<<done it before.
.

Well, then . . .

Drive

Him

Nuts!
  (Think Name That Tune.)
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Skul on November 29, 2012, 07:31:35 PM
As Coach is want to say, I've been a bit discombobulated as to why he wished to subject himself to the shinanigans of a primitive.
After several beers, it finally dawned on me.
My mind is now at peace.  O-)
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Randy on November 29, 2012, 10:31:48 PM
(http://cdn2-b.examiner.com/sites/default/files/styles/image_content_width/hash/93/6d/1350331506_7144_michonne.jpg)

Frank in the hood with Atman and Stinky on the chains with jaws and arms removed for safety.  :-)
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on November 30, 2012, 02:51:30 AM
Frank in the hood with Atman and Stinky on the chains with jaws and arms removed for safety.

Actually, the sparkling old dude is the one primitive I've wanted the most to meet in real life.

The sparkling old dude is a raconteur, a great story-teller, and it'd be interesting, listening to his reminiscences of personalities he knew, or knows, in organized crime, in the Navy, in the food service industry.

He's probably dealt with some colorful people, and it'd be fascinating learning about them.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on November 30, 2012, 04:55:06 AM
The neighbor came over this past evening about 9:30, the bar in town being boring, bringing with him his older brother and a friend.  They were kind of, uh, sauced, and there was more out in the refrigerators in the garage to get even more sauced on.  I don't drink myself, but if it's something that rocks one's chair, rows one's boat, pushes one's buttons, it's perfectly okay to do so here.

In fact, this is exactly where people come when they want to drink outside the sight of their wives; there's three refrigerators out in the garage, and amply stocked.  The only downside to it is that one has to bear the company of franksolich, who's pretty boring, and oftentimes detached from the company.

That, I could never figure out--it's been a mystery to me since childhood--just because I'm around doesn't mean one has to converse with me, get me engaged in idle chitchattery; I'm perfectly okay with others gabbing away while I do my own thing.  But I guess to hearing people, if it moves, it's expected to talk.

The neighbor's older brother, who thinks I'm a little strange despite all evidence to the contrary, was drunk enough to be friendly.  He thinks franksolich is strange because I don't hunt or fish (even though I'm not against it; in fact, I encourage it), don't know how to use firearms (even though I'm not against them; in fact, I encourage others to learn how to use them, and to have them), have the habit of "recklessly" walking into awkward situations (which is unavoidable if one is deaf; otherwise one would just sit there, walking into nothing at all), am a "city boy," a dude, who gets uptight about things that bother others not at all, and a nocturnal habit of mine.

He asked about my plans to get a primitive for Christmas.

It'd been like only six hours or so, since I'd confessed to the neighbor's wife that all I wanted for Christmas is a primitive, but this is a small place, and word gets around fast. 

I don't think it goes by word-of-mouth; ever since a little lad, I've been convinced that hearing people pick up information by osmosis, rather than actually hearing, absorbing information as it flies through the air.  They seem to know things without having been told them.

It makes me jump up-and-down, getting red-white-and-blue in the face, because if I need to know something, I have to ask.  And most of the time, the query's either not answered, or if answered, I don't grasp it.   

Yes, I told him, I was looking for a primitive for Christmas, preferably one about my own age and social, cultural, academic, and economic background; someone born and raised in conditions similar with my own, so I could see what I would be like today, if I'd turned out a primitive.

He thought that was rather weird, because most people want "things" for Christmas.

I reminded him I've always had everything I needed, and to me, experiences are far more interesting than things.

They left about three in the morning, the neighbor's brother now even more convinced that franksolich is an odd bird.

Whatever; one can't help being what one naturally is.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 02, 2012, 01:47:57 PM
“Well, now she’s invited you over for Christmas dinner,” the neighbor’s wife said this morning, when we both got back from church.

“How’s that going to go with your wanting a primitive for Christmas?”

I said I’d been taken aback by the invitation, especially since I’d spent Thanksgiving there, and I really don’t know these people all that well.  It’d been an okay time, but these people are just acquaintances, not close friends.

“But then when she said they do it on Christmas Eve--a sacrilege, but whatever--I said sure, I’ll be there, because that’s not Christmas dinner, and still gives me a chance to have Christmas with a primitive.

“I could never figure out doing Christmas on Christmas Eve, and refuse to do it myself; next thing you know, people are going to do Christmas on Christmas Eve Eve, December 23, and then December 22, and then December 21, and inevitably they’ll end up doing Christmas on the Fourth of July.

“I first noticed this disturbing trend when I was a kid, and some kids were opening up Christmas presents on Christmas Eve, not Christmas morning.

“No way.  Christmas is December 25, no other time.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Hey boss, you’re going to get a special Christmas present,” the property caretaker said at noon, when he was over here looking for something he couldn’t find; a tool of some sort.

“From you?” I asked; “you know all I ever want is cat-litter, and you’ve always given me six twenty-pound bags of it every Christmas.  It’s much appreciated, and don’t stop that.”

I always ask for cat-litter for Christmas.  It isn’t a trivial or nonsensical request; in fact, such a gift makes perfect sense.  When the snow’s laying 42 inches thick on the ground, and a 40 mph breeze is flowing, and the thermometer reads ten degrees, and ooops, I’m out of cat-litter…..well, if there’s lots of it stacked up in the garage, I don’t have to worry about it.

The gift to franksolich is that I don’t have to go out in that weather.  It’s a pretty good gift.

“Although,” I added, “this year, I want a primitive for Christmas.”

“Don’t worry about what the wife and I are getting you, boss,” the caretaker said; “this isn’t going to be from us.”

The caretaker’s wife is the biggest gossip in town--bless her heart, as she’s also very kind--and had found out that my hostess for Thanksgiving had sent something down to a jeweler in Omaha, to be all spiffed up, so as to be presentable to me on Christmas Eve.

“Oh no,” I said, turning white.  “I can’t accept it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

During the Thanksgiving fete, my hostess had shown me her collection of old music boxes; I counted 47 of them, and she hadn’t shown me all of them.

Unbeknownst to my hostess, I have an utter fascination with music boxes, as they’re my only real link to the world of music.  Other times, other places, I’ve been transfixed for hours with even just a single music box, playing it over and over and over again as I held it under my chin, or against a cheek, or pressed on the forehead, or jammed against an elbow or knee-cap.

For hours.  Over and over and over again.

I’m actually and truly hearing--“hearing” without the quotation marks--music.

I’ve never gotten tired of it, but one has to admit hearing Brahms’ Lullaby repeatedly for four hours is not a “constructive” use of one’s time.  If in the presence of even just four or five music boxes, I can waste eight or nine hours, just hearing.

I suppose many might laugh--especially considering franksolich is a fully-grown mature adult macho male--but if one’s deaf, one takes sound any way one can take it.

- - - - - - - - - -

Among the music boxes, all of them antiquities from the Victorian era, was one that one of her ancestors had brought from civilized, settled Ohio to raw, unbroken Nebraska during the late 1870s.  It wasn’t the fanciest or most-intricate one she had (in fact, it’s a rather ordinary-looking music box, apparently made in 1866 by “Samuel Troll“), but it was the music that attracted me.

It was a minuet by Andre Joseph Exaudet, a particular piece that reminds me of my mother.

I’d admired it most of all, and it took robust and severe self-discipline to keep from ignoring all else, and sitting on the side of the bed for hours, listening to it.

“Well, I’d like you to have it,” my hostess said, startling me.

I’d dismissed it, changing the subject as if I hadn’t understood what she’d just said.

“Well, boss,” the caretaker said.  “It looks like you got a problem here.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 03, 2012, 06:48:46 PM
Late on Sunday afternoon, two people came over here to work on their motor vehicles; a guy with his pick-up truck and a woman with her sedan.  They’ve been here many times the past several years, and I was long ago told their names, but didn’t grasp them, and have been too embarrassed to ask again.

There’s lots of people who come here to work on their motor vehicles, rather than doing it at home, for the same reason the neighbor’s wife cooks her Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s turkeys in the kitchen here rather than at her own home.

There’s plenty of room, it’s all clean, and whatever one needs is out here.

The guy, who was putting down a lot of beer while working on his truck, got done first and left.

I went out and talked with the woman, who was changing the oil in her car, and was just about done.

We exchanged pleasantries and small-talk; she works in a dental office in the big city; married to a truck driver, mother of three elementary-school-aged children.  She knows automotive mechanics from having been raised on a farm over in the next county.  About 40 years old, blonde, petite, although possessive of some muscle-power.

She mentioned she’d heard I was looking for a primitive for Christmas.  “I don’t know why you want to bother with such people,” she said; “from all I’ve heard, they’ve been bothering you considerably ever since you came out here to live, abusing your hospitality and generosity and all that.”

Now, out in the real world amongst real people, Skins’s island and the primitives are little-known, or if known, little heeded.

However, up here on the roof of Nebraska, the eastern slope of the Sandhills, franksolich has done a reasonably good job of publicizing Skins’s island and the primitives.  Most people around here aren’t into habituating message boards on the internet, but even they’re aware of Skins’s island and the primitives, if even only second-hand.

A few have actually ventured over to Skins’s island, but not for the long-term; just a casual curiosity once in a while.  Those who have, insist Hate isn’t their cup of tea.  Others have expressed wonderment that creatures such as the primitives exist.

But generally, overall, most ignore Skins’s island and the primitives.  However, when franksolich talks of them, they immediately know what he’s talking about.

So she knew what I was talking about; what primitives are.

“They’re such depraved people, I don’t see how you can be so fascinated by them.”

I reminded her it’s purely an academic study and analysis of them, much like the late anthropologist Margaret Mead, professor to George Bush at Yale, studied other groups of people.

“But there’s problems with it,” I admitted, “studying primitives only on the internet.  One gets a better grasp of them examining them in real life. 

“And the problem here is, there’s damned few, if any, primitives around here.

“The closest one is a big guy down in Bellevue, and that’s a little over two hours away.

“He loathes and detests me, but his wife poor dear Marta loves me.

“There’s one down in Kearney, a little bit more of a distance, a primitive who has problems sitting on the commode, and another one out in North Platte, but we’re talking some serious gasoline money here.

“And my study’s become more specialized.  I used to observe any and all primitives--primitives of all ages and genders and localities--but I’m now looking around for a primitive the same age as I am, with a similar socio-economic-cultural background, to find out what makes us different, and to discern how I’d turn out, if I’d turned out a primitive.

“Right now, there’s only one available on Skins’s island who meets these standards, some guy in eastern Connecticut.  It’s uncanny, how similar our backgrounds are.  The only differences are that he has thinning blond hair, while I’ve got luxuriant dark brown hair. 

“And he’s turned out a loser, while I haven’t.

“I’m curious to find out what makes the difference.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 06, 2012, 08:17:56 AM
On Tuesday afternoon, when I returned home, there was a strange car, a grey sedan, in the front yard.  I noticed it had no license plates, but put that thought aside as I went up the front porch.

Sitting on the front porch, waiting, was a guest from the past summer, Italianate Jesus.

It hasn’t happened often while I’ve lived here, but once in a while someone who’s stayed here before comes back.

“Oh,” I said; “His High Holiness and Perfect Being the Bagwam Maharishi Rawalpindi Thiruvananthapura Yogi.

“How’s things with the Bagwam these days?”

Italianate Jesus, who looks like Christ--even the hair’s the same--if Christ had been born in Calabria rather than Bethlehem, had been here in mid-August, part of a gypsy crew who went around to small fairs during the summer selling Esty-like trinkets and dubious home-made concoctions (and some 0bama-worship stuff), who’d camped down at the river while hustling at the local county fair.

He was the right-hand man of the leader of the group, Rhinestone Santa.

This group was from a commune out in Oregon, dedicated to organic living and worship of the Bagwam, a grossly fat and greasy Hindu charlatan who sported with nubile young hippychicks in a luxurious mansion on the grounds of the commune--surrounded by barbed-wire and a few security guards--while his followers lived in crude decrepit sheds and barracks, and worked at hand-cultivating crops when they weren’t out on the road peddling junk for the support and greater glory of His High Holiness the Bagwam.

They’d stayed here about two weeks, and as they hadn’t caused any problems--a sensation and much local gossip yes, but problems no--and so I wasn’t too put out by the reappearance of one of their number.

Italianate Jesus ignored my query about His Holiness, and asked if he could camp here a day while he “sorted things out in” his “head.”

After ascertaining he was solo, nobody else with him, I instead suggested he could stay in the house.  It’s been unseasonably warm this autumn, and the weather pleasant, but still, it gets cold at night.  I decided he could use one of the bedrooms in the unheated and usually not-used annex to the house; despite the austere quarters, it was better than what he was used to.

I showed Italianate Jesus his room, and then mentioned I’d just dropped by here to pick something up, and had to head west, to meet the business partner.  The business partner lives 130 miles west of here, and we were meeting halfway, so I’d be gone, I guessed, about three hours, maybe four.

And so in the meantime, he was supposed to make himself at home; he’s been here before.

- - - - - - - - - -

I left, and it was dark when I got back, the business partner and I having a great deal more than expected to discuss.  When I came inside the house, Italianate Jesus was nowhere to be found, although from the looks of the bedroom where I’d put him, he was in fact going to spend the night.

When I went out to the back porch, I noticed there was a campfire burning over by the river, the site of the hippycamp of so much local fame, or notoriety.

Italianate Jesus was probably down there, mediating or contemplating of whatever it is cultists do.  He was obviously in a state of great mental disorder and distress, and so it was best to leave him be.

