The Square Peg - Movie Night

The Square Peg - Movie Night

© S. Bradley Stoner

Hot dog! It’s movie night for our neighborhood. No, we don’t have our own private movie theater... this is an old fashioned outdoor movie night organized by our new HOA president. It was supposed to be last Friday, but it got rained out... or at least we thought it was going to be rained out. So, all kinds of people in the neighborhood started whining that they would get wet and it would be miserable. So, rather than fight the odds and the whiners, the president rescheduled.

Well, scanning the notices on our neighborhood electronic bulletin board, the complaints are already rolling in. It’s going to be too cold... that front arrived. Oh wow, it’s going to be in the sixties tonight! Okay, quit laughing. Sixty is jacket weather in San Antonio. People could freeze to death in that kind of cold. “What about the kiddies? They’re going to be miserable,” one parent whined. I think back to when I was a kid when we went to an old fashioned drive-in movie in late October and it snowed. Snowed, for Pete’s sake! Did we leave? Heck no, we turned on the windshield wipers and car heater and sucked in the exhaust fumes from all the other cars that were doing the same. We were tough and we weren’t about to miss a good movie.

A bunch of kids waiting for the school bus were all talking excitedly as I passed by on my walk this morning. They were laying plans for seating arrangements at tonight’s movie... who was going to sit with who, who would bring an extra blanket, wondering if they could invite friends from out of the neighborhood. ‘Aha!’ I thought as their voices faded behind me, ‘It’s the parents who are wimping out... not the kids.’ Now, that doesn’t surprise me at all. Gen Xers and Millennials don’t seem to have been hardened off by their parents and consequently are wussified. Their kids, on the other hand, the rebellious little beasts, are running about in all kinds of weather. It seems it’s never too hot, too wet, or too cold to stop them from having fun. I’m encouraged.. maybe there is hope for this country yet!

Then there are the older folks. They come in two flavors. The ones like me who think having fun is still a priority and the old sourpusses who want parents ‘to control their children all the time... especially at neighborhood events.’ Me? I figure neighborhood events are the best place for kids to cut loose. I mean, so what if you don’t hear every line in a feature length cartoon? Is it really that critical? It’s not like it’s Olivier doing Hamlet for heaven’s sake.

Let the kids run. Let them play on the swings. Let ‘em shout and squeal and laugh all they want to. Let ‘em expend some of that boundless energy all thos sourpusses are angry about losing from creeping old age. Heck, you want to stay young? Go play with the kids. They’ll make fun of you... and likely they’ll laugh at you because your feet drag on the swings and you can’t get nearly as high as they can, but they’ll love you for pushing them, picking them up when they fall down, and lifting them up to the monkey bars. Come to think of it, the parents will probably love you for helping their children use up that excess energy so they all can sleep in on Saturday. If they don’t wimp out... the parents that is.

The Square Peg - Writer’s Block and Sun Jar Jibber Jabber

The Square Peg - Writer’s Block and Sun Jar Jibber Jabber

© S. Bradley Stoner

I woke up grumpy this morning. I don’t know why, I just did. Checked my email... nothing there worth reading, so I opened Word with the intention of writing something funny for my blog. Ever try to write something funny when you’re in a grumpy mood? Doesn’t work. Matter of fact, when I’m grumpy writing anything is damn near impossible. I can’t figure out if I’m grumpy because I have a slight case of writer's block or if I have a slight case of writer's block because I’m grumpy. Either way, it sucks, because I am generally a very disciplined writer. I get up, make coffee, have a little breakfast, turn on the ol’ computer and get right to work. Morning is my time to write, unless of course the urge hits me some other time of day. I once sat down and wrote for twenty hours straight... I was on a roll until my stomach growled and demanded food.

So, what does a writer do when the thoughts don’t flow? This writer heads for the shop to make something. That’s why I keep tools... woodworking tools, metal working tools, big tools, little tools, SAE tools and metric tools. Pretty much if I need something, I own it, but that doesn’t stop me from buying new tools. What stops me from buying new tools is a general lack of space to store them conveniently. I mean, if you can’t get at the right tool you need, what the heck good is it?

So, I hit the shop. Now given that my brain seems to be a little knotted up, I’m not going to try any complex projects, so I pick out one of the simplest I can think of... or rather the one my lovely brought up last night. Sun Jars. Not complicated at all. Matter of fact, all you need is a drill press, some washed spaghetti sauce mason jars, a cheap solar light from a dollar store (I buy ‘em by the dozen because some last and some don’t), and some Loctite Professional Grade Super Glue.

I had all my jars lined up, lids in front of them. I had the drill bit in my drill press and the table adjusted to the proper height. I had all the solar light tops removed from their plastic globes, tubes, and stakes, and had those lined up in front of the lids. I was focused and ready to go.

“Whatcha doin’?”

I jumped... so high that I darn near put a dent in the sheetrock roof of my garage shop. “Dammit, Bob... you gotta quit sneaking up on me like that. If I’da been holding my nail gun, I could have tacked you to the wall.”

