At the End of the Bar

 

Dan asked that I wear my Buddhist garb to writing group on Monday night. He says he has a bet with the guy at the end of the bar where we meet. Two months ago I told the guy at the end of the bar a little limerick. (Perhaps you know it? It’s the one that begins “There was an old hermit named Dave….”) Dan was hoping I’d show up at 7 p.m. in full wah-wah Buddhist trappings: sandals, orange robes and all. I believe the guy at the end of the bar couldn’t fathom how a nice little Buddhist would know by memory such filthy drivel much less recite it willingly in public. However I confessed to Dan that I am only a lowly initiate to Buddhism and I wear a navy blue rakusu like a bib around my neck. It is only the great teachers who take advanced vows who wear the saffron robes that Dan was imagining.

            People tend to forget that great vows or no, there is nothing too exotic about homosapiens the world over. Seven years ago I lived for some weeks in an ashram in northern India. Sadhaka Grama nestles in the Himalayan foothills near the Ganges and though it’s hot in the summer it has severely cold winters. Ashramites live in little bungalows and take their meals in a large dining hall. While I was there I kept silence and learned advanced yoga teaching techniques. I rose at 4 a.m. to meditate for an hour in a small hut where camphor and ghee were sprinkled on a wood fire as a symbol of progress toward purity of mind, and I attended lectures in the evening, but I still had time to myself each day. One morning in the beginning of March, after meditation and yoga and breakfast, the sun warmed the air and the sky stayed clear blue. I decided it was time to wash my clothes. This was done via a bucket placed in my bungalow’s shower stall. After a good sloshing wash and a rinse, I rung out my yoga outfits and my blue silk long johns and my fleece jacket and pants and took a wooden drying rack outside to the small cement patio near my front door.

            Outside I was greeted by the raucous mating-cry of a fat, green parrot on the electric lines strung across the ravine to the northeast and the fine site of drying rack, after drying rack placed on verandas throughout the ashram on the west. Nearly every resident had decided it was a good day for doing laundry.  Then I noticed that the racks outside the cottages where the swamis lived were filled with saffron robes, saffron shawls and t-shirts. As I looked longer I saw saffron-dyed socks and yes, underwear, too, dyed bright orange, like the sun. I smiled, silently thinking that it was a glorious spring day in northern India, saffron through and through.

            The next time I see Dan and the guy at the end of the bar I’m going to tell them this story.  And maybe the limerick about the young singer named June who arrived at rehearsal too soon.

                                                        

A Snake in the Grass

     I was walking in one of my favorite nature preserves a few days ago enjoying the late autumn view of oak trees turned a ruddy red and tall, green Norway pines that rose above a steep ravine of tall-grass prairie. Because of the incline, I looked down as I climbed and saw a funny, dark brown stick lying completely straight in the tangle of dead grasses. Its color was different from anything close by. It was very thin -- thinner than a pencil -- and about that long. Instinctively, I stepped over it, then turned back to see if it was a snake or in fact just a stick. I don't like snakes, creepy silent things, but it was so small and lay so still I couldn't resist investigating. What I took to be the front tip was rounded and slightly bigger, as a head would be, and the back end narrowed to a point. But it wasn't a baby garter snake -- weren't they green?

     'Nudge it; make sure,' I said to myself. 'Oh no,' I thought, 'I am being as brave as I can be right now. No sense in overdoing it.' But why was it so motionless? Was something so tiny capable of enough instinct to even sense my presence? It was probably a baby -- a day, or hour or two old. 'Maybe,' I thought, 'it is just a stick after all.'
I stepped back a pace and in turn stayed perfectly still. The sun shone on the little object. I waited. And waited. It moved; it was alive. I stepped forward and it froze, a slight curl now in its slender body. I froze. And waited. It raised its head eyeing the tall grass on the opposite side of the path to which it had now come, then slithered into it. Noiselessly. A little proud of my naturalist's instincts and very proud of my courage against such scary creature I turned to continue my trek up the hill and jumped involuntarily at the sight of a thick black form in the grass.