So I turned on the light illuminating the back porch, so he wouldn’t have to walk the distance in total darkness, when he was done.  And then I went to bed.

- - - - - - - - - -

When I got up in the morning and got dressed, I went into the kitchen, finding Italianate Jesus working over the stove, fixing something.  He announced it was breakfast for both of us.

I winced, but I hoped it didn’t show. 

After all, I credit my health to that I eat only things I prepare myself, or which are prepared by people I know well; everything from their real name and background to their credit report and sexual habits and family tree and driving record, and where their hands have last been.

This was what I call “glop;” I don’t make it any special habit to have “vegetarian” supplies in the pantry, but Italianate Jesus had made do with what was there.

Pea soup isn’t on my list of culinary delights, and for breakfast, but since I don’t stock onions here, it was safe for me to gingerly spoon up a few sips, enough to show I’d partaken, and was hungry no more.

- - - - - - - - - -

Italianate Jesus is of short stature, probably 5’10” or so, slight in build, swarthy of skin, and with a large scar running from his left eye down to where his jaws interlock.  Probably about 40 years old, I guessed, and the scar a result of a long-ago knife-fight with another mafiosi, perhaps in Bridgeport, Connecticut or one of the suburbs of Baltimore.

I was going to ask him how the other cultists were getting along when suddenly he began flowing with details, talking a mile a minute, so fast I could barely understand.

He said it’d been a lousy summer for sales, and that the Bagwam back in Oregon was not pleased.  So as to keep His High Holiness placated, and jack up the size of post office money orders sent, the group had taken to petty theft and fencing the goods at pawnbrokeries. 

Somewhere in Texas, three of them had gotten caught, and tossed into the local pokey.  Italianate Jesus assumed Rhinestone Santa had contacted the Bagwam, asking for permission to keep some of the latest sales-receipts to bail them out, but the Bagwam had said “**** them,” and to go on with the show without them.

He didn’t know that for sure, but assumed that’s what happened, because he’d seen it happen to other people, other places, other times.

So Italianate Jesus, the chubby lad, and the deaf one were stranded when they were set loose ten days later, nowhere to go.  He didn’t know what’d happened to the chubby lad or the deaf one, as they all three took of their separate ways.  He was here, and they were only God knows where.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then suddenly Italianate Jesus’s eyes grew as big as saucers, a frantic look in his gaze, and he reached across the table to put his hand on my hand.

“They’re after me,” he explained; “they’re after me, and I have to get away.”

I looked at him blankly.

I’d assumed the car was stolen, and with this revelation blurted out, that he meant law-enforcement was after him.  It made sense.

But no; as Italianate Jesus rambled on and on, myself catching perhaps only a fourth of what he was saying, it became obvious he was talking about someone else trying to run him down.

My jaw dropped as he finally put it explicitly, that “enforcers” of the Bagwam were after him, because he “knew too much.”

I wanted to snort in derision, but God held me back.

It’s very common among those absenting themselves from a cult to lapse into unreal paranoia; and it’s even been observed among primitives leaving, or being tossed off, Skins’s island. 

And so I didn’t bother asking him why “they” were “after him,” as I already knew it was an assumption based upon his temporary mental disorder.

However, I assured him that what goes on in the Bagwam’s happy hippy farm is common knowledge, not “secret information.”  Weak-minded people seduced by an alleged Messiah, who then exploits them until they’re no use any more.

What’s always freaked me, though, is that such Messiahs never seem to have any aesthetic qualities; they’re usually ugly beings who probably stink a great deal, possessive of at least a couple of really grotesque physical features, and are dismissive of concerns other than their own.

I dunno; perhaps it’s their voice, or what they say, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.

But one’s eyes should be used as much as one’s ears.

“Everybody knows that members work in fields from sun-up until sun-down performing labor-intensive agriculture, and before hitting the sack at night, they’re given a bowl of gruel, its ingredients stolen from grocery-store and restaurant dumpsters.  And the clothes are pilfered out of clothing-donation boxes near thrift-stores.

“And while the Bagwam and similar Messiahs live in Streisandian luxury and opulence, the members live in galvanized-metal sheds or run-down barns.

“If a member gets sick or becomes an expense in some other way, the member’s ditched somewhere, minus any resources and identification, for the cops to pick up and send to the emergency room at a hospital.

“That, you’ve said so yourself, and the deaf one had illuminated me about it last summer, the first time all you guys were here.

“And while out on the road selling trinkets, members dine at soup lines, free kitchens, and city missions.

“If the trinket market’s not so lucrative, then members shoplift, snatch purses, and do other petty theft, to keep sending those post office money orders to the Bagwam, so as to keep His High Holiness happy.

“As one of the chants say, ‘The Bagwam’s Glory is our food, our clothes, our shelter, our all.’

“Everybody already knows this goes on, and most of us remain mystified why some people are so damned stupid.  It’s true that probably the sexual practices of the happy hippy farm are exaggerated, but generally most sane people have a pretty good idea of what’s happening.

“I don’t think you have anything to fear; I don’t think you’re harboring any dangerous secrets the Bagwam fears you might reveal.”

All that chitter-chatter however didn’t reassure him; Italianate Jesus was sure “they” were after him, which is how he’d ended up here.  But he couldn’t stay here, because Rhinestone Santa, one of the Bagwam’s most trusted lieutenants, knows of this place.  So he’d just paused here, on his way to northern Minnesota or upper Michigan, or maybe even Canada.

I was inwardly relieved he didn’t anticipate staying here any length of time, but my Christian charity and compassion reminded me Italianate Jesus was stressed out and badly needed some time to collect himself, so I suggested he stay one further day and night, to get all rested up.

He wasn’t enthusiastic about that idea; he was sure Rhinestone Santa and other “enforcers” of the Bagwam were already just now in the next county to the south, working their way up here, to find him.

However, I finally prevailed upon him to stay at least one more night, and if any mischief was afoot, all I had to do was pick up the telephone, and even without giving explanation, this place within minutes would be surrounded by firearmed farmers and townsmen, at the ready to protect franksolich and what franksolich needed protected.

So Italianate Jesus stayed one more night, but when I got up this morning, he was gone.

Before leaving, he’d kindly put the leftover pea-soup in the crockpot, apparently meant for breakfast for me.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Chris_ on December 06, 2012, 08:31:35 AM
Vegetarian pea soup?  When I make pea soup, I put bacon and ham in it.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: dandi on December 06, 2012, 11:59:14 AM
Will primitives burn for a long time? If so, I want a primitive for Christmas too, to use as a Yule log.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on December 06, 2012, 12:16:22 PM
Will primitives burn for a long time? If so, I want a primitive for Christmas too, to use as a Yule log.

You'll have to fill out the 3,000-page Environmental Impact Statement first . . .







. . . in triplicate.  Handwritten. :tongue:
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 06, 2012, 12:18:02 PM
Vegetarian pea soup?  When I make pea soup, I put bacon and ham in it.

It was glop.  Fresh peas, barley, brown rice, and water.

So much for the culinary talents of the Italianate.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 06, 2012, 12:30:36 PM
Will primitives burn for a long time? If so, I want a primitive for Christmas too, to use as a Yule log.

Oh now.

I had a discussion with the neighbor's wife about this just before lunch time.

It's a comparative academic study, to find a primitive the same age and with a background similar with mine, to discern why the primitive turned out a primitive, while franksolich turned out okay; what I'd be like if I'd turned out a primitive.

It fascinates me, how people ostensibly the same can have different fates.

The neighbor's wife insisted that surely the sad melancholy fates of my own siblings (excepting the younger brother) would give me illumination enough; they all (excepting the younger brother) became primitives, they all got caught up in the drug scene, they all suffered bad health, and they all died too young.

I told her yes, that was applicable, excepting in the chronological sense, and chronology's important here.

The older brothers and sisters were way older than their two youngest siblings.  The older brothers and sisters were partly raised in New York City, partly raised in small-town Nebraska.  The older brothers and sisters knew the parents when the parents were young.  In even the earliest memories of my younger brother and myself, our mother was grey-haired and our father was nearly bald; they were old and tired even when we were toddlers.

The older brothers and sisters grew up in the late 1940s and all during the 1950s, a time outside the experience of we younger two, who were born and raised wholly in small-town Nebraska.

So while examination of their evolution into primitivity is of some use, it'd be better to find a primitive nearer my own age and time, for purposes of comparison.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: vesta111 on December 06, 2012, 01:06:07 PM

This is quite the quest you have taken on Frank.

I do not know of any primitive your age that is still around.   You could invite a couple of single off duty cops to dinner and 3 or 4 older street people for dinner and have them escorted out after the meal and your curiosity appeased.

You may be surprised at how much you have in common with these people, just a throw of the dice or Lady luck both good and bad placed you and them in different worlds.

Some say  " There by the grace God, go I " and it is true.   The road to life is not a straight one, there are many paths branching out that people take.  Sort of the old two doors, one has the Lady and one has has the Tiger.

What we are not told is the Lady may eat you all up and the Tiger become your friend.
 
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Wineslob on December 06, 2012, 04:22:46 PM
Ya know, I'll take one too. I've always wanted to beat a hippie with a baseball bat.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 06, 2012, 11:48:46 PM
Ya know, I'll take one too. I've always wanted to beat a hippie with a baseball bat.

But it's much more interesting to see an old hippie after he's spent some decades indulging in self-destructive habits, so no need to beat him at all.

I dunno; maybe I'm weird, but I get Great Satisfaction out of seeing justice doled out in this world, rather than having to wait until the next.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 06, 2012, 11:53:18 PM
Much to my surprise, the property caretaker and two of his friends showed up here early this evening, to put down some beer.  Apparently there‘s some sort of meeting at the VFW Club in town, and the bar was closed.

It was a surprise, but it was fine by me.  It can get lonely out here…..at times.

These were all guys in their mid-60s, all three of them having served honorably in the failed war for the liberation of Vietnam.  They sat around in the dining room, drinking and smoking and playing dominoes while I did my own thing.

When it was getting about nine o’clock, and they were readying to go home, the caretaker mentioned to me that I’d had a visitor here recently.

Yes, of course I had, Italianate Jesus, who was now gone.

But as nobody had been here the past three days, until this same day, I wondered how he’d possibly know; after all, I’m out in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from anybody else.

“Boss, you just don’t know,” the caretaker said; “because you’re not looking to see who’s around.

“The whole town knows one of those hippies was here, and some were even hoping they could show up Saturday night to watch the sextivities down by the river; we all need something to cheer us up, after our dismal football season.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Barely had that company left when new company arrived; the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, and two of their friends.  The bar in town had closed an hour early, at ten, but they weren’t quite finished drinking, and so came out here to finish the job.

The neighbor’s older brother is closer to my age, and at least on the surface we have a great deal more in common with each other, than franksolich does with the neighbor.  But still, at times, I seem to really annoy him, usually after he’s been drinking.

But oddly, if I need something I can’t get myself, or do myself, he’s usually the first in line to help.

He thinks I’m odd.  Now, the neighbor’s older brother is no backwoods peasant or provincial blue-city primitive; he’s no yokel.  He’s “only” (quotation marks sarcastic) a farmer, yes, but he was in the National Guard and has a master’s degree from the University of Minnesota.  He’s been around, and even spent a summer (his younger brother took care of his farm) two years ago on a Christian medical mission to western Africa, paying his own expenses.  He can speak two foreign languages fluently.

So surely he’s met all sorts of people, and so franksolich should be well within the range of “normal“ to him.

But still, he thinks I‘m odd, despite much evidence to the contrary.

I suspect I annoy him because of what he sees as contradictions.  For example, I don’t know how to use a firearm, which seems a prerequisite for machissimo around here.  But then on the other hand it seems I acquired sterling credentials in machissimo by my “staring down” primitives pointing a gun at my stomach, twice the past two years.

(That wasn’t really what happened; in the first instance I had no idea someone was aiming a handgun at me--it was captured on camera--and my nonchalant unrealizing reaction caused the primitive to panic, running away.  In the second instance, I saw the sawed-off shotgun within inches of my stomach, but before I could react, that primitive ran away.  [Both were later caught; in the first instance, I‘d been a customer at a convenience store, and in the second I‘d apparently unwittingly interrupted a drug deal.]

(But since it’s useful for public relations, I don’t bother setting the record straight.)

Or for another example, here where hunting, fishing, and camping are imperative for one’s male credentials, while I’m an enthusiastic advocate of such things--for other people--I don’t do any of it myself.  I went hunting, fishing, and camping with the older brothers, who were then teenagers, when I was four years old.  I was so bored I resolved to never do it again, and haven’t. 

Or for a third example, here where “hard work” is much admired and respected, despite franksolich’s non-muscular physique, I’ve managed to out-endure the neighbor’s older brother many times.  I sweat like a pig when the temperature soars past 60 degrees, but when he’s so exhausted he’s actually trembling, I still have an hour or two left in me.

Perhaps that’s why I annoy him so; too many contradictions.  He thinks I’m an effete fairy, but knows I’m not, and he can’t reconcile the two.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 07, 2012, 06:49:25 AM
From an idiot, via e-mail:

Quote
I noticed you have a signiture pic which says you want a primitive for Christmas?

Are you referring to owning someone of darker complexion as a slave? Cause, if so, then that is quite despicable and should be repudiated immediately.

No, I'm not referring to that, but I wonder if this primitive's willing to spend Christmas in the Sandhills.