“Gee whiz,” Bob said, the hurt registering on his face, “you don’t have to be so grumpy. What’s got your tail in a twist?”

I growled... or at least Bob said I did. He said I sounded like a P.O.ed badger. “Not a good time, Bob.” Hell, I wasn’t in the mood... not that Bob ever helps my mood when he shows up in my shop. Usually I have to worry about something being “borrowed” for a spell... and a spell is generally when Bob runs across whatever it was he borrowed that has my name engraved on it. Then he’ll return it with a line like, ‘Wow, you musta forgot this at my place.’ Of course Bob and I both know that’s an incredible load of crap, but we still play the game.

“Whoa... you really did get up on the wrong side of the bed, didn’t you? Whatcha makin’?”

Obviously, I wasn’t going to get rid of him short of running him off at the end of a 12 gauge. I would have been well within my rights, but that just isn’t the neighborly thing to do. So, barring plugging old Bob in his kiester, the best option was to just answer his question. “I’m going to make some sun jars.”

“What are sun jars?”

Now, almost any idiot should be able to look at the array of jars, jar lids, and solar lights and figure it out, but Bob isn’t that swift, so I explained that you take a used spaghetti sauce jar, drill a hole in the lid, and glue the solar light on it with the light extending into the jar. “It’s a neat way to repurpose those jars and besides, they look nice. You can use them to light a walk way, accent a garden, or light your outdoor table.”

“Huh,” Bob grunted. “Why not just stick the lights in the ground with those little pointy stakes?”

I just looked at him. The man has no creativity at all.

“Anyway,” Bob continued, “I was wondering if I could borrow your leaf blower?”

The last time Bob borrowed something from me, I didn’t get it back for six months, so I just pointed at the new sign on my walls. TOOLS NOT LOANED. and below it in smaller letters, IF YOU NEED THEM, BUY YOUR OWN. I made that sign myself... routed it out, filled the letters with red paint, then varnished it, put in a couple of screw-eyes and hung it up. I thought it looked good. It sort of complements that sign my lovely bought me that hangs on the other wall, What Happens in the Garage Stays in the Garage.

Bob pulled that hurt look again. “Not very neighborly,” he grumbled.

“Maybe not, but I don’t lose tools any more either.”

Bob wandered out of the garage and scuffed down the driveway without even saying goodbye. I turned on the drill and bored a hole in the first lid. Suddenly, I was feeling a lot less grumpy. I finished up the sun jars and headed for the computer. Maybe Bob’s good for something after all.

The Square Peg - If Sportscasters Reported on Political Races

The Square Peg - If Sportscasters Reported on Political Races

© S. Bradley Stoner

This is Johnny Benchwarmer reporting for Sports Network in this week’s Armchair Observer. We open with The Republican League.

While Uncle Ben is mending his image and driving for the division championship, the Donald says he hasn’t yet played his final trump card and fully expects to come out on top. Meanwhile, Jeb is beating the bushes for elusive votes only to have Ted cruise by and nearly push Marco off the field. Carly is computing the odds, but isn’t ready to pack it in just yet. The rest of the field is praying for a miracle, but have very little chance of getting to the playoffs.

Moving on to The Democratic League...

Although Hillary has a generous lead, liberally handing out promises to the fan base for a landslide win, Bernie is struggling to gain traction in the lopsided contest and O’Malley, captain of the wussiest state in the league, is fading fast. The remainder of the league doesn’t even figure in the final four, but continue to trash talk, trade for better players, and hope the top three exceed the spending cap and get penalized by the commissioner.

And finally, let’s consider The Commentators.

In the armchair quarterback contest, CNN and Fox News continue their battle to let the air out of the political footballs of each other’s favorite teams in their own version of Deflate Gate. Fox fired the first shot with the old Benghazi bungle, then served up a passel of email miscues and followed up by scoring the pack of lies delivered by a straight-faced frontrunner. CNN fired back by trying to trump Donald with accusations of buffoonery and using celebrity to pander to the public. When that failed, they went after Ben’s past, by mocking his ten-year old assertion that the pyramids were used to store grain when even his mommy knows that they store mummies... like the general fan base gives a damn. When that fell flat they gave a backhanded boost to Cris and Jeb, the two most liberal Republicans out there. When they saw Ted rising in the polls, they went after him, but he simply made them look like fools. Let’s face it, he’s the Mr. Spock of the political arena and everybody knows arguing with Spock just isn’t logical.

We close with a brief report on The Fans.

A quick poll of the fans throughout the country revealed that, by a margin of 76% they would all rather watch football... and then basketball... and then hockey... and then baseball... Heck, even soccer is a viable alternative. A minority of 12% was “somewhat” interested in the political races, while the remaining 12% actually had something worthwhile to do and just didn’t give a rat’s ass.

This is Johnny Benchwarmer and that’s this week’s report on the political races.