     Oh my, it was a branch in the path, nothing like a snake. But so much for bravery; I had snakes on my mind and my instincts, like the little brown slider's, were in perfectly good condition.

Lunch With Kids

    When I worked at Carlson Companies, I spent eight hours a day in a tiny cubicle. I used the lunch hour as a chance to get outside. On most days, I would eat lunch in my car in a shaded part of the parking lot while doing the crossword puzzle from the Star Tribune newspaper.

    On this particular day, the parking lot was being resurfaced. My shaded area was closed off to me. I drove around the nearby streets to find another spot. About three blocks away, I found the empty parking lot of St. Stephen’s Lutheran Church. A tall oak shaded the far corner. It seemed a perfect spot to enjoy my lunch.

    About half way through my crossword puzzle, as I was penciling E-S-A-U into 23 down, two Plymouth Police squad cars screeched to a halt, red lights flashing, in front of my car. Four officers emerged with their hands resting on their guns. One approached the window on the drivers’ side. I rolled down the window.

    “Let me see some ID,” he commanded.

    I put down my sandwich and crossword puzzle, dug out my wallet, fished out my driver’s license and handed it to him. He handed it to another officer who took it to one of the squad cars.

     “What’s going on?,” I asked.

     “I’ll ask the questions. What are you doing here?”

     “Eating a sandwich and doing the crossword puzzle.”

     “Don’t get smart with me, young man.”

     This coming from a man who looked at least five years younger than me.

     “'Why are you in this parking lot?' was the question I asked.”

     That wasn’t the question I had heard.

     “They’re resurfacing the parking at Carlson Companies, where I work. So I parked here today. Here’s my Carlson ID.”

     “We got a call about a suspicious character lurking around the Day Care Center.”

     Lurking?

     “What day cay center?”

     He pointed toward the rear of the car. I turned and looked. I saw a row of pines, behind that a barely visible eight foot high chain link fence. Beyond that, I saw what could have been the top of roof of a building.

     “What day care center?” I asked.

     “Don’t get smart with me, young man.”

     He put his hand on his gun, turned on his heels and walked to one of the two squad cars. About ten minutes later he appeared at my window. I put down my sandwich and crossword puzzle and looked up at him.

     “It appears everything checks out. But we are making a report of this and keeping it on file.”

     I sincerely hoped no children in the seven county area would be abducted in the next year or so. I was sure my name would appear first on the list of likely suspects.

      “From now on I would suggest you eat lunch in the park," he said as he looked down his nose at me.

      “But there are more kids there, than here!” I answered.

      “Don’t get smart with me young man!”

Get Off Your Mobile Phone

     Here is a video from my musical comedy -- GOT IT MADE.  Let me know if you can relate:

Get Off Your Mobile Phone http://vimeo.com/35470361 "Another audience favorite from GOT IT MADE. What could be more annoying than someone driving while on their cell phone? Until YOU need to make a call, that is." Involves Maureen Kane Berg.

The Right Baseball

Coco Crisp, after dropping an easy fly ball, was once quoted as saying, "The ball didn't do its job. I did my job. The ball didn't do its job."

Here I thought it was the first baseman making game saving plays or the pitcher making all the right pitches. But it was really just the ball doing its job.

I don't know if Coco was serious or not but he might have a point. Maybe it was the baseball. Perhaps there are a few baseballs that are flawed, that are not wound as tight as others or where the seams are slightly higher than the others. These variances could be the difference between a baseball clearing the fence by a few feet or finishing at the warning track, or a curve ball breaking more.

Should baseballs be expected to be the same? All bats are not the same. All gloves are not same. Baseball parks vary from city to city. The Metrodome was criticized for affecting the outcome of games with baseballs getting lost in the roof. But nothing is said when a baseball gets lost in the sun or the wind converts a routine fly ball into a homerun in an outdoor stadium.     

Baseballs should be, and are, rewarded for their accomplishments. Record setting baseballs sit in trophy cases and bring huge sums at auctions and on eBay. Some have even earned a spot in Major League Baseball's Hall of Fame.