<<sets a good table, if has to.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 07, 2012, 08:47:01 AM
The neighbor’s wife dropped in this morning, hoping I’d care to go with her to the big city today to do some Christmas shopping.  I looked at her as if she were Bozo from Outer Space.

Yesterday afternoon, Thursday, I’d been in the big city myself, and after dropping off some work, had to go to Wal-Mart to pick up a couple of industrial-strength electrical air-purifiers.  I insulated the house too well for the winter, and what with five cats and my chain-smoking, well…..

I’m not fond of chemical aerosols, because they might harm the cats.

Given the floor-acreage here, I picked up two electric air-purifiers that allegedly are good for up to 1200 square feet each.  I haven’t set them up yet, because I’m waiting for the caretaker to tell me if they make noise, which might disturb the cats.

Hiking through the dense crowds at Wal-Mart for air-purifiers (predictably, located at the furthest reach of the store, miles away from the front door), four gallons of milk, an ink-cartridge for the computer printer, and a new rubber plug for the bathtub had been an ordeal; I don’t want to do it again for a long time.

Despite that I had to wander over several square miles--I’ve never been intimately acquainted with the floor layouts of gigantic stores--the only “impulse” purchase I made was a box of facial tissues.

I was told it was a “slow afternoon.”  It was true that when I’d arrived, I’d gotten a parking place just feet away from the front door, and when all done shopping, didn’t have to wait in line at a cash-register, but it seemed to me traffic was plenty heavy.  Hordes and hordes of people.

I was glad to get out of there.

I’d been compelled to go to Wal-Mart because last week, in pursuit of electrical air-purifiers, I’d drawn blank stares at both the hardware store in town, and another store in the big city.  I kept being directed to the humidifiers and dehumidifiers, but that wasn’t what I wanted.  I wanted appliances whose sole function is to purify the air, not all these other gimmicks.

The neighbor’s wife said she understood; after all, just about everybody knows franksolich prefers shopping at small places, even if the selection’s less and the prices higher.

When I get around to winning the Powerball lottery, the first person on the payroll’s going to be someone to do my talking-and-listening for me, so I don’t have to deal with that.  And the second person on the payroll’s going to be someone to do all my shopping for me, so that I never have to go inside a store again the rest of my life.

She inquired if I’d resolved anything concerning the Looming Dilemma; turning down a certain Christmas gift to be offered me Christmas Eve by someone who means well, but I don’t want to deal with it.

“You know,” I said, “even though it was one of the plainest, ordinariest music-boxes in her collection, given its maker and its antiquity, I’m sure it’s worth at least a couple hundred bucks, and that’s too much.

“I can’t take it.

“And so no, I haven’t yet figured out how to sensitively and graciously turn it down; I’ve been too preoccupied with finding a primitive for Christmas.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: wasp69 on December 07, 2012, 12:06:17 PM
franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas. 

Ugh....  Make sure you get a gift receipt.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 07, 2012, 02:07:45 PM
It started snowing here on the roof of Nebraska about noon, so I decided it’d be a good idea to head to town to pick up the mail and some provisions in case the snow got bad.  It’s not predicted to, but this is Nebraska after all, where the unpredicted is what usually happens.

While in the lobby of the post office, I saw my hostess from Thanksgiving, who’s also going to be my hostess for Christmas Eve.

She had given me the details last week about what was to go on, but I didn’t bother grasping them because I figured I’d see her before Christmas Eve anyway, and could get them this second time around.

I’m expected at 5:00 in the afternoon, supper at 5:30.  The ancients are going there on Christmas day; this time around, it’ll be the hostess, her husband, and her niece’s family; nephew-in-law, niece, and three grand-nephews aged 9-14.  (This niece is the daughter of another sister, not the same sister who’d borne the waterbed mattress primitive.)

So it’s going to be the contrary of a primitive Christmas Eve; a “family values” Christmas Eve.

That’s fine, because I’m sure I’ll have a primitive Christmas day.

The niece had been there Thanksgiving, which had gratified me much, as I hadn’t wanted to be the only “youngster” there.  Her husband had to work that day, and so she’d shoved her sons off to their grandmother’s for Thanksgiving, while she came here to help her aged aunt.

I’d been startled by the conduct of my hostess that day.  She’s 86 years old, and I’d always thought she was unusually lively and animated for her age.  But she had “good” moments and “bad” moments the three hours I was there. 

I’ve only ever seen her at the post office or the grocery store, maybe five or ten minutes at a time, and she seemed powerfully activated those times.  Apparently those were some of her brief “good” moments, and the rest of the time, she’s tired, worn out, detached, and when she returns home from such excursions, she lays down for a while.

As mentioned before, she was born the same year as my mother, and I’ve had problems with that.  My mother had died at the age of 54, and despite stretching my imagination to its furthest, I can’t see my mother so frail and ancient-looking as my hostess.  No way.

Eternally young--sort of--my mother, inside this head.

She described the menu--it’s to be the standard Christmas dinner, turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn and peas, whole-wheat biscuits, and a vast assortment of pies.  To drink, coffee or milk.

The postmistress interrupted us, reminding her that she had a package from Omaha.

The Looming Dilemma; I took my leave, assuring her I’d be there at 5:00 in the afternoon Christmas Eve.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 08, 2012, 07:57:25 AM
About 5:00 last evening, the business partner was here, and we decided to go into town for some fine dining at the local bar (there’s actually three bars in town, but I usually go to the one with the biggest kitchen).  The neighbor was here too, and as his wife hasn’t gotten back yet from shopping in the big city, he decided he’d join us for supper (the children are with their grandparents for the day).

I was very happy to see that the owner’s husband was the cook tonight.  He doesn’t cook often, as he’s a long-distance truck driver; maybe about five or six times a month.  Of Norwegian derivation, his well-known and much-famed specialty is Italianate cuisine.

Even Italians from Minneapolis, Des Moines, and Kansas City come this far to savor it.

I scanned the menu.  The usual-and-standard pitina, gnocchi, polenta, risotto, pasta e fagioli, risi e bisi, fegato alla veneziana, tiramisu, mascarpone, baicoli, ossobucco alla milanese, cottoletta alla milanese, cassoeula, tortelli de zucca &c., &c., &c., and because it’s nearing Christmas, panettone.

The neighbor ordered strozapretti, and the business partner flammekueche and andouillette; the latter’s choices were off-menu, but the beaming truck driver said he could whip them up anyway.

Then he looked at me, scowling.  “The usual,” I said; “a hamburger smashed down hard on the grill so that all the grease is squeezed out of it, extremely well done, french fries fried on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.”

I dunno why he never likes my order--it’s been the same thing every single time since I moved up here more than eleven years ago, and it’s easy and simple and quick.  He’s a very busy man, and being a nice guy, I don’t want to trouble him any more than necessary.

- - - - - - - - - -

While we were dining, a cowboy drinking at the bar came over to sit with us.

I wasn’t fond of the new company; every town, no matter how small, has its Sullen and Surly One, and he’s ours.  He didn’t know the business partner, who lives way out in the middle of the Sandhills, but he knows the neighbor and me.

Sitting across the table from me, he looked at me with disbelief.

“Hey, I heard you were that guy who got lost, and have been meaning to ask about it.”

Inwardly I groaned. 

My going to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants happened nearly twenty years ago, and I’m surprised that once in a while someone out of the blue brings it up.  It’s true that I was prominent in Nebraska and a few other Great Plains newspapers at the time as a “human interest” story, but that is so much water past the dam that even I think of it only rarely, and am surprised when others remember it.

I’ve spoken only sporadically about it because it was one of those experiences one has to actually see and endure, before one can possibly believe it.  It’s a wholly different world than this time and place, and I saw and lived it from the bottom, not hovering from overhead.

Plus, there’s the “twist” that I saw, and experienced it, as a deaf person.

And when it comes to writing, there’s two things I refuse to write about--the time when I was three years old and run over and severely broken by an automobile, and my first six days in the socialist paradises.  The first because it sounds too much like James Thurber’s “The Day the Dam Broke,” local citizenry running amok like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off, and the second, because, well, it’s sort of hard to describe a wolkenkuckkuckensheim, a cloud-cuckoo-land, in a way that’s credible.   It would read more like fantasy science-fiction, even though it was all real, very real.

And it’d happened simply because of a transposed telephone number.

But I wasn’t in a mood to talk about it, merely confirming that yes, I was that guy, but you know, it all was so very long ago…..

I’ve dealt with people like the Sullen and Surly One all my life.  The only way I ever learned to react to rudeness and discourtesy is by acting as if the person extending it doesn’t exist.  It usually works, but it also tends to egg on a few.

And it wasn’t working here.

He changed the subject, mentioning he’d heard about a primitive who’d spent a couple of days out here this past week.

I confirmed that yes, a primitive had spent a couple of days here, but was now gone.

He added the observation that franksolich sure seemed to like primitives.

But only as anthropological research, I reminded him, much in the same way medical researchers collect specimens of germs and viruses and parasites for examination and study.  They’re dangerous to handle, but they must be handled, and one can learn how to handle them with care and deftness.

He wondered if I too might be a closet primitive, “All those goings-on out there, with hippies…..”

Now, in case anyone’s curious, despite my utterly normal-looking appearance and large size (6’3”, 174 pounds), I’ve always been a red flag for certain personality types, the confused and the insecure.  I don’t like it, but I’m used to it.

I’ve never been quite sure what it is.  Sometimes I suspect it’s the voice, in which every word is distinct and crystally-clear but seems as if coming from a ventriloquist rather than from myself.  The speech therapists did a good job several years ago, but alas nothing could be done about the seeming “detachment” of the voice.

It’s always seemed to me that hearing people put a great deal more importance on the sound of a voice than they should; and of course the confused and the insecure even more than that.

Or, if one knows me and knows that I’m deaf, it’s discombobulating that I appear to understand what’s being said to me.  It freaks them, and of course it freaks the confused and insecure even more.

<<freaks out people, especially primitives, all the time, but doesn’t mean to.

The neighbor and the business partner wanted to say something, but per my instructions given other times, other places, they let it be; I prefer to let such situations handle themselves, with the usual inevitable conclusion.

“All these people running around naked as jay-birds…..”

The business partner’s face got red, and the veins stuck out on his neck.  The neighbor looked alarmed, but it was difficult to determine if he was watching the cowboy or the business partner.

Having a brain-flatulence, and apropos of nothing, I idly commented, “Well, if you’ve got it, show it off……”

I have no idea why I said that; it just came out on its own.

But anyway, the cowboy, still sitting in his chair at the table, scooted it back, scraping the floor, and looked as if he wanted to hit me.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder; the Italianate cook of Norwegian derivation, who said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but I have to shut you off, and if you cause these gentlemen any more problems, I’ll have to put you out.”

The usual typical night out on the town.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 08, 2012, 12:37:59 PM
The femme here this morning, Saturday morning, very early, about 8:30. 

The temperature’s plummeting and the wind’s picking up, and snow’s on its way, and so she wanted to be sure we had everything squared away for the next couple of weeks, when it’s too cold for her to be out, or too snow-infested for franksolich to get out.

As it’s almost noon now, she probably made it back to the big city, where she lives, okay.

December’s a very busy month for her, what with all the regional Elizabethan Christmases and Boar’s Head Dinners and Plantagenet Yules and Tudor Festivities and Renaissance Dances.  She’s an instructor in the theater arts and dance, and does a lot of this sort of thing.

Sometimes I’ve even been in them--the renaissance dances--but this Christmas, no.  The Great Barack Drought of ‘12 devastated the health, the physique, and the motivation, and I haven’t recovered yet.  It was a really bad summer here.  The drought affected the health and mood of others around here, but not as much, as they aren’t the same genetic make-up as I am.

I told her from the way the calendar looks, I’ll go to the show on Christmas as it was celebrated in the court of Philip IV of France (1285-1314), and one or the other of the two Victorian Christmas shows.  They all demand driving long distances, though.  We’ll see how the weather is in mid-month.

I told her where I was going Christmas Eve for supper, but didn’t tell her I’m still looking for primitive for Christmas Day itself.

She’ll be in Omaha, spending Christmas with her sister and her family.  The femme and I have been sort of an item for seven years now, but we’ve never spent holidays together, because her sister doesn’t like me, nor do she and the business partner, who shows up near the beginning, or the end, of holidays, like each other.

I wish people would get along, but I might as well wish the elections hadn’t happened.

- - - - - - - - - -

There was a certain iciness--not due to the weather--in our get-together, as she still hasn’t forgiven me for something, and I’m not budging an inch.  On some things, one must stand firm, unmoving.

Some time early last month, that thing that happens to women about a dozen times a year happened, and I got irate about it.  I’m really tired of women who moan and groan and bitch and whine and complain and carry on when that time comes, as if men are supposed to drop everything and be sensitive to their every mood and whim.

I dunno; perhaps my mother ruined me.  A man’s image of women is of course rooted in how he saw his own mother, and I’m no exception.  My mother had moods that fluctuated, swung violently back-and-forth, but on the whole, she controlled them, usually maintaining equanimity at least on the outside.

Such is important for the growth and development of a young child; a mother who’s the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, always the same.  No mood swings in my mother, although I’m sure that on the inside, invisible to me, she was swinging all over the place.

My mother of course had something lacking in women of the baby-boom-and-after generation; fortitude.

- - - - - - - - - -

I’d pointed out that men have “that time of the month” too, although it hasn’t been scientifically defined, due to the femocentric nature of medicine, and the femme’d freaked (this wasn’t today, but about five weeks ago).

I’m an equal-opportunity non-sexist egalitarian; whatever problems women have, men have something similar in some other way, shape, or form, with the same degree of discomfort and inconvenience.