The Square Peg - The Walking Club

The Square Peg - The Walking Club

© S. Bradley Stoner

I was out for my morning walk again today and was enjoying my morning solitude when I ran into Hillary Hardbody. Hillary is a serious walker. I’m more of a humorous walker. I try to avoid serious walkers... they take all the fun out of morning strolls. Unfortunately for me, Hillary was hell bent on intercepting me. And she did right while I was keeping my eye on the neighborhood Goshawk as he darted among the trees in hot pursuit of a fat Mexican Dove. It came as quite a surprise when I slammed into Hillary and I almost fell on my kiester. All I could do at that point was mumble, “Sorry” and step to the side.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Hillary chirped cheerily. “Out walking?”

Okay, y’all know I’m a bit of a smart aleck, so you won’t be surprised that I responded, “Nope... I’m just blocking the sidewalk.”

Hillary laughed and asked me if I walked every day. Now that was totally unnecessary. I know for a fact that Hillary keeps tabs on everyone who walks. I think she keeps a log of who walks past her house, when they walk, an how long it takes them to come back by so she can estimate the distance. Like I said, Hillary is a serious walker and somewhat of a walking evangelist. She’s also about ten years younger than me and recently divorced. That is a potentially dangerous combination. Anybody who doesn’t recognize that is an idiot... and I’m not.

“Well, I’ve got to finish my walk and get home. I’ve got things to do,” I said, hoping to escape.

Hillary wasn’t ready to let me go. As I walked away, she suddenly turned on her heel and caught up with me. “I’ll join you,” she proclaimed, “we can talk.”

I’m not much on talking, especially when I’m walking and especially not when I’m walking uphill, which is what I was doing at that particular moment. Obviously, Hill was in better shape than me. She chattered non-stop until I reached my normal turn-around. She was adamant in urging me to join the walking club. It was fun, she said, it was a chance to catch up with neighbors and neighborhood doings. Besides, she noted, we are a growing club with eight core members and several others promising to join. Since members were either retired or stay at home spouses, everybody could go at the same time. Wasn’t that convenient?

I groaned. The last thing I wanted was to have my normally peaceful alone time mucked up by a gaggle of nattering nabobs of nothingness. I was perfectly happy not knowing what Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice were up to in their own home. I could care less who was getting their roof replaced, a new bathroom, or a revamped kitchen. And I certainly didn’t need to know who saw that mysterious stranger in the BMW visiting Floozy Flora in her filmy nightwear. These things simply don’t interest me. I prefer the company of the critters that I see on my walks, which is why I was glad when daylight savings time went off so I could walk in the early dawn instead of in the dark.

I started to wonder how many of the behind the curtain peekers would take note of me walking with Hillary. What would they make of that odd pair... her in her spandex shorts, sports bra top and Nike crossovers and me in my ratty old shorts, faded tee shirt, white sox and holey sneakers? I could almost feel the breeze from all those wagging tongues. I shuddered. I had to end this. Instead of turning around where I usually do, I struck out for the park another quarter of a mile up the dirt track we were on. I had a plan. When we reached the park, I took an abrupt right turn. There was a narrow trail, more of an animal path actually, that led down a steep hill through heavy brush.

Hillary stopped and stared. “Um, where are you going?”

“I’m going bushwhacking,” I said with a little more evil edge to my voice than was absolutely necessary.

“But,” Hillary’s voice was tentative, “I’ve heard there are snakes and poison oak down there.”

“More than likely,” I agreed. “And brambles and burrs. It’s a challenge.”

The wheels in Hillary’s head were turning... fast. I was pretty sure she would decline. After all, burrs and brambles don’t mix with spandex walking shorts or bare legs and midriff, not to mention even the threat of snakes was enough to make most women run, not walk, the other way. She had that look of fox that had just lost a rabbit to the briar patch.

I took that first step into the brush, “Well, gotta go. I gotta be home in a half an hour.”

“Um, okay... but you’ll think about the walking club, right?”

“Sure,” I said, stepping out and snagging that first set of sand burrs on my right sock. I would have turned around right then, but I could see that Hillary was lingering at the top of the hill, so I gritted my teeth and disappeared into the bush.

A half an hour later, I emerged from the brush, scratched, itching, with my sox full of sand burrs, into the creek bottom. What was I thinking? Normally, the creek bottom is just a sandy expanse with a few low spots filled with water. In my desperate attempt to escape the walking club president, I had completely forgotten about the four inches of rain we’d gotten over the weekend. Needless to say, the creek was not dry... and neither were my feet. Luckily the exit to the neighborhood wasn’t that far and I managed to squish my way out, cross a short expanse of lawn, and gain the sidewalk, leaving me only a couple of blocks to home. About halfway there, the piston motion of my feet inside my holey old sneakers pumping water out onto the cement, I ran into my next door neighbor who was just finishing her walk.

She looked me up and down, noting the scratches, burrs and squirting sneakers, and said, “Looks like you took a bad turn. Have you thought about joining the walking club?”