Yesterday Was One of The Worst Writing Days Ever

So I bought a bunch of stuff to feel better

Photo by Dmitri Houtteman on UnSplash

Yesterday the temperature was in the 90's and unusually humid here in Southern California. As I sat at my desk in my man cave, punching the keys,  the sweat poured down from my head onto my neck and shoulders.  I was miserable.

. . .

I pretended like I came up with a good ending to my first draft manuscript of my memoir covering birth to the end of Junior High School 

I wrote a crappy half-assed paragraph, and when I got to the end of it, I said loudly in an Orson Welles sort of voice "The End."  Like I had just finished "Lolita" or "Finnegan's Wake."  

I know what I wrote is not going to be "The End." Not even close.  My utterance was just a pathetic plea to the cold indifferent universe.  I almost broke down crying.

The first 350,000 words came easy over the last four months.  But I've been struggling over the last week to write a good ending.  So in the interim, I've written a bunch of silly Medium articles about coat hangers, rescue dogs, and Uber rides.

The problem is I do not really have any clear memory of the period of time I am writing about now.  I think I blocked it all out of my mind.  

I used my go-to trick and went to Wikipedia and looked up "1983" but it still didn't help much.  Maybe I need to go get hypnotized to unearth memories from the end of Eight Grade to the beginning of High School. 

I said 

"Screw it, I better start editing this thing."

So I read a bunch of "How to Edit your Manuscript" articles on Medium

There are lots of helpful articles about editing on Medium.  But it still sounds like a lot of work, and I am confused how to most efficiently do it.  

It comforts me when I read things like "your first draft is just a data dump" or "don't even worry about your first draft, worry about your fourth!"

But any transitory comfort soon evaporated when the next thought came.

  

"Wait a sec, you mean I have to completely rewrite this entire 450,000 word pile of . . ?"  

I typed my manuscript in One Note. Mistake?

I typed all my Manuscript in chapters on One Note.  Now I need to cut and paste all those chapters into one giant Word Document.  

I want to have a big manuscript to be able to carry around, and throw on the table at Starbucks.  Or at the holidays, when the family asks me what I've been doing during the pandemic.

But I want to cut and paste the One Note material to a Word document in the most efficient and logical manner.

I knew what I needed to do.  I needed to buy things.

. . .

I bought a bunch of things to make me feel better, and feel like I was being productive

Some of the editing articles said to use Grammarly Premium, and Hemingway Editor.  So I ripped open my Velcro wallet and bought both those to make myself feel good.  

The afterglow of retail therapy did not last long.

Grammarly Premium pass-through

I've been using the free version of Grammarly since I started writing articles for Medium in June 2020.  So I am familiar with the Grammarly interface, and I find it fun, like a video game. 

I cut and pasted the first chapter of my Memoir onto the Grammarly webpage, and ran it through the Premium version.  I started with a score in the low 80's, and when I made most of the suggested changes I got up into the high 90's.  

I felt good.  Yeah, really good, I thought

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" - Loa Tzu

. . .

Hemingway Editor sweep

Then I cut and pasted my first chapter from Grammarly Premium, to the Hemingway Editor.  The Hemingway Editor highlighted every single word of my chapter, in various shades of highlighting. 

"Hard to read" - Pink

"Very hard to read"- Red

"Passive voice"-Yellow

"Are you sure you really want to do this?"-Light Blue

"You're better at math than this, right?"-Dark Blue

"We'll refund your money, if you act fast and quit now"-Green

Oh my God.  This is bad.  Really bad, I thought.

. . .

I got so upset again, that I was dumb enough to try to create a WordPress website myself

I needed to buy more stuff to feel better.  So I somehow wound up buying a "free" WordPress website.  

After 47 minutes of trying to put a photograph of myself on the home page, I finally felt the first tear fall.

I felt it on my thigh because I was wearing a Speedo.

 Copyright © 2020 Jack Clune

I Need To Be Rescued From My Rescue Dog

And my family thinks it's funny

 

Unsplash

My wife rescued a cute female boxer

My wife rescued a boxer about a year ago. She’s a cute black boxer, whose name was “Princess” when we got her, but we changed her name to “Perseus.” We call her “Perse” for short. Tracy thought our other male boxer Atticus needed company.

Perseus does not like men. She must have been abused by males. Perse is about six-years-old. When we first got her, she was a real scaredy-cat, wincing and running away at the slightest sounds or movements. Mostly my sounds and movements. Perse clung to my wife Tracy like one of those protective dragons on Game of Thrones. Tracy could do no wrong.

When Tracy picked Perse up, the woman who rescues boxers told her,

“She doesn’t like men, and she’s real protective of me.” The Boxer Lady added, “Princess still growls at my husband.”

Perse really doesn’t like certain men. Like me.

Tracy brought Perse home, and our two sons fawned over her because she has a really cute, human-like face, with human expressions. You can always tell what Perse is thinking.

My sons are males. But Perse never barked at them.

But every time Perse sees me in the morning, she begins growling and barking. When we first got her, Perse would stand by the side of the bed where I was sleeping, and growl at me, waking me up. Waking me up to a new day. With her growling.