And I pointed out that men tend to handle such periods with fortitude, not letting on that they really want to moan and groan and bitch and whine and complain and carry on, but out of consideration for the sensitivities of women, we don’t.

She didn’t take it too kindly, and actually had the chutzpah to think I should apologize, but as I said before, there’s some things too important to budge on; one has to stand one’s ground, firmly and permanently.

Well, that’s led to a frosty past five weeks, but she’s getting over it.  The femme loves franksolich, and franksolich loves the femme, and even if the twain never meets, we’re pretty much set.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 08, 2012, 08:55:01 PM
On Saturday evening, because the snow hadn’t come yet--the cold and the wind sure did, though--and because I was bored, I headed into town to dine at the bar.  I guess I was also hoping for some innocent merriment, with the insufferable bully from the night before.

I wasn’t going to get any of it if anyone I knew was around, because other people have a habit of jumping in to “protect” me from a malicious person.  Usually it’s appreciated, but sometimes I’d just like to see what happens when I’m on my own.

Yeah, yeah, I know; I was really looking for a fight.

- - - - - - - - - -

Wanda, a heavy-set grey-haired woman of Polish extraction, was the cook this night; she has no specialty, instead being the general-order cook for ordinary cuisine.  Usually she works breakfasts.

She smiled when she saw me.

But then it confused her when, rather than placing my usual order, the same thing I’ve ordered every time the past eleven years, I instead requested pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, whole-wheat bread, real butter, hot syrup, and a side dish of sour cream.

She looked at me with wonderment.

The deal is, the last time she’d fixed my usual order, a hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, it’d been underdone, still light brown in the center.  Since she’s a very nice person, I didn’t complain, but that was the first time I’d had a hamburger without eating all of it.

But I didn’t tell her that; I just told her I was varying the diet a little bit, this being the holiday season and all that, an explanation she cheerily accepted.

- - - - - - - - - -

The bar was crowded, but the cowboy I was looking for wasn’t around.

I went to sit in the darkest corner, so as to be alone.

I was reading a newspaper when a friend of the property caretaker came over, and sat down.

“Still looking for a hippie for Christmas?  Any luck?”

No, I said, but I hadn’t begun looking in earnest yet.  I’d casually looked around, and commented upon the matter to others, but planned to start doing some serious looking later this next week.

“Well, there might be a problem finding one around here this year,” he advised, “what with the way the elections turned out.  Freeloaders and bums are pretty unpopular at the moment around here, and I think they know it.

“And even being related to the mayor or the governor’s brother isn’t enough to spare them.”

He pointed out I had other invitations, but I in turn pointed out they’re all with decent and civilized people, and while I’m very grateful, I was confident I’d find a primitive.

“See, it’s important to me.  I’ve watched people all my life, and I still haven’t figured out what makes some of them so stupid.  It fascinates me, the primitivity in some people.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The cook Wanda brought over my order, assuring me the bacon was fried until dried, and that the eggs were thoroughly scrambled.

“I suppose it’s okay,” she mused, “that you ordered this, but I’d gotten rather used to your regular order.”

Just as the friend of the caretaker was getting up to leave, three women who operate a child-care center in town came over.  Two are blonde, one is brunette, all three of them in their thirties, and with a little bit of lardage packed on them, but not obesely so.

All of them married with children, all of their husbands long-distance truck drivers.

One of them mentioned she’d hoped to see me at the renaissance dance program the femme had put on last August, at our own county fair, and was disappointed not to.  (This was when the adherents of the Bagwam were staying at my place.)

“It was the Great Barack Drought of ‘12,” I said; “look at what it did to me, wasting me and rendering me unhealthy.  I was too tired."

“You look mighty fine to me,” one of them said.

“And besides,” I continued, “she wanted me to wear a costume.  I was willing to do all this, but only in regular clothes, which are cooler than those stupid costumes.  But no, she didn’t want a show that was only 99% perfect, it had to be 100% perfect.”

“You two are s-o-o-o-o good together,” another of them said.

“That one you two do at the end is awesome.  I wish my husband could dance with me like that.”

She was referring to the lavolta, where the dancing pair are glued tightly together, and the woman lifted high into the air while turning.  I didn’t say anything, but I rather suspect she and the husband probably couldn’t maneuver it, all this turning and lifting.

I mentioned that, given my age, I prefer the alemains, finding the galliards somewhat too draining.

But the easiest were the bransles, on which square dances a few hundred years later were based; because one’s in a crowd, if one errs, it’s not noticed.

And franksolich has the potential to err grievously.

- - - - - - - - - -

I didn’t reveal the secret; it’s all a fraud, a sham.  In renaissance dances, the man always leads, but in this case as I can’t hear the music, I have to concentrate on the femme, who’s doing the women’s steps.  It looks as if I’m leading her, but actually, she’s leading me.

A distinction fortunately no one seems to have picked up.

“Well, I think you’re a good dancer,” the third one.

I desisted from telling her the femme is the only woman with whom I can possibly dance; with any other woman, unaware that I need to be led, it’d be disastrous.  (It’s been tried before, with a few of the femme’s female students.)

“You two were made for each other,” the first one said; “it’s even sexy, watching you two.”

I blushed, and as I was already done with my meal, excused myself, saying I had to go home to change the air in the tires of the automobile; they were sauced enough it seemed a reasonable excuse to them.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on December 09, 2012, 04:55:52 AM
I think that they were hitting on you, Coach. :whistling: O-)

Quote
“You look mighty fine to me,” one of them said.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 09, 2012, 07:12:34 AM
I think that they were hitting on you, Coach. :whistling: O-)

Probably; I've been hit on before, but substantially less than "average," because I've always been known for turning into ice in a hurry.  Allegedly franksolich can even cause the room-temperature to drop.

I probably need to explain something, in case outsiders wonder what goes on, on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska, all this "art" and "culture" and "drama."

The late television talking face Johnny Carson was from this area.  Before he died, whenever that was, he set up a foundation to promote the dramatic arts.  He'd been a mega-multi-millionaire, and so the foundation's pretty big.....and I'm sure that 99% of that money's gone to here.

It's like West Virginia, where everything's named for the late racist Democrat Senator Robert Byrd; there's places all around named for Johnny Carson.  One can't avoid driving into a town of 200 people and seeing something that's named for him.

(The difference here being the taxpayers were stuck with paying for those memorials to Senator Foghorn, while all the Johnny Carson stuff here was paid for by his foundation.)

The high school in the big city has a Johnny Carson theater that's enormous, and could serve Omaha or Kansas City or Minneapolis well, if it were in Omaha or Kansas City or Minneapolis.

And it's not only buildings, but scholarships, fellowships, endowments, programs.

There's been lots of big bucks expended on a regional population that's pretty small.

Everybody around here seems to be in the dramatic arts, but what's disturbing about it is that it's deflected from more important things.  We need tool-and-die makers, diesel mechanics, agricultural experts, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, laboratory scientists, &c., &c., &c., not comedians.

<<at stores and restaurants, gets waited on by a lot of kids fresh out of college with four-year degrees in the fine arts.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 09, 2012, 11:11:40 AM
“Well, boss, it looks like you put yourself into a situation you didn’t have to,” the property caretaker said to me this morning. 

The oldest son of the owners of this place and the caretaker were here on Sunday morning to pick up some surveying papers, as they have an appointment with an attorney in the big city on Monday.  The place had been surveyed over the summer, and the son of the owner had the original papers, but copies were kept out here.  I dunno what’s up with that; perhaps they couldn’t find the originals.

“Really, when you go out picking a fight, you should have somebody along with you. 

“Not that you can’t take care of yourself, but with somebody along to do your hearing for you, it could come out better.”

I looked at him, blankly.

“Last night, you went to the bar, looking for [the cowboy]. 

“You were looking for him because he’s a miserable piece of work, and deserves to be beaten up.

“Well, you announced you were looking for him, and now you’re in a situation.

“If you’d just let things be, that would’ve been the end of the matter.  When Swede [the cook of Norwegian derivation] told [the cowboy] to cool it, that was that.  The end.

“If anything would’ve happened, it would’ve been between [the cowboy] and Swede, and Swede’s nobody anybody wants to mess with it.  But probably nothing would’ve happened.

“But last night you put yourself back into it, and now it’s between you and [the cowboy] again.

“He wasn’t there last night, but he’s going to hear about it.”

Well, excresence happens, I said.  I’ll deal with it when it comes up.

“I dunno, boss,” the caretaker said, eyeing me skeptically.  “You’re as tall as him, but he’s got a good fifty, sixty, pounds on you.  It’s true you’re always sober, and he’s usually drunk, but he knows how to fight, and you know only how to hit.”

“I wish somebody, anybody, would beat him up,” the son of the owners interrupted; “he’s nothing but bad news.”

“Nobody needs to worry about [the cowboy],” the caretaker replied.  “He’s already on his last legs at his job because of drunkenness and battery, and probably before the month’s out, he’ll be moved on, out of here.”

Then looking at me, the caretaker said, “The son-of-a-bitch bastard said some might nasty things to you.”

“I know,” I lied; “I heard it all, but when somebody’s being rude, best to simply pretend one didn’t hear.”

“Oh, you didn’t hear what he said, you only guessed,” the caretaker corrected me; “if you had, there would’ve been a melee there that night, and only God know how it’d turn out.”

Well, I repeated, I’ll deal with it when it comes up.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 09, 2012, 04:53:48 PM
This afternoon, I spent in the kitchen while the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, and a couple of their friends were here, getting their trucks ready for the winter snows.  We were supposed to have snow up here on the roof of Nebraska beginning last night, Saturday night, but got only a few flurries, and there’s nothing now.

But snow is coming; it’s inevitable.

Because it’s also inevitable there’ll be times when franksolich is snowed in here, I decided to experiment with some culinary delicacies.  I’m of course well-provisioned against the weather, but sometimes one runs out of a certain something, and is compelled to make something else.

The other day, when in the big city at the grocery store where the Country Club set shops--I’m not a member of the Country Club set, but it’s good being able to shop in a place that doesn’t cover dozens of acres, even if the prices are higher--I noticed packages of freshly-made finely-shredded mozzarella cheese, and suddenly waxed nostalgic for the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants.

One of the Ukrainian delicacies I remember was when the wife of a worker was in her lilliputian socialist kitchen, about the size of a broom closet here, making it--thinly-sliced rye bread plastered with real butter and finely-shredded mozzarella cheese sprinkled heavily on top.  And then it was toasted.

- - - - - - - - - -

When everybody was done out in the garage, they came inside the house to drink some beer and get warmed up.

The neighbor’s older brother was concerned about what I’d done last night.

“You didn’t have to announce to the whole world you wanted to fight him.”

Whoa, I said.  I hadn’t announced anything to the whole world, and I hadn’t said anything about a fight.

“All I did was ask Wanda [the cherubic Polish cook at the bar] if she’d seen [the cowboy] there that night.

“Nothing more than that; I announced nothing to ’the whole world,’ and said nothing about a ’fight.’”

“Well, this other word got around; it was in the bar across the street within seconds.”

Oh well, I said.  I’m used to being misquoted.

“Do you think you could tackle him?” one of their friends asked.

I dunno, I said.  I’d worry about it when it came up.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on December 09, 2012, 06:19:43 PM
You'd better have that S/K adjustable wrench handy, Coach . . . that character may just try to 'drop by' for a 'visit.'

(Which, BTW, is why we were adamant about you getting some kind of firearm.)
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 10, 2012, 04:51:19 PM
I got off work early today (Monday), and went to town, where I saw the behemoth who shovels grain at the local elevator five and half days a week.

These parts had suffered a one-day "cold snap," with temperatures plummeting below zero and harsh winds (it's back to normal now), and everybody's suffering from it.

The guy told me his boss held a meeting in the morning, and said that probably until he gets it all straight, what 0bamacare's all about, at the beginning of the year, he's just going to cut all employees down to 30 hours a week, which didn't make franksolich's expert on fatness happy.

Apparently 0bamacare can be "interpreted" so many different ways, all the way to the moon, and it's costing the grain elevator a lot of legal fees, to figure it out.

You know; money that could otherwise go for employee salaries, fringe benefits, taking on new people, facility improvements so as to make the cost of bread lower for the consumer.

But money that has to go down a bottomless hole.

- - - - - - - - - -

"To keep my mind off my problems, though," he said, "I've been thinking about your one guy, the unemployed fat guy down over in Las Vegas.

"So maybe walking up and down the Strip might be too hard on his feet, and maybe he really needs a sedentary sit-down job.

"Working at a call-center, soliciting subscriptions for magazines via telephone, might work, but it also might be boring for him.  And I don't think the employees sitting near to him would appreciate the odors.

"But what about bouncer in a bar?

"You know, those guys who sit on stools outside of bars looking intimidating and checking IDs and stuff.

"I'm sure Las Vegas has some bars."
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 11, 2012, 06:17:02 PM
Monday evening, about supper-time, I was headed to town when I noticed a woman walking alongside the road leading to here.  There’s a very tall pole with a bright red light in front of the house, which is visible from the highway two miles north of here; the only sign of human habitation around, and meant to be a beacon for traveling motorists stranded on the highway, as it’s a very long walk to anywhere else.

As I slowed down and pulled closer, I got alarmed.  This was no young woman, or even a middle-aged one; in fact, she bore a great deal of resemblance to the grasswire primitive’s good friend, the chronically-helpless primitive, Paper Roses.  She’s the primitive who used to ask other primitives things such as how to unscrew the cap on a jar or whether the left-handed glove goes on the right hand, or the left hand.