This all makes me feel better about my failed dream of becoming a major league baseball player. It wasn't that I didn't have the skills or the talent to play in the big leagues.

It's just that I didn't have the balls. 

Dan Shepard's Annual Top 10 TV Shows

2012 2011

1        1 Amazing Race—Notice their formula every year?  A team of gays…a father and son…two cheerleaders…a minority couple…a dating couple…newlyweds…best friends…a handicapped player…a couple in their 60’s…a couple of midgets…  

2        2 Survivor---We are only into episode four and one guy has been injured five times already.

3        NEW: Vegas—I had Sheriff Ralph Lamb in my cab in the late 90’s.  Dennis Quaid portrays him perfectly.

4        3 The Biggest Loser—The fatter they are the more interesting the show.

5        NEW: Longmire—I guess I like sheriffs in modern day westerns.

6        4 Hell’s Kitchen---If you are a poor cook with an emotional problem, you can be on this show.

7        5 Celebrity Apprentice—If you are famous and have an emotional problem you can be on this show.  

8        NEW: World Series of Poker—Player Rob Salaburu has stolen my act at the poker table.

9        7 Blue Bloods—Tom Selleck is great in everything I’ve ever seen him in.

10      8 Bill O’Reilly—If I didn’t watch this show I wouldn’t know what’s REALLY happening in the country.

Honorable mention: John Stossel, American Idol

        That is all,
          Dan Shepard
            dandarla23@comcast.net

Stuff On The Side Of The Road

       I have been doing a lot of walking lately. It always irritates me to see all the trash on the side of the roads.

       Besides the usual cigarette packages, plastic bottles, McDonald’s bags and beer cans, I find some things that one might not expect. I have to wonder how they got there.

       Condoms, new - it ain’t happening tonight, so you can just throw those out the window right now – and used – I guess we don’t need those anymore – litter my path.

       Old cell phones – at least they won’t be talking or texting while driving.

       Men’s underwear and women’s panties just two blocks before the used condoms – wow, that didn’t take long.

       Today I found an old address book. I opened it up. Listed inside were women’s phone numbers.  Only women’s phone numbers. It was a black book. This guy really knew a LOT of women.

       He couldn’t have just lost this. Maybe his girlfriend found it and tossed it out. But I would like to think he had met the woman of his dreams and had no further use for the book and left this gold mine of numbers for someone else.

      Someone like me maybe!

       No, I am well past the age for this book to be of any use to me. It probably never would have been.

       I decided to put it back on the ground where I found it. He just might change his mind and come back for it.

The Friendliest Town in the World

       Robin and I entered Lancaster, hometown of our friend Michelle Wilson, at about eleven on Sunday morning. A sign at the edge of town stated Lancaster was the "FRIENDLIEST TOWN IN THE WORLD" in huge letters. Main Street was bare except for a dozen cars parked in front of the cafe. We had to park a block away. I was anxiously awaiting my breakfast in the "FRIENDLIEST" cafe in the world.

        When we entered, all heads turned toward us and the cafe suddenly became quiet. Along the left side were two rows of orange colored booths. As we headed toward the one vacant booth, people stared at us if we had robbed a bank or something. The waitress seemed friendly enough as she joked with an old lady a couple of booths away. After about five minutes, she grabbed a couple of menus and threw them on our table as she passed by with a pot of coffee.

        "I sure could have used some of that coffee," Robin said as she opened her menu.

        "Me, too," I said.

        On the wall in front of the restaurant, I saw a blackboard that listed the Sunday morning breakfast special. That's what I wanted! When the waitress came back, I ordered it.

        With a disgusted look on her face she replied, "It's off the menu."

        I wanted to tell her it was still on the blackboard, but ordered a BLT instead. Robin just wanted coffee.

        Just then THEY walked in. Again the room became silent. The elderly couple at the door just stared at us. People looked back and forth at them and us.

       "I think we've got their booth," Robin whispered to me.

        She was probably right. We had obviously taken their booth, the one they sat in every Sunday after church. They stood there talking to each other, not knowing what to do, wondering whether they should eat standing up, kick us out of their booth, or just leave. Fortunately they joined another couple that had called them over.