That kinda set the tone for a lot of my days. As a personal injury lawyer, I am confronted with lots of fake growling and barking all day long, on the phone, and in-person in court and at depositions. But this real growling and barking actually kinda disturbed me. It got to me, and I felt like an unwelcome stranger in my own home. My sons loved it.

As time went on

As time went on, Perse wouldn’t wake me but waited to growl and bark at me when she got downstairs with my wife.

As soon as my feet hit the hardwood floor, the growling would begin downstairs. Then I would mope down the stairs, with Perse growling and barking at me like Cujo. That went on for nine months. Every single day.

My rat fink sons still laugh when Perse growls and barks at me. They think it’s funny. I hear them laughing in their bedrooms. Or if they’re already at the breakfast table, they laugh and point at me while the dog barks.

I don’t try hard enough

Tracy would explain.

“You just don’t try hard enough. You need to get down on your hands and knees. Get down to Perse’s level and show her you’re a good person.”

I’m in the kitchen, and I have my back turned at this point, just trying to get a cup of coffee. Perse is growling ferociously, and now our other boxer, Atticus, gets in on the action because . . . why let Perse have all the fun.

Now the two dogs are leaping in the air and growling and barking at me, like the Dobermans in Magnum PI.

And I’m a “bad person” too

“Dogs know!” Tracy shouts.

Oh God no. Not the “Dogs and babies know” speech. Please God, no. Not the speech!

“Dogs and babies know! They know when a person is bad. They can sense it. They’re always right!” says Tracy.

The boys are laughing hysterically now.

“Yeah, Dad, you’re bad,” says Son #1, laughing his ass off.

My sons are traitors or no goddamn help at all

I look at Son #1 with a complete sense of betrayal on my face. Now I am bent over, with both my hands out defensively, with coffee spilling over the rim of the cup, as I try to back out of the kitchen, towards my man cave.

“It’s not an angry bark. See, Perse’s wagging her tail!” explains Tracy. Just like Tracy has explained it the last 225 days in a row.

Perse is now crouched, and the hair on her back is standing on end.

“You don’t try hard enough. It’s your fault,” says Tracy. “Don’t be such a . . . such a buffoon!”

Now that’s an interesting concept. Because several times, towards the end of the day, I’ve sat with Perse on my lap, and I’ve petted her gently. But every morning is like Ground Hog’s Day.

“Dad, I think Perse has Alzheimer’s disease,” said Son #2 while we were sitting in the jacuzzi one day. “I don’t think she has all her marbles in her head.”

“I think you’re right, son,” I said.

Perse is a bad influence on Atticus

Back to the kitchen. I continue to back away, like Odysseus retreating away from two, er, Cerberus — es.

When I think the time is right, I turn and do my Olympic “fast walk” for the man cave door.

Atticus stays after me.

“Atticus, you old fool, quit acting like Perse!” I yell, trying to get a laugh from the sadists in the other room. “Perse, look what a bad influence you are!”

That’s when Atticus jumped up and bit my ass right through my Adidas dri-Fit running shorts, and made me throw my coffee up in the air against the ceiling.

The tips of his upper and bottom incisors touch one another, through the soft creamy flesh of my ass cheek.

"Jesus Christ! Ouch. Owwwwwww!”

Big laughs in the other room.

“Is he wagging his tail?!” I scream.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

The Dark And Twisted Dry Cleaner Conspiracy To Steal My Hangers

They're all working together

Unsplash

A Whole New Wardrobe For My Distinguished American Physique

Last year I went a little overboard and bought a bunch of new suits to wear to work. I cleared out some old suits that I had worn into the ground.

I stumbled on an American brand of suit that really fit me to a “T” so I decided to buy a bunch of them. I’m a chubby American guy, so the European suits don’t do it for me anymore.

I’m not on the Mediterranean Diet. I’m on the Chili’s, Buffalo Wild Wings, and Islands fine hamburgers circuit. This American suit maker understands my physique.

The suit I serendipitously found fit me so well that, over about two or three months, I bought ten of them. I’m a trial attorney, so I need enough suits to go for two weeks without wearing the same one twice. The jurors like some suit variety as the trials sometimes drag along during the boring parts.

You don’t wanna see Pat Sajak in the same suit two days in a row on ‘Wheel of Fortune.’

. . . 

The Hangers Make All The Difference In The Bedroom…Closet

My wife Tracy had a closet company come in and build her a nice huge closet, with a tiny little corner of it devoted to me. One of the nice things about buying the same suit ten times, in different colors, is that the fancy hangers they come on are all the same, and look really cool all lined up.

I’ll confess, I became a little obsessed with those hangers, and that they all be the same, and lined up nicely, a uniform distance apart. If my tiny little corner has to be tiny, at least let it be meticulously organized.

The Author

. . . 

No Fancy Tailors For Me, Strip Mall Dry Cleaners Only

I get my suits tailored at the dry cleaners. The two dry cleaners by my house have on-site tailors, or seamstresses, I should say, as both are women, the Asian Lady, and the Turkish Lady.