I say “used to,” because the chronically-helpless primitive, good friend of the pie-and-jam primitive, hasn’t been around lately, and one reasonably assumes she’s gone to the Great Garage Sale in the Sky.

Also, I say “resembled,” because it wasn’t in fact the Paper Roses primitive; only an ancient woman who looked very much like her.  She appeared to be in her late 70s, and was badly dressed for the weather.  It’d been a decent day, 27 degrees in late afternoon, no wind, but darkness had already fallen, and she was pretty old and seemed confused.

I stopped the truck upon reaching her, which is about the time she first saw me. 

Now, franksolich is utterly average-looking, normal-looking, but my manner’s not the same as what strangers might expect.  I’m deaf, and so the sound of my voice and my body language is “different,” and can be intimidating to those not expecting it. 

I assured her that wasn’t the situation, that I meant no harm, and much to my surprise she immediately understood.  She allowed me to help her up inside the passenger seat of the truck.

It took a while for me to grasp the details, but apparently she’d been driving on the highway and gotten a flat tire.  No, she didn’t have a cellular telephone with her.  Now, franksolich has an eminently-reasonable excuse for not bothering with such toys, but she was an old woman, a stranger to the area, obviously incapable of automotive mechanics.  She of all people should’ve had one.

I was going to take her back to this place, where she could get warm while I summoned help for her motor vehicle.  I can of course replace a flat tire, but I’ve found that when strangers have a “flat tire,” usually they have other problems too.  But then she mentioned she’d left her husband in the car.

Ooops.  As old and frail as she was, her husband was likely to be older and frailer, and I got alarmed.  I’d already turned the truck around, pointed towards home, and suddenly turned it around again, headed towards the highway.

Now, this is a nice highway and all that, but there’s hardly any traffic on it.  And so she and her husband didn’t have to worry about the blue state perils of Italianate-looking thugs or Treyyon Martin lookalikes or primitives looking for an easy victim to rob and pillage; none of that.

But there’s just hardly any traffic on it.

- - - - - - - - - -

I reached the highway, and about three-quarters of a mile west, saw the automobile; a late-model sedan, a Buick, the sort of vehicle preferred by the affluent retired elderly.  It had license-plates from Iowa, and a bumper-sticker promoting a Democrat congressional candidate from the eastern part of that state, which didn’t make me too happy, excepting that these were ancient people, and perhaps touched in the head, which would excuse the bumper-sticker.

I parked the truck on the rise of a hill, so as to be visible from far away, and flew the ROMNEY-RYAN pennant on the radio antenna, to signify I might need some help, if help was around.  It was dark, and so the pennant was pretty much useless as a means of communication, but I left it there anyway, and shined the headlights onto the back of the Buick, so as to give me light to change the tire.

I kept the old woman inside the truck, and walked towards the passenger side of the car, where her husband was sitting.  The poor old man was a sight, obviously senescent.  His face looked like cornbread muffin mix with too little water in it.  I assured him I was legit, meant no harm, his wife was with me, and I was going to fix the tire.  It seemed to reassure him, or perhaps he was in such a state it didn‘t make a whole lot of difference to him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Now, I can change a tire in five or ten minutes, but in this instance I took my time.  It seemed to me the flat tire was the least of the old folks’ problems, and I wanted to think about what to do.  Town was seven miles to the east, but there was nothing in town that would be of any use to them.  The big city was forty-one miles to the west, where there’d be plenty of help for them, but that was, after all, forty-one miles away in the darkness.

After about fifteen minutes of thinking and thirty seconds of assembling, I’d gotten around to putting together the jack when the neighbor pulled up alongside.  He’d been headed to my place to get something, and at the intersection, looking west, he’d seen the truck, its rear red lights blinking.

I explained the situation to him, and he had a new tire installed inside a couple of minutes.

He peeked inside the car, and looked at the old man therein, his eyes shut and his mouth wide open.

Then he went over to the truck I’d been driving, and talked with the old woman.

He explained to me that they were headed west, clear over to the other side of the state, to meet relatives, after which they were heading southwest to Arizona for Christmas.  They’d left eastern Iowa early this morning, and had a reservation for a room in the big city, which was about halfway to where they were going, a destination they’d planned on reaching tomorrow.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, I’m not sure,” I confided to the neighbor.  “The old geezer in the car’s in another world, and she’s pretty lightweight and flighty, addled.  Normally, I’d suggest they stay with me for the night, but they’re old, old as the hills, and the cats back home are still not getting along.

“I’m not sure they can make it to the big city, though.”

The neighbor, an emergency medical technician, did a quick “risk assessment” in his head, and decided they would probably be okay, continuing on to the big city.

I stood my ground; I wanted a second medical opinion before letting them go.

The neighbor, using his cellular telephone, summoned the county sheriff, who’s not only an EMT, but like the business partner, a paramedic too.

After about forty-five minutes, the sheriff showed up (not that he was dilatory; this was after all not an urgent emergency), and upon having the situation described by the neighbor and myself, went and talked with the old woman still in the truck, all warmed up now.

Then he took a gander at the old guy in the sedan.

He telephoned the motel where the woman had said they had a reservation, finding it checked out, but given the hour, they were thinking about canceling it.  He told them not to cancel it, and that they were on their way, and he’d be greatly obliged if the motel called him if they weren’t there in an hour and a half.

And then he called the relatives of the ancient couple w-a-a-a-a-a-y over on the western fringe of the state, to advise them what was going on, and to assure them all was okay.

After which he let them go.  He said I was too cautious in my impression, but also that the neighbor was a little bit too unconcerned; something in between the two.  The old lady was tired, but given that the weather was clement, and given that the highway led straightaway to the motel on the fringe of the big city where they were to stay, they’d probably make it okay.

- - - - - - - - - -

Well, that’s that, the neighbor said as we both headed for my place, myself having given up on going to town.

Not quite, I reminded him; “I hope to God she gets a good rest, a very good rest, tonight.

“They still got 350 miles to go in the morning, and 300 of those miles are crossing the Sandhills of Nebraska, the most daunting, the most formidable, the most fearsome, miles of highway in all of North America, making going through the passes of the Rocky Mountains in winter, or skimming across the deserts of Nevada in summer, a piece of cake, as a easy as strawberries-and-cream.

“There’s a very good reason not many pass through here; they can’t handle it.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 11, 2012, 08:39:04 PM
Early this morning, Tuesday morning, I was standing in line at a truck stop near the big city, waiting to purchase a package of cigarettes, when a guy standing in front of me turned to chat with me.

I brusquely commented I’m deaf, and while he might be a nice guy and all that, it’s very trying for me to understand people.  It’s nothing personal; I just can’t hear.

He suddenly went all primitive on me, telling me how sorry he was that this was the case, it must be very hard for me, I must be missing out on a lot in life, he wished there was something he could do to make it easier, blah-blah-blah.

This was a primitive, for sure.  Decent and civilized people, when apprised of the situation, usually just absorb the information and then adapt accordingly, without any of this “oh poor you” bullshit.

Suddenly I remembered something.  I’m still looking for a primitive for Christmas.

As the pickings seem pretty slim, it’s important to leave no stone unturned.

And so I suddenly warmed to him.

- - - - - - - - - -

I have no idea, no idea at all, how this primitive-for-Christmas thing is going to be carried out; it could be simply Christmas dinner with a primitive joining his or her family, Christmas dinner alone somewhere with a primitive, or even, God forbid, a primitive spending Christmas day and night here.

I just don’t know, and so while looking around, best to anticipate the worst possible case, a primitive spending Christmas here.

Which means a primitive of the female persuasion is out, absolutely out; I’m not in it for sex or anything.

I imagine one can spend Christmas with a woman primitive without sex getting into it, but one has to consider something here.  Primitive femmes tend to be notoriously delusional, making up things, and if franksolich were alone with one, I’d be headed into a whole world of trouble.

The problem lies in that in a “she said, he said” sort of situation, she’s the one who gets believed.  One can be St. Francis of Assisi, but if she says he was Attila the Hun, well, that’s the indelible scarlet letter one has to carry around with him.

Imagine, for example, if the oblate spheroid were to be with me all alone, an innocent tete-a-tete.  Since being bedded by franksolich would be a feather in her cap, the oblate spheroid would make up a lot of things so as to make herself look good and franksolich look a monster.

So best to deal with a female primitive only when others are around to observe.

Since I don’t know under what sort of circumstances I’ll have a primitive for Christmas, best to look around for a safe primitive, where sex isn’t part of the potential picture, either in reality or fantasy.

If nothing else, franksolich is very conscious of public impressions.

- - - - - - - - - -

The guy said he was from Colorado Springs, a truck driver, and up this area a great deal.

My eyes grew as big as saucers.  A gainfully-employed primitive?

And not only that, but employed in a profession demanding arduous physical labor?

I was also suspicious because he didn’t look like any truck driver; he was only a little more than slight in build, rather than being, uh, rather large.

And he was drinking bottled water.

Probably a primitive who was telling me a bouncy; I wasn’t falling for it.

- - - - - - - - - -

He kept asking me questions about myself, but I wasn’t interested in myself, and so kept directing queries back to him; what about him?

He said he was 35 years old, and guessed I was about the same.

Whoa.

Let that be a lesson to primitives; avoidance of drugs, alcohol, the too-sedentary life, the too-lazy life, of decadence and carnality and materialism and self-indulgence, must be the true Fountain of Youth.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then he mentioned he used to play soccer for the University of Maryland, and wondered if I’d played it too, as ostensibly I have the “build” for it.

Now, this was getting too deep.  I was being served a bouncy for sure.

It’s true that as late as when I lived in Lincoln and Omaha, various people into soccer commented about my legs and build, and speculated I’d make a great soccer player, or barring that, a kicker on a football team.

Flattery which I always brushed aside; soccer didn’t row my boat, rock my chair, push my buttons.

I dredged out of the deepest recesses of my memory all that I’d known about the University of Maryland soccer team, and surreptitiously posed some underhanded “trick” questions for him.

Much to my astonishment, he knew all about the University of Maryland soccer team.

I asked him how he’d gotten interested in soccer, and he told me it’d been while he’d lived in Europe a couple of years.  When apprised of the places he’d lived there, I posed some more trick questions, asking about things only someone who’d actually been at those places would know.

Much to my astonishment, he knew all about these very places.

I inquired how he’d ended up being a truck driver, what with his college education and all that.

He said he’d gotten a bachelor’s degree in government and political science, but as there’s no jobs for that degree, he needed to do something, and had wandered into truck driving by random chance.

He was satisfied with it, being a single person and all that, and met a lot of interesting people.

- - - - - - - - - -

This guy was no primitive, what with all his communicative skills, his robust health, his working for a living, his Pollyanna outlook on life, and his interest in people other than his own self.

The final “test” was when he mentioned he had a “little house” at the base of Pike’s Peak, after which I interrogated him about various aspects Colorado; its people and its history.

When I by chance mentioned personages such as Frederick Bonfils, Harry Tammen, and Paul Whiteman, he knew exactly who they’d been.

- - - - - - - - - -

There were a whole lot of things wrong here.

What he’d said about living in Europe, playing soccer, being a truck driver, having a home in Colorado, all rang true.  It was utterly credible.

It’s not in a primitive to be honest.  No way.

But on the other hand, this was this condescending manner about my deafness, and that he was drinking bottled water…..

So maybe he was just an anomalous primitive, a sui generis one.

I dunno.

He said he was going to be up here Christmas weekend, delivering some goods to Sioux Falls.

I really doubt he’s the primitive I want for Christmas, but just to be safe, in case nothing else comes up, I got his vital statistics and gave him mine, including the telephone number of the neighbor (I have my own telephone, but it’s useless excepting when I want to call someone).

But I’m still looking, and will finally start looking in earnest later this current week.

Surely there’s a primitive out there, a primitive for Christmas for franksolich.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 12, 2012, 08:07:38 AM
addendum to the above.

After thinking about it, I suspect the "primitive" is actually an Air Force brat.

Because I can't hear all, I get only fragments of clues, and while piecing a few fragments and chards together (unmentioned in the telling because it made no sense to me at the time), it looks reasonable his father was in the Air Force.

So alas this was no primitive.

When writing dialogue, I try my best to replicate the conversation as best as possible, but because of deafness, there's significant "white spots," blank spots, where something was said or indicated, but I picked up nothing of it.

Or in this case, not quite blank--a word here and there, but that's it.

I must say however this was a most remarkable individual.  Usually when meeting strangers for the first time, I pick up nothing, nada, zilch, because I haven't yet adjusted to their "language."

In this case, the guy was so expressive--and naturally so (i.e., not only for my own benefit)--I probably caught circa 20-25% of what he really said.  That might not seem like much, but it is.  Life's always easier when one has 200-250 pieces of a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, instead of only a dozen or score pieces.

Even among people I know very well, catching 20-25% of what they're saying would be awesome.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 12, 2012, 04:46:38 PM
“Hey, boss, they’re taking bets on you at the VFW Club,” the property caretaker announced when he came over this morning to tune up the motor that runs the water pump here.

“And believe it or not, you’re only a 3-2 underdog.”

Yeah, yeah, I said, like anything’s going to happen.

“Well, it won’t happen this week, because it’s his turn to be on 24-hour call, and so when he’s not at work, he’s stuck at home in case someone calls.”