       Twenty-five minutes later when the waitress brought over the food, I decided to ask the question. "Do you know Michelle Wilson?"

        She stared at me for a few seconds and then coldly answered, "Should I?"

        "She said she was from here."

       "Where is she from now?" she asked.

  
       "St. Paul."

        "Then how should I know her?" she scowled as she marched away.

        As we ate, I could see her walk from booth to booth.  I could hear her mumble, with ‘Michelle Wilson’ the only words I could make out. Then the people would turn and stare at us as they shook their heads. I guess I shouldn't have asked.

        When we got outside, two men were leaning against a pickup truck. I decided to give it one more try.

        "Do you know Michelle Wilson?"

        They looked at each other and laughed. Without answering, they just got in the truck and drove away.

       I now understand why Michelle moved to the Cities. Lancaster is no place for a writer. Or a mud wrestler. If there were any friendly people, we didn't see them. I am happy she decided to move to St. Paul. After all, there aren't any more booths available at the cafe.

TOUGH DRIVERS

Reprinted from May, 2006 Cabbie Guide Magazine                          

          Mike Sanchez was refusing a fare.  A man had just jumped into his cab at the airport.  The customer told Mike to head up Russell Road.  This Frias Company driver knows the rules, and informed his customer that an address was needed before he would even start the meter.  The man would not give an address, so Sanchez refused to move the cab.

          The customer got out of the taxi and notified airport taxi officers of this cab driver’s insolence.  Still, Mr. Sanchez refused to drive the man without a destination address.  And the man still refused to give it.  The Taxi Authority and airport police arrived.

          The man was asked for his identification and he presented a license.  The police checked the man out with their dispatcher.  Suddenly, the policeman handcuffed Sanchez’s passenger.  Seems a little extreme, doesn’t it?

          Turned out the man was wanted in connection with a bank robbery.  Instead of a ticket for refusing a fare, Mike received a $2,000 check in the mail from Bank of America, thanking him for his part in the capture of the bank robber.

_________________________

          Hussein Abdelgilil was hungry.  He drove his cab to the drive-thru at the Burger King on Tropicana near Valley View.  Hussein ordered his meal at the intercom, pulled up to the window and paid $6 to the female cashier.

     An angry employee at Burger King came up behind the cashier and asked Hussein why he had not ordered his meal back at the intercom like he was supposed to.  Hussein told the man that he did order on the intercom.  But the employee continued to argue with Hussein.  Maybe he didn’t like cab drivers.  Maybe he didn’t like Egyptian-Americans.   Or maybe he just didn’t like Egyptian-American cab drivers.

          To avoid further trouble, Hussein asked for his money back.  The irate employee at Burger King began throwing ketchup packets at Hussein as he pulled away from the window.

          Unfortunately, the Burger King employee did not know who he was dealing with.  Mr. Abdelgilil is President of our local Steelworkers Union 711A, which represents drivers from six companies.  Hussein doesn’t take injustice lightly.

          Many years ago, Mr. Abdelgilil was suspicious of a one-hundred dollar bill he received from a customer dropped off at the Boulevard Mall.  Hussein went to the bank across from the mall, found out the bill was counterfeit, and contacted the Secret Service.

          The Secret Service arrived quickly at the mall.  Even though it was a busy Friday afternoon, Hussein found the man who had passed him the bill.  The man was from Spain and was suspected by the Secret Service of passing numerous phony bills while in the United States.

          Hussein got a letter from the Secret Service to give to the cab company (Whittlesea), which reimbursed him for the hundred-dollar loss.  Hussein says the company later received a reimbursement from the government.

          After leaving Burger King, Hussein called their executive offices and informed a Senior Vice-President of this incident.  The Vice-President thanked Hussein for calling and apologized profusely.  President Hussein later received a packet in the mail for free meals at Burger King for his troubles.  In the meantime, if you are running low on ketchup…
                  That is all,
                  Dan Shepard
                  dandarla23@comcast.net
               
                

Osler's Razor: Haiku Winner! And a request...