The cowboy works for a large cattle-feeding operation in the next county, and being “on call” means he’s the one delegated to handle problems that arise during odd hours.  And as anything can happen with cattle at 2:00 a.m. or on a weekend or holiday, it means being always at the ready, always sober.

“And he won’t be around Sunday either, when his turn’s over, because that’s the day of their big company Christmas party. 

“But I think any time starting Monday, it’s on.”

Yeah, yeah, I repeated; “I’ll deal with it when it comes up.  If it comes up at all.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The caretaker suddenly became less jocular, more solemn.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he said; “you know, nearly everybody here likes you, and hardly anybody likes him, but the sentiment’s that he can bash you into a red spot in the dirt.

“You know how to hit, and you can hit pretty good, but he knows how to fight.

“He won’t come out here, but I suggest that every time you go to town, you have someone with you.

“Not that you can’t take care of yourself, boss; it’s just that things are easier on you when you got somebody doing your hearing for you.”

I pointed out that while it’s always good to prepare for the worst possible thing to happen, usually it doesn’t happen, and so I’d wait to deal with it when it comes up, if it comes up at all.

“Well, boss, I think you should take this more seriously than you are, but you should know that Swede’s taking on any and all bets against you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

If I had ears, they would’ve perked up.

“Swede?  He loathes and detests me, although I have no idea why.  I’m a nice guy.”

Swede is the husband of the woman who owns the bar.  He’s a truck driver, but when he’s back home off the road, he cooks at the bar.  Of Norwegian derivation, his specialty is Italianate cuisine, for which he’s very famous; even those of Italianate derivation from places such as Omaha, Minneapolis, Des Moines, and Kansas City, swear that no one cooks more italiano than Swede.

“Why is Swede backing me?”

“It’s not that he has any faith in your fisticuffs, boss; he just says that you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever met in his life, and it’s stupid to bet against you.  He says something bad‘s always supposed to happen to you, but it never does.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Changing the subject, I said, “You know, it constantly mystifies me; I can’t figure out why he doesn’t like me.  He’s been out here a lot, hunting and dropping off beer kegs for parties, but while formally he’s polite, it’s easy to discern his scorn and contempt.”

“He thinks you’re making fun of his cooking, boss, because you’re always ordering the exact same thing, a piece of charcoal in a bun, and dried out spuds.  It’s like you don’t think he can cook any better than that.”

I was appalled.  “That isn’t the case at all.

“I order what I order because he’s a very busy man, and I want to take up as little of his time as possible.  It doesn’t take a whole lot of care to make up a well-done hamburger and ungreasy potatoes, and he doesn’t have to worry about me complaining.

“While he’s doing all his Italianate cuisinery, he has to fuss and bother and sweat and worry and fret to be sure it comes out exactly right, to be sure the customer’s happy.  It’s obvious, how nervous and concerned he gets, trying to make it just right.

“It’s a wonder he doesn’t have ulcers, worrying so much.

“And here I come along, and give him an order that’s as easy as strawberries-and-cream.”

“Well, boss, he thinks you think he’s a bad cook.”

“That’s nonsense,” I replied; “everybody knows he’s a good cook, an excellent cook.  They tell him--and others--that all the time.  He’s a good cook, a great cook, and I’ve always been one of the first to say so.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, boss, what you could do is one time, order one of his regular dishes.”

“Uh, I’m not fond of that idea,” I said; “I like what he makes me.  I’m perfectly happy with a well-done hamburger and nongreasy french fries.  It’s the food of the gods, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Just once, boss, order something of his specialty, to please him.  If you try just one thing, he’ll like you.”

I thought about it.

“Okay, my birthday’s less than three months away; for my birthday, I’ll go in and order something Italianate.

“Isn’t one of his most popular dishes that burrata caprece con pomodoro arrosto?”

“Delectable beyond belief, boss.”

“And then the salciccia e pepperoni con poleta?”

“Yeah, that too’s good.”

“Of course, one would have to start off with the insalata di spinachi, and some bombolotti amatriciana and gnocchi sorrentina con polpettine.  He makes all those, right?”

“Right.”

“And for the main course, pollo alle erbe.

“And for dessert, his famous tiramisu.”

“That’s quite a tab, boss; you’re talking some big bucks there.”

“But I won’t have wine with it,” I reminded him. 

Still, that’s a pretty big dinner-check, the caretaker pointed out; “More than what you spend on groceries in a whole month.”

No problem, I said; “Remember, on one’s birthday, the bar gives one dinner for free.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 13, 2012, 07:43:39 AM
I'd crashed on the couch about 3:00 a.m., after coming home from a Christmas event, and tallying up the votes for Top DUmmies of 2012; I was really tired, too tired even to get undressed and go to the bedroom.

My rest was disturbed after only three hours, when the light in the kitchen went on, and I walked in there to see a duck-hunter making some coffee.

He's the social type, and as I'm a nice guy, I chitchatted with him.

He wanted to know how I'd found the event the preceding evening.  I admitted I'd gone to it only as a favor to the femme, who puts great stock in my opinions of her "historical re-enactments."

Of course I told her it was fine, and in specific ways, but generally I'm not fond of this sort of thing, renaissance events.  I know too much about history.

"For example, last night's dealt with Christmas in the court of Philip IV, king of France 1285-1314, but it incorporated elements--fashions, manners, things--that didn't exist until Charles VI of France in 1380-1422 or Edward IV in England 1461-1483.

"I know, I know, I'm a bitch about it, historical exactitude--I'm sure if I were into watching television and movies, I'd be a real rag about it--and that it doesn't make a whole lot of difference to the rest of the audience, but the inaccuracies irritate me.

"But because it was the femme, I told her it was fine, and pointed out the few instances where it was historically accurate, without reminding her they were few and far between."

- - - - - - - - - -

He inquired about my search for a primitive for Christmas.

I told him I'm going to begin the search in earnest today, and if nothing looks promising a week from now, I'll go to the big city and walk up-and-down the sidewalks, a painted piece of plywood in front of me and a second piece in back of me, strapped together over my shoulders, advertising "WANTED: A PRIMITIVE FOR CHRISTMAS.  APPLY HERE."

I told him I had a problem of equal magnitude going on right at the moment, the Looming Dilemma, where I'm to be offered an expensive Christmas present by someone I barely know.

"Oh, but that's just a pittance, a bagatelle, a small thing, to her," the duck-hunter said; "you were in her house, you saw how much, and what, she has.  It's nothing, to her."

I begged to differ, but whatever.

- - - - - - - - - -

He also brought up the Situation I Put Myself Into.

"You know, Swede's going to go broke, taking on all the bets against you."

I inquired what he thought of the matter.

"I put down five bucks on the cowboy, but don't take it wrong.

"It's only five bucks, after all."
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 13, 2012, 01:06:27 PM
The neighbor’s wife was here in late morning, curious if I’d be willing to go to the big city later today, so she has some company Christmas shopping.  Unlike the last time she asked, I said yes, as I have somewhat more energy for such a distasteful, arduous task than I did that time.

So we’ll see what happens.

She mentioned she’d enjoyed the renaissance Christmas pageant directed by the femme last night; I reminded her to compliment the femme on it, not me.  I didn’t have anything to do with it.

“I still can’t believe they used Tudor wimples in a depiction of a 13th-century royal Christmas.  And in France, not England.  Wimples came into use in different centuries in these countries.”

She insisted it was very good, hinting that I tend to get too nitpickery in my analysis of historical re-enactments.

“The problem with these things is that they give an utterly false perception of what life was like back then.  Everybody’s healthy and robust and vigorous.  There’s no stench, there’s no bodily deformities or infirmities, there’s no oozing sores, there‘s no piss and vomit and shit on the floor.

“To see life in the Middle Ages as it actually was, I’d suggest one go to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants.  It’s not a perfect replication--there’s too much modernity in it--but it at least gives one a vague idea.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She was concerned about my relations with the femme.  “I wish you two would kiss and make up.”

I reminded her that after the event--she was already gone--the femme had covered me with kisses after I told her my estimation of the show, and so she’s warming again.

“But this is too important; I can’t budge an inch.

“She’s got to develop fortitude, for anything to work for the two of us.

“I know women have this thing happen to them twelve times a year, and that it’s miserable, but damn, things just as bad happen to men too, and we men don’t whine and carry on about it.

“I can immediately sense when she’s got that problem, and just as immediately take steps to ameliorate the way she feels, until it’s all over.  Despite all appearances, I can be kind and tender and caring.

“The problem here is she wants me to actually say, ’Yeah, you’ve got a problem, and you’re miserable.’

“I ain’t saying nothing.

“Words are just words.  Actions--behavior and conduct--speak so loudly even I can hear them.

“Why women put more stock into words than into action, drives me up the wall.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She asked me about the Looming Dilemma; I told her no, I haven’t figured out yet how I’m going to deal with it.

“You know my policy on presents; I don’t accept them.”

She pointed out that I’m, ahem, rather generous with giving presents myself.

“That’s different,” I said; “other people need to be given presents so as to be assured one’s a nice guy, and I rather like having people think I’m a nice guy.

“But I on the other hand don’t need presents to know somebody’s a nice guy.

“For example, [the property caretaker]’s coming by here in late afternoon, to drop off a pallet of forty 20-pound bags of cat-litter, a Christmas present to me from him and his wife, you and your husband, and three other people in town.

“I assure you it’s very very much appreciated, and I kiss your feet for it, but really, you don’t have to do this, to make me like you.  In your case, madam, you know I’d love you just as much as I do, even if you gave me no present at all.

“Nobody has to buy franksolich.  franksolich is unbuyable, incorruptible, a man with no price.

“Even the oblate spheroid doing a belly dance isn’t enough to entice me.

“If it makes me a sanctimonious prig, so be it.  I can’t help being myself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Did you find out how much it’s worth?” the neighbor’s wife asked.

No, I hadn’t, I said.  I’m no expert on internet “searches,” but I did try, not finding anything that comes remotely close.

“The music-box was manufactured by Samuel Troll, circa 1866, and’s utterly aesthetic in its plainness, its austerity, its lack of ornamentation.  A nice walnut wood case.  No fancy stuff on it; just that wonderful minuet by Exaudet.

“I imagine it’s probably maybe worth $150-200, which is way too expensive for me to accept.

“Although if the “vinca” primitive, the vindictive primitive, the notorious re-seller, got her hands on it, she’d probably try to pawn it off as something made by Leonardo da Vinci and demand $400 for it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She had to run home to get something, and now we're off to the big city. 

Fun, fun, fun.....
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 13, 2012, 06:42:15 PM
The neighbor’s wife and I got done with the ordeal in the big city circa 5:00, just in time for her to fix supper at home, and for me to meet the property caretaker here.

It was pretty much a futile trip for me.  While she shopped, I carefully scrutinized faces in the crowds, looking for someone who might be a primitive, or at least someone who might have a primitive for a relative who’s coming here for Christmas.

The problem is, even though it’s the big city (population circa 22,000, the fourth-largest city in Nebraska), primitives are a rare commodity in these parts.  I saw plenty of decent and civilized people, but no primitives, or decent and civilized people who looked worried over the prospect of having a primitive relative for Christmas.

The plan had been, upon seeing one, to approach the individual and strike up a casual conversation.

It might seem rashly audacious to those living in other places, especially in blue areas where people are hostile to each other, but actually it’s pretty much the “norm” for Nebraska.  We’re very receptive to each other, and to strangers.

But nothing happened; it was a dry run, only decent and civilized people around.

- - - - - - - - - -

The property caretaker, as promised, delivered a pallet of bags of cat-litter, slipping them into the garage; it’s my Christmas present (one of them) from him and his wife, the neighbor and his wife, and some other people, and has been given me every year.

The gift isn’t so much the cat-litter itself; the gift is that in deep mid-winter, if it’s -10 degrees outside, with 42 inches of snow on the ground and a 55 mph breeze wafting through, I won’t have to brave the elements to go get cat-litter if I run out.

That’s the gift, and it’s a great gift.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, boss,” the caretaker said when he was done, “Swede’s going to go broke if you don’t come through for him.

“He’s already covered $310 in bets against you, and says if he loses it, he’s never going to give you anything but bright red raw hamburger and greasy raw potatoes the rest of your life.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 15, 2012, 09:17:31 AM
About 7:00 this morning, after I’d gotten done dumping the used cat-litter where there’s a large garden on the side of the house, and was up on the back porch, I looked towards the river, seeing a lone figure walking alongside it.

It’s quite a distance away, but I “hallo’d” him and he waved back.

It’s been raining here pretty good for some hours, with temperatures in the lower 40s.

About twenty minutes later, the guy came up to the house.  He’d been hunting, and I recognized him, as I’ve done his income taxes for years.  He’s a steelworker in the big city, 33 years old, married, three small children.

Because of the damp and since hunting wasn’t so great, he accepted the invitation for a jug of coffee and whatever was there for breakfast that he wanted.  He updated me on the family and work, and then mentioned that many in town were waiting with stopped breath, to see what was going to happen between the drunken cowboy and myself.

I said yeah, I’d been in town last night getting my usual supper, and found out the odds were still holding steady at 3-2 against me.  “But actually, I think it’s pretty silly; I don’t think anything’s going to happen.

“I’m not getting worked up about it, because I’m pretty sure nothing’s going to happen.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Changing the subject, I mentioned my concern that the odds are against me, making it seem as if my own fellow townsmen (the cowboy is from Iowa) had no faith in me.

“Of course, it’s irrelevant because nothing’s going to happen, but still--”

“It’s being realistic,” he said; “everybody wants you to win, but it just doesn’t seem likely.

“And the odds would be even greater if Swede weren’t betting for you; in fact, he’s about the only one betting on you, and from what I‘ve heard, he‘s bet a chunk.”

Yeah, I knew that, I said; it’d been disheartening to learn that even the property caretaker had put down ten bucks against me.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Tell me,” I said; “as you know, I live far out of town, and for obvious reasons--even if I did live in town--I’m never aware of what people say about me.  Even if it’s said in front of my back, I don’t grasp it.

“What do people in town really think of me, franksolich?

He assured me that they think very highly of me, and that it appears unanimous; that I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet.  “The sort of guy who’d give the shirt off his back to somebody in need, even if you didn’t have a second shirt handy.”

He took more eggs and hash-browns from the cast-iron skillet on top of the stove.

“When you first came here, no one knew what to make of you, especially since you showed up out of nowhere.  One day boom! surprise! you were just here.”

I’d moved up into this area in August 2001, from Omaha, living in town the first four years, and then moving out here.  I hadn’t come up here totally cold, though, as I’d known the neighbor when he was a student at the University of Nebraska and myself the manager of a privately-owned student union on campus; from about ten years before that.  In the interregnum, I had gone to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, and he’d returned to farming and ranching.

I was tired of people; I wanted to get away.  He’d suggested that I come up here, to the roof of Nebraska, the eastern slope of the Sandhills.  It’s not quite the Sandhills, where I had spent much of my earlier life, what with too much black dirt, but it’s close, and so I did.

“At first, you were around, but then and again, you weren’t.”

Because I was new to the area with no reputation (good or bad), I was always working, some days as much as eighteen hours, so as to establish a reputation.  That took about three years, after which life became easier and I could afford to be sociable.

“In fact, it wasn’t until after you’d moved out here, that people in town got to know you.

“Nobody was even aware you’re deaf, excepting the last few years.

“And right now, people think it was a great idea--they didn’t at first--that you came out here, to the abandoned side of the county, to this place, bringing life and activity.

“Nobody, but nobody, ever used to come out here, for twenty years after the old woman died.”

This place had first been settled the spring of 1875, and was continuously inhabited until the summer of 1986, after which it lay desolate and neglected until I moved here nineteen years later.  The last tenant of these premises had been a daughter of the original settlers, and who died in town the autumn of 1986, aged 102 years.

The old woman, as I reminded my guest, had actually been a most singular, heroic, person; the sort of girl, wife, mother, who made the Sandhills.  She’d suffered much tragedy and loss, but she’d endured.  Her last fifteen years she was blind, but with ears still as sharp as tacks, she could still wield a shotgun with as much skill as a sighted marksman.  And even though she couldn’t see the vegetables and flowers, she on her own maintained three large gardens.

- - - - - - - - - -

“But still, most worry for you, being all alone with no protection.  You don’t even lock your doors.  Cats are fine, but they’re not dogs.  And you don‘t know how to use a gun.”

Of course I don’t lock the doors; in fact, I’d lost the key sometime when George Bush was still president, and never got around to replacing it.  Since I’m the only person way out here in the middle of nowhere, it’s important that I be accessible to anyone in need.

And there’s no worry about things getting stolen; what’s here wouldn’t bring a hundred bucks in a garage sale, as all those things valuable to me are kept in a locked storage place in town, in a bank safe-deposit box, and in the safe of an automobile dealership. 

Besides the cats, the only thing “valuable” out here is me, and I don’t think anybody’s going to try to steal me, I assured him.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 16, 2012, 06:41:01 AM
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!  It came early for you this year!”

I of course didn’t hear the shouting, but the cold wind hitting my back told me the front door had been opened, and people were here.

It was about 11:30 p.m., and it was a good thing I was wearing brown pants, not having gotten undressed and gone to bed yet.

The computer sits on a large table in an alcove separating the dining room from the living room, and one’s compelled to sit with his back against the front door coming into the dining room.  And…..since I’m deaf, that means I’m not aware someone has come in until, well, sort of late.

It was seven people from town, six of whom I knew and one I didn‘t, quite obviously in a state of hilarity after several hours of sucking down the juice.
 
It appeared to be what I thought it was; the party wasn’t out here to wish me well, but rather that the bar was closed, and they weren’t done for the night yet.  It’s happened before, and this is just as good a place to party on as any other.

Concerned that they all were so drunk, and the icy conditions on the roads this night, after recovering my composure I got up to turn on the coffee, as they all looked as if they were going to stay a while, too.

- - - - - - - - - -

Instead of making themselves comfortable in the dining room and the living room, they all came into the kitchen, crowding around me.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!  YOU GOT YOUR PRESENT TONIGHT!”

I wondered what that was all about, and looked at the one I knew best, quizzically.

“You won,” he said.  “You won.”

“You won big,” someone else chimed in, “and Swede too; he’s so happy--gloriously happy, happy as a pig in strawberries.”

My eyes crossed in vexation.  I had no idea what this was about.

There was much more yimmer-yammering, and gibbering-gabber, but finally I got one of them to sit down at the kitchen table and illuminate me.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, Swede’s having some problems collecting on his bets, because there’s some who insist he didn’t win a damned thing.  But not to worry; Swede’s nobody to mess around with, and everybody’ll pay up.”

My eyes went opposite directions in vexation.

I pleaded with him to start at the beginning; eventually it must make sense.

“The cattlemen had their big Christmas party tonight, at the country club [the one in the next county, not the one here].  The ‘social hour’ started at four, and they always have a good bar, unlimited drinks.

“Swede got there about six, having to deliver his famous sfogliatelle as a treat to go with their steaks and potatoes, and he said people were getting pretty well tanked up even then.

“About 10:00, when Swede was getting ready to shut the bar down for the night, someone called him, telling him the whole story; what’d happened after he left.  He heard it through, and then started going around collecting on his bets.

“There were some who protested, ‘but franksolich didn’t beat him up,’ and then he pointed out the small print of the bet.  The bet wasn’t that you’d beat up the cowboy; the bet was that you’d come out the winner.

“A nice little distinction there, that nobody seemed to see at the time.

“A few are still complaining, but they’re paying up.”

Well, maybe it wouldn’t eventually make sense.

“So…..it’s nice to know the beginning and the ending of the story.  How about the middle of it now?”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, it’s pretty short.  The cowboy was drunk even before the dinner, and about nine o’clock, he got into a fight, a fight with a nephew of his [i.e., the cowboy’s] boss.  The cowboy didn't like the sound of the other guy's voice, saying it drove him nuts--but there was some furniture busted and dishes broken and decorations torn down, and somehow even some ceiling-tiles got pulverized and light-fixtures yanked out.

“And yeah, a few other people hurt, but only minor damage.

“The cowboy didn’t know the guy he was fighting was related to his boss.

“But no matter; the other guy must’ve learned pugilism somewhere, and learned it pretty good.

“The cowboy had to be taken to the emergency room of the hospital, somewhat blood-stained.

“And now he’ll soon on his way back home, back to Iowa, after he gets out of jail, as his boss finally fired him.”

“He should’ve been fired a long time ago,” someone else said.

“Months ago,” a third person said.

“Well, anyway, it’s over now, and you came out on top,” the main guest said..

“And Swede’s bragging of his backing you, gloating that you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever met in his life, and that it’s stupid to bet against you.

“He says you got baraka, and he’s not talking about the idiot in the White House.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 16, 2012, 04:57:40 PM
The femme and I went and had lunch in the big city early this afternoon; as we wished the conversation to be intimate, we went to one of those smaller restaurants, where she had boeuf bourguignon and I had my usual hamburger et les pommes frites jaillissent fait.

The chef on duty at the time, busy with her specialty nourriture française extraordinaire, is named Olga Yaroslavnova, and she’s a very nice woman.

The part of the chitchattery that wasn’t intimate dealt with the femme’s regret that she never learned a usable practical skill, such as typing or shorthand or surveying, instead being all caught up in this “fine arts” stuff.

As long ago as November 2008, she’d seen the handwriting on the wall (but was hoping that after four years, the nightmare would be over); the “fine arts” are dependent upon wealthy individuals and foundations, and with all the new tax laws slowly coming into effect, that money’s going to dry up.

“Laundry.  I can do laundry.  I suppose I can take in laundry.”

I assured her that while it’s going to be bad, we’ll get through it, being smarter, more flexible, more adaptable, than Democrats, liberals, and primitives.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 16, 2012, 06:58:29 PM
The business partner drove in from the heart of the Sandhills of Nebraska, to drop off work enough to keep me busy for a while.  We discussed plans for the holidays.

I dunno how or why it evolved over the years, but anyway, the business partner and franksolich have spent just about every holiday evening--the evening of Thanksgiving Day, the evening of Christmas Day, the evening of New Year’s Day, the evening of Easter Day, the evening of Memorial Day, the evening of the 4th of July, the evening of Labor Day, the evening of Armistice Day--doing something, more than half the time going over to the neighbor’s house where the neighbor’s wife kindly fixes up the holiday feast leftovers for us…..even if I myself had been there earlier in the day and chowed down on it.

So he’ll be back here--it’s a long drive--the evening of Christmas Day.

He inquired how the search for a primitive for Christmas was coming along.

I had to admit it’s thus far been a dismal flop.  Primitives around here this year seem extinct.

But I haven’t given up hope.  Random chance or luck or happenstance might bring franksolich a primitive for Christmas.

“It’s like a butterfly-collector pursing a rare specimen, or a bird-watcher looking for an elusive avian.

“I’ll find one; remember, I usually find things people say aren’t there.

“It reminds me of when I was in college, and collecting the half-dollar-sized English copper pennies, 1861-1967.  Within a couple of years, I had a complete collection--minus the 'one of a kind' issues, of course--excepting for 1950 and 1951.

“Tens of millions of these pennies were made each year, but because there was no demand for them at the time, the Royal Mint turned out only 240,000 in 1950 and 120,000 in 1951.

“Even that was too much for the demand, and so bags of these pennies were used as door-stops in, of all places, banks in Bermuda.  Most of them were eventually sent back, and melted down.

“Every coin dealer I contacted insisted they didn’t exist any more.

“But these issues were still listed in the books, and so there had to be some, somewhere.

“About a year before I graduated from college, when looking around for something else, I found not one of those years, but both of those years, and the guy wanted only $40 for both.  I was floored; why was the price so low?

“’Nobody collects English pennies,’ he said; ’they’re dead inventory, and I’m happy to get rid of them.’”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 17, 2012, 03:13:54 PM
I met the property caretaker on the sidewalk in town today, and right out there in public, he began mimicking a worshipful Arab, walking away from me backwards, bowing at the waist, and rotating his right hand in the air.

“Bah-rah-ka, bah-rah-ka, bah-rah-ka.  You got it, boss.”

I indignantly told him to cut it out.

He asked if I’d been to the bar yet.

I told him yes, and that I’d immediately walked out, and decided to get something at the grocery store.

Someone had already posted tonight’s menu--it’s an Italianate night apparently, with Swede cooking, although Swede wasn’t around the minute I was in there--advertising manzo tritato bruciato e patate essicate nel modo di francesco soliche, and for four bucks instead of the usual five.

“But he’s complimenting you,” I was told; “you won him $420 this weekend.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: GOBUCKS on December 17, 2012, 05:04:37 PM
Quote
manzo tritato bruciato e patate essicate nel modo di francesco soliche
A burned hamburger and dried-out potatoes, the way franksolich likes it.

I don't think four bucks is a bargain.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 17, 2012, 06:12:06 PM
A burned hamburger and dried-out potatoes, the way franksolich likes it.

I don't think four bucks is a bargain.

I asked about it one time, because I have a problem with their hamburgers.

They use seven ounces of ground beef per hamburger.

And then turn around and use regular-sized hamburger buns.

I prefer that they use a little less beef, and a little more bun.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: GOBUCKS on December 17, 2012, 06:20:00 PM
I asked about it one time, because I have a problem with their hamburgers.

They use seven ounces of ground beef per hamburger.

And then turn around and use regular-sized hamburger buns.

I prefer that they use a little less beef, and a little more bun.

After they press it down, hard, until every trace of fat and taste has been expelled, that seven ounces will be more like three.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 18, 2012, 05:11:02 PM
After they press it down, hard, until every trace of fat and taste has been expelled, that seven ounces will be more like three.

I inquired one time, oh, maybe about four or five years ago, about the history of the hamburgers at this bar.

The owner, the wife of the Norwegian cook Swede whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, has owned the place since the early 1970s.

She said that up until the hyperinflation of 1977-1981, the hamburger had been 8 ounces and cost $1.00, which was sort of "high" for the time, excepting that it included a lot of extras.

By the time Ronald Reagan was moving into the White House to set things straight again, it'd fallen to 7 ounces, and risen in price to $2.50.

She'd determined a long time ago that seven ounces was the minimum size of hamburger the public was willing to take; make it any smaller, and even with a lower price, it wouldn't sell.

It's now $6.50--it was $4.00 when George Bush was president--but that includes a lot of extras.

I, along with any other customers ordering it as "carry-out," get charged a flat five bucks for the hamburger and an order of french fries, because I, and other customers ordering it as "carry-out," don't demand the extras; we just want a hamburger and french fries, period.

She recently warned me that, due to the higher taxes and 0bamacare, to come into effect on New Year's Day, the price for "carry-out" is going to rise to six bucks, and for all the extras, eaten there on the premises, $7.50.