Osler's Razor: Haiku Winner! And a request...

Vegestion*

Haiku Friday theme this week:  Bad food.  Check out www.oslersrazor.blogspot.com.

My submission:

Okra inquiry:
Do you serve it with a fork?
Or with a Kleenex?

* "Veggie" + "congestion"
or possibly "Vegetable question"

Down on the Farm with JFK

    Every so often I go to Treasure Island Casino near Red Wing, Minnesota with a friend or two to play poker.  It’s an inexpensive way to have some fun.  The fun consists of talking, joking, speculating…BS'ing mostly.  Poker players are generally interesting people.

    Sometimes James Francis Klecker, alias JFK shows up.  That’s when it gets really interesting.  Jim is a 67-year-old semi-retired farmer from south of Owatonna.  He’s a combination Walter Brennan-Andy Devine type character who out-talks the rest of the table combined.  He’s rich.  And it doesn’t take long before everyone at the table knows it.

    JFK likes to talk about his land…3,900 acres…23 farms…5,000 pigs…more than 40 tractors, some even older than him…even a butcher shop in Geneva, Minnesota. 

    During our last session I expressed doubts.  “You know JFK, you could be fictionalizing us about being a rich farmer.  For one thing, there’s 640 acres in a square mile.  So you’re boasting a total of six square miles of land that you claim to own!  That’s humongous.”

    “Darn right it’s humongous,” said Jim excitedly.  “And I’m not lyin’!  Come on out and I’ll give you a tour.”

    “I’m game,” I immediately responded.  “Just tell me how to get there.”

====

      After a couple phone calls, we decided to meet Jim for breakfast in Owatonna at the Hy-Vee.  The Hy-Vee is a combination grocery store and self-service café where JFK and his gaggle of friends meet at 8AM most mornings after attending Mass.

    Two friends, Frank Shima and Gene “LeRoy” Matter came with me.  Frank and I both grew up in New Prague, a small Czech town about 40 miles from Owatonna.  Frank also lived on a farm until he was 12 years of age.  LeRoy has owned 160 acres of woods and farmland in Wisconsin for 35 years and was interested in seeing what 3,900 acres looked like.

    Between Jim and his friends and the three of us we had fifteen people around that huge breakfast table.  Retired grade school teacher Eunice broke the ice when introduced to LeRoy Matter, “Would you rather have $2 or a matter-baby?”  LeRoy looked perplexed for a moment and then asked cautiously, “What’s a matter-baby?” 

    Replied Eunice, “Nothin’!  What’s the matter with you?”

    We found out this area is also heavily Czech and some of the people at the table could speak it.  Frank, who learned Czech from his parents, confounded the Owatonnans by asking, “Yuckta jedda pes?”  ("How is your dog eating?")  We were in that Hy-Vee store for two hours, reminiscing about our youth and telling humorous stories and jokes. 

    Then Frank and LeRoy and I followed Jim 10 miles south to his farm.  Time to see if his story checked out.

====

    A couple of friendly Labrador Retrievers greeted us as we entered the yard.  We checked out the huge sheds which held the farm vehicles.  Between this farm and others we stopped at I counted about three dozen new and old tractors.  So at least that part of Jim’s story was true.

    I was particularly impressed with a contrivance which appeared to be a corn-pickin', hay-balin', fertilizer-spreadin' combine-tractor.  The tires towered above our heads.  Frank climbed a ladder to get to the driver’s seat.

    “This monstrosity must have cost a million dollars!” I exclaimed.

    “Somethin’ like that,” downplayed Jim.

    “How many miles to the gallon does it get?”

    “Miles to the gallon!” said a surprised JFK.  “That’s not how we measure.  It uses 28 gallons per hour!”

    “That’s about a hundred dollars an hour for gas,” I exclaimed.  “You MUST be rich!”

====

    We then went farm-hopping.  Next to Jim’s farm was his son’s place.  “That little round building is where they keep the pygmy goats I bought for the grandkids,” Jim said.  I had never heard of a pygmy goat, but I wasn’t going to ask, fearing another matter-baby type trick from JFK. 