When I inquired about why only standard-sized buns for such a large hamburger, she showed me the price-list, revealing that the distributor handles only a limited inventory of buns, all of them standard-sized.  Sure, she could get buns of any size from distributors in Sioux City or Kearney or Columbus or Omaha, but they aren't willing to send a big semi-truck way up here out in the middle of nowhere to drop off a couple of cases of hamburger buns.

One works with what one can get.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 19, 2012, 06:17:52 PM
The neighbor and his wife stopped over in early afternoon, to drop off some Christmas presents, and to pick up some Christmas presents.

It was pretty much an even trade; about four cubic feet of presents for them from me, and about four cubic feet of presents for me from them. 

They also wanted to be sure I was all hunkered down for the snow; that I had enough provisions to last me until tomorrow (Thursday) evening, when the neighbor and some other people can finally plough their way through to this place.  I have plenty of provisions.

And most importantly, the cats have plenty of chow and cat-litter.

I said it was fine; I wanted to be alone today anyway.

"You know, I wonder," the neighbor's wife commented, "December must be a very sad month for you, so many anniversaries."

I replied yeah, sure, there's some of those--we seem to die when the ground's covered with snow (other than my mother, who died during the height of summer so long ago), and there's four such anniversaries this month, but there's only one, really, that still pains.

(http://i1056.photobucket.com/albums/t374/primitiveland/c01963.jpg)



Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 20, 2012, 11:08:33 AM
Beginning Wednesday afternoon, the roof of Nebraska got high winds with only a little bit of snow.

After the winds died down circa midnight, it began snowing heavily, but the flakes lazily drifted down.

So no snow-drifts, no built-up snow, anywhere, just about 4-5" of snowing laying there minding its own business.

I think I'll go to the big city this afternoon, Thursday afternoon, to scout around for a primitive for Christmas; time's getting close, and I need a specimen for study.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 20, 2012, 07:15:54 PM
All her plans fell apart, so I ended up doing nothing, nothing at all.

When a friend of the neighbor's was here about suppertime, I bitched about how the "window of opportunity" to find a primitive for Christmas is rapidly closing; it's already December 20, and only five more days.

He knows what I want a primitive for Christmas for; for the sheer joy of observation and study.

He suggested I've been ignoring a fertile field with scores of primitives; the insane asylum in the big city.

Problem, however; I don't think they let these guys out, and even if they did, I wouldn't touch one with a ten-foot primitive.

The nuthouse used to be for nuts, period; nuts of all stripes and colors.

The past few years, it's been converted into a high-security holding-pen for sex offenders.

There used to be as many as 1500 lunatics there; now there's 220.

This does by the way have an unfortunate effect on statistics reflecting on the big city; a high percentage of registered sex offenders, making it seem as if the big city's as bad as Skins's island.

The statistics don't point out that 220 of those 225 sex offenders (in a city of 22,000) are behind barbed wire.

I'm going to the big city in the morning, but I think I'll pass on checking out the madhouse.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: GOBUCKS on December 20, 2012, 08:29:04 PM
The past few years, it's been converted into a high-security holding-pen for sex offenders.

There used to be as many as 1500 lunatics there; now there's 220.

I'm going to the big city in the morning, but I think I'll pass on checking out the madhouse.
While you're there, stop by and ask them if they just checked in a guy named Dennis.

Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 21, 2012, 04:42:03 PM
Well, I went to the big city this afternoon, but only for a couple of hours.

I saw lots and lots of people, people all over the place, but no primitives.

I'm starting to get worried.

First, I got the Looming Dilemma Monday evening, and then franksolich is facing a very real prospect of having no primitive for Christmas.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: GOBUCKS on December 21, 2012, 05:30:17 PM
franksolich is facing a very real prospect of having no primitive for Christmas.
I'm pretty sure you can get them at Costco.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 21, 2012, 05:35:54 PM
I'm pretty sure you can get them at Costco.

No Costco in the big city.

There's a bicycle shop and a coffee shoppe, but there were only decent and civilized people therein.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 22, 2012, 06:01:13 PM
The neighbor, his wife, and their four small children were here today, the only visitors for whom I cared, as I've been in a funk lately, not in a good mood at all.

Everybody's all effervescent about Christmas, and the neighbor's wife said she was coming over early Monday to fix up the Christmas turkey, which I'm supposed to cook for her beginning circa 4:00 Christmas morning.  They'll have it for dinner Christmas Day, and the business partner and I will go over there Christmas evening, to finish it off.

I was reminded of the standing, always-open, invitation to join them for noon too, and now I'm thinking about it, as the odds of finding a primitive for Christmas seem to be melting away faster than butter on a hot tin roof.

Although I'm desperate for a primitive for Christmas, I'm worrying less about that, and more about the Looming Dilemma, to be presented me Christmas Eve evening.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 23, 2012, 07:13:42 AM
“Well, your odds of finding a primitive for Christmas went down by one recently,” the neighbor said, when he came here to pick up a piece of farm machinery early Sunday morning.

“Remember that guy who was killed in that automobile accident south of here a couple of days ago, whose SUV [sports utility vehicle] got turned into a ‘U’ by a semi-truck, crumpled into the size of a basketball?

“The tow-truck driver said the only recognizable piece on that mass of wreckage was an 0bama sticker.”

Yeah, I’d heard about the accident; some people are totally reckless.

It was the middle of the night, and the guy, from a blue state, had been following a native of the area (i.e., someone intimately familiar with the way the highway is).  The speed limit on the highway’s 60 mph, and the guy in front of him was going 62 mph, but that wasn’t fast enough for the guy behind him.

So the 0bamaite had pulled out, and instantly became a statistic.

“You know, it amazes me,” I said, “how many people end up paying with their lives simply because of their rudeness, their bad manners.

“Like poor lil Treyyvon, who mouthed off one time too many.

“It’s a rather harsh ‘penalty,’ for a simple act of discourtesy, but excresence happens.

“I’ve never known a polite, considerate person to get blown away.”
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 23, 2012, 01:29:16 PM
Some older gentleman came over here shortly after noon, to drop off Christmas presents from the property caretaker and his wife.  He's a drinking pal of the caretaker at the VFW Club in town, but although I've known his face for eight years now, I don't know his name.

I was told his name when we first met, but I didn't grasp it, and was too embarrassed to admit it.

It looks as if the caretaker and his wife bought franksolich some clothes, although I haven't opened any of the packages yet.  The clothes I buy, I buy at the thrift stores (excepting underwear, of course), because I'm really rough on clothes, as if an 8-year-old boy.  When given clothes as gifts, I treat them as gingerly as if they were the Bayeux Tapestry or the Shroud of Turin.

I'll find out later this week, what's behind the wrapping-paper.

The older gentleman and I talked about the weather.  There's still a couple of inches of snow on the ground, but no ice.  Temperatures all this week are supposed to be only single digits, plus and minus; no precipitation, no wind, in the forecast.

This is the guy with whom I've had many arguments.....about the exact same subject, every time.

He's of the old school, and thinks that in cases of bitterly cold weather, one's supposed to let a motor vehicle warm up.  He thinks I'm ruining cars and trucks (I have a car, but more frequently use one of two newer sedans or one of three newer pick-up trucks owned by other people but left here), because thirty seconds after the ignitions's turned on, I take off.

In my defense, however, I don't take off at full speed.  I got two miles to go to reach the highway on this road:

(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/road.jpg)

and so until I reach the highway, I let the motor run at its own speed, which usually for a couple of minutes is 10-15 mph.

It's a never-ending argument.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: Chris_ on December 23, 2012, 01:30:18 PM
If the temperature is below freezing, one generally wants to warm up the engine for at least thirty seconds.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: BlueStateSaint on December 23, 2012, 05:23:02 PM
I've heard that for cars with a few (teenaged) years on them, this would be a good idea.  Today's cars, however, are pretty much going to warm up better under load; i.e., in gear, at idle, but moving down the road.  I figure that if I'm going to burn the gas, I might as well get some mileage out of it, and I'll let it roll slowly (in D, the RAV will hit 10 to 15 mph at idle) for the first mile or so.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: GOBUCKS on December 24, 2012, 12:41:21 PM
I've always thought the idea about "warming up" an engine dates back to the days before multi-grade and synthetic motor oils.

Until the engine heated up, in the old days, the oil might not flow and provide lubrication.

I've warmed up my car in really frigid weather, but only so the heater will kick in.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 24, 2012, 02:16:05 PM
The property caretaker was over this morning, bringing a couple of presents from people in town, one of them being from the woman who owns the bar, Swede's wife.  He was also checking on some things near the house, because it'd gotten bitterly cold during the night, and was still a few digits below zero by 9:00 a.m.

Swede's wife had given me one of those 5-pound "wheels" of real English cheddar cheese, such as what one finds in catalogues from places selling cases of oranges and apples.

"You know, boss, Swede's worried because he hasn't seen you for a week now.  He wonders if you're ill.

"And just so you know, he took your name off the posted menu."

I mentioned that no, I hadn't been ill, and have been going for my usual cuisine to the VFW Club instead, where the heavy sour dour cook Donna doesn't make commentary on how I like my food.

"And besides," I continued, "I'll see Swede soon enough, on my birthday, when I'll order his most-expensive Italianate delicacies, which should freak him out.

"And then it'll freak him out even more after I'm done, and show him it's my birthday, and so hence the meal's free."

The caretaker grinned, and then commented about all the presents on the dining-room table, "You haven't opened anything yet."

I reminded him it's not Christmas--December 25, to be specific--and I'm not one of these people with poor impulse-control who has to open presents early.  I could wait until it's time.

"But boss, you don't even open your presents up on Christmas day.  You leave them sitting there on the table, maybe every three or four days opening one up, clear until your birthday in March, when you're finally done.

"It's a good thing people who give you perishable stuff, give it to you unwrapped."

Oh, but I'd already opened one I said, showing him the gift from the femme.

"Are those real rocks on there?" he asked.

I showed him by taking a Mason jar of home-made apple jelly, and scratching the glass.

"They're probably only a step above industrial-grade, and they're parts of carats, not full carats, but they're real."

It was a paperweight commemorating the 60th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen, and unfortunately it's not destined to hold down paper, but to repose in the safe-deposit box at the bank, as it's much too valuable to keep out in the open, just like that sterling-silver anniversary-clock under a glass dome commemorating the 25th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen, and the heavy gold letter-opener commemorating the 50th anniversary of the same, along with somesuch other items whose composition is at least partially valuable metals and jewels.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: shoes off the couch on December 25, 2012, 12:26:17 PM
Excellent. Merry Christmas and don't worry about warming up the vehicle, It'll be fine.

:snowblower:
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 25, 2012, 08:45:04 PM
On Christmas Eve, promptly at 5:00 p.m., I showed up where I was supposed to be, to have dinner with my hostess from Thanksgiving and her extended family.  Besides she and her husband, her niece was there with her family, husband and three adolescent sons.

It was a good time, spend over turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, cherry pie, and coffee and milk; what a proper Christmas dinner is.  The conversation was mostly idle chitchat about family and people in town.

Near the end, the matter of Christmas presents came up (like franksolich, they open theirs on Christmas morning, instead of prematurely on Christmas Eve; these are not impatient people wanting quick immediate gratification), and I mentioned that the femme earlier that day had “insisted” I open my present from her, and that I was impressed.

It was a paperweight, in the form of St. Edward’s crown, about as tall as my thumb and of course bigger around, made to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the accession of H.M. the Queen.  It came with a “certificate of authenticity” in a wooden box, alleging it was a “limited edition” and that “only” 6,000 had been made.

I had assumed the stones were fake, until the femme ran one of them along the side of a Mason jar of home-made jelly, scratching the glass--a thing I later demonstrated to the property caretaker.  They’re real diamonds--but only chips of diamonds at that--slightly above industrial grade, but they’re real diamonds.

“That’s a wonderful gift,” my hostess said; “I don’t think anybody could possibly top that.”

I heaved a sigh of relief; I wasn’t to get a Christmas present from her after all.

- - - - - - - - - -

But my hopes were dashed when, upon getting ready to depart, the hostess did give me a present, wrapped in a box about half the size of a shoe-box, with the jeweler’s trademark on the gift-tag, and yes, it weighed about as much as that particular item I had held on Thanksgiving Day, and alas commented upon how wonderful it was.

I was cornered, but sort of left off the hook when she reminded me, “Now, you’re supposed to open it at home, on Christmas Day, not right now.”

In the kitchen, I told the niece, “You know, I really can’t take this; it has tremendous sentimental value to your family, and I’d be a heel to take it away from you.  She means well, but she’d do better having you have it.”

“Oh no,” the niece said; “she’d asked me about it Thanksgiving night, if I minded, and I said of course not.  There’s so many family relics here that this one thing doesn’t amount to anything.  She wants you to have it, and so take it, with all the family’s good wishes.”

Damn.

So I returned home.  It was still bitterly cold, probably either +3 or -3 degrees, something like that, and I put the wrapped present on the dining room table with all the other presents, thinking I’d get around to opening it up sooner or later.

Then I slept for a while, and got up at 4:00 a.m. to start cooking the turkey for the neighbor’s wife, as she’d instructed.  It was far too cold to kick the cats outside, and so I risked keeping them in as I used the natural gas stove, fervently hoping that if it exploded, the cats would merely be flung out over to the next county rather than blown to pieces.

I survived; the turkey got cooked okay, and the neighbor's wife was here circa 9:00 a.m. to finish it up before taking it home.
Title: Re: franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas
Post by: franksolich on December 25, 2012, 08:50:35 PM
By the way, the end.

Alas, franksolich got no primitive for Christmas.