    Down the road JFK pointed out the buildings housing his pigs.  “That’s not good enough,” I said.  “When we get back to the poker table the other players will want proof.  I need to actually see the pigs.”  So we went inside.  I began counting the pigs individually but wasn’t getting anywhere.  I took a couple pictures instead.

====

    JFK has quite a memory for the history of the area.  Almost every farm we passed had a story…tragic stories most of them.

    “Here’s the ditch where my neighbor’s lawnmower tipped over on him.  I came along not five minutes after it happened but it was too late.”

    “This place here the man came around the barn too fast with the tractor and ran over his youngest son.”

    “See all these American flags?  The man was a Viet Nam hero.  A truck ran over him here as he drove his snowmobile across the road.”

    “Killed him?” Frank asked.

    “Oh, completely,” said JFK.

    On and on Jim reminisced.  “…lady was found alive in the basement after a tornado destroyed her house, …this guy’s wife and kids left him, …guy missed the curve on his motorcycle here, flew into this tree and was killed,…underneath his car fixing it when it collapsed on him, …young man shot and killed himself with a 22.

    “See that silo?” asked JFK.  “The farmer was in there as it was filling with seed corn.  He was old and couldn’t move fast enough as the corn rapidly filled the silo.  They found his arm sticking up out of the corn and holding his hat in the air.”

    “Smothered!” I exclaimed.

    “Somethin’ like that,” said Jim.  “And see this closed down supper club?  I can tell you for a fact that the guy who owned this lost $30,000 before he got rid of it.”

    “How do you know for sure he lost 30 Grand?” tested LeRoy.

    “Because that guy was me,” said Jim.

    “See the shack down by that crick?  That guy used to sell minnows and dope.  He got caught though.  He didn’t have a license to sell minnows.”

====

    I insisted we drive to the supposed butcher shop Jim claimed he owned in Geneva.  As he drove slowly past the store JFK asked, “You don’t want to go inside do you?”  Jim sounded nervous.  I suspected we had him.

    “We’re stopping,” I commanded.  “I’m going inside.”

    Upon entering the shop, “Do you know JFK?” I asked an employee.

    “I better know him.  He’s one of the owners.”

    We toured the store and saw just how beef jerky is made.

====

    In Ellendale, we stopped in front of the café for lunch.  “Anyone want to bet that JFK doesn’t know at least one person in here?” I asked.  I got no takers.  Nobody did know Jim…except the waitress, the cook and all the customers.

====

    So it looked like JFK’s story panned out after all.  But LeRoy was still not convinced.  “We passed some of the same places from different directions three-four times.  You was drivin’ us around in circles, mister.”

====

    Finally JFK took us to his home.  We met his wife Barb who was now home from work.  She does the bookkeeping for the family holdings.  She verified what JFK had been telling us all along.  She even showed us a book with all the pictographed properties.

    “Ya know, JFK, your farm is somethin’ like the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ song,” I said as we departed.

    “What do you mean?” he asked.

    “Well,” I said, breaking out into song to the tune of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ “6 square miles, 5,000 pigs…4,000 acres, 3 goats, 2 Labradors.  And a wife who pays all of your bills.”

    “Yeah,” laughed JFK.  “Somethin’ like that.”

       James Francis Klecker and his wife, Barb        

 

Bullseye

My friend Mark Osler has his own blog  oslersrazor.blogspot.com  on which he features Haiku Friday -- an opportunity for commenters to submit haikus on a weekly theme.  This week the theme is "favorite store."  My submission:

Target Superstore
Low prices plus relief that
It isn't Wal-Mart.

A Writers' Blog

I have been meeting with a Writers' Group for over five years.  We have been through many changes of members, locations and meeting formats, but one thing has remained constant -- we would love a more consistent place to share some of our pieces with a larger audience.  That idea is the basis of this blog. 

Whenever you need a creative boost to your day -- check Writer Rung to be transported, amused or provoked by our latest entries.