The one time, a few years ago, that I went to a “fancy tailor-man” downtown, he did a shockingly horrible job of simply sewing cuffs on a pair of suit pants. He charged too much. Then the threading started to fall apart within weeks of the job he did. No more “fancy tailors” downtown for me. The ladies at the strip mall were just fine.

. . .

The Dry Cleaner That Is Closer And Easier To Get To

The first suit I took to the dry cleaner which is closer and easier to get to at my house. I went into the store, and into the ridiculously ramshackle changing room to put on the suit to show the seamstress. I needed the pants and the sleeves of the jacket altered. The seamstress is the very nice Asian Lady.

When I enter the changing room at this dry cleaner, I feel like I am magically transported to a very far away, tropical location. This is a tropical location that is very humid and has lots of mosquitos. I feel like there could be elephants bathing outside and splashing water on their backs.

But I know none of those things is out there. I know that because the curtain is so poor a barrier between me and the Asian Lady, that I can see her eyes as I pull my pants on and pull up the zipper.

See, the curtain is on a rod, and the rod is much longer than the curtain. So on either side of the curtain, there is a two-inch gap where the Asian Lady and the other customers can watch me change in and out of my pants.

I step out of the changing booth, in my socks, with the pant legs flopping around. The seamstress bends down, folds up one of the cuffs of the pants. She pins the cuff, showing me the break of the pant, and makes some marks with a little piece of white chalk she holds in her fingertips. Then she adjusts and marks the suit jacket sleeves. By this point, I’m sweating like Elvis in Hawaii.

The other customer ladies, and the little children whose hands they are holding, all stare at me. They seemed to be amazed that I am doing all of this right there in front of them.

“Okay, you’re done,” says the Asian Lady.

“You want to pay now, or when you pick-up?” asks the other lady running the cash register.

“I’ll pay later when I pick-up. Who knows? I might get hit by a bus between now and then.” I say, chuckling.

Neither the Asian Lady nor the cashier laughs.

. . .

The Pick-Up

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my suit. Here’s the slip.” I say, handing it to the woman that I’ve never seen behind the counter before.

She goes to the big rack, pushes the button, and the thousands of articles of clothing ride around like a big roller coaster until my suit appears. She stops the ride and pulls my suit down.

“Okay, here it is,” she says hanging the suit on the metal rack near the cash register.

I hand her my credit card, and she puts it in the card machine. The machine spits out the receipt and I am signing it when I notice they have the suit on a janky “fake” suit hanger. This contraption is some piece of thin plastic over a wire hanger.

“Wait a second? Where’s the fancy hanger?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” the lady asks, handing over the receipt, and a pen for me to use to sign.

“Where is the thick black plastic hanger that the suit was on?” I say.

“Oh. I don’t know,” says the lady, stepping back a little defensively.

Now I see the Asian Lady seated at the sewing machine, kind of peeking over her shoulder meekly.

“I need the big plastic hanger that the suit came on,” I say, remaining calm.

“Well, I don’t know where that hanger is,” says the “new” lady kind of being a little surly. “Do you know where the hanger he’s talking about is?” she asks the seamstress lady.

The Asian Lady does not really respond.

“Let me see who handled your order,” says the surly lady. “Oh, Cassie handled it. Let me call Cassie.”

She calls Cassie, right there in front of me, on the store phone.

“Yeah, there’s this guy here who wants to know where the hanger is,” says the surly lady. “Uhm-hm. Yep. Yep. A suit hanger. Um-hm. Yep. Uhm-hm. That’s what I said.”

The surly lady looks up from the phone.

“We don’t keep those,” she says to me.

“What are you talking about?” I say to her.

“We throw those out,” she says.

The Author

Now the blood in my veins turns green. Like the Incredible Hulk, a bead of sweat forms and rolls down my forehead. I swipe it with the back of my hand. Muscles in my back and in my thighs start to expand through the layers of adipose fat and threaten to rip through my clothing.

“Wait a sec. You throw out the thick black plastic hangers, that have the embossed plate on them that say “Hickey Freeman?” The hangers that hang the suit perfectly? And that comes shipped with the suit from across the country in New York. The hanger that the fancy store uses to hang the suit?”

I’m riffing here.

“Let me just make sure I’ve got this right. Somebody takes the suit off of that fancy special hanger and throws that hanger into the trashcan. And then that person puts the suit on this fake flimsy piece-of-crap hanger?”

I keep going. I can’t help it.

“Now we have this hanger. This hanger that they use to hang the fake paper suits that they put bums in, down at the morgue when bums die destitute. The paper suits they put the bums in the caskets wearing. You’re giving me one of these crappy hangers that they hang the fake suits on. That’s what you’re giving me, this fake hanger piece of crap?”

I know there are such fake suits because they showed them to us during the field trip to the morgue in my high school class called “Death and Dying.”

“And you want me to believe that? Is that the story you want me to believe?” I ask.

The surly lady is staring at me with her mouth open, but still letting me know with her gaze that she wishes I would have a cardiac arrest and die on the floor immediately.

“And you want me to pretend that I don’t know that Cassie, or the owner of this place, did not steal my hanger? And that the hanger is not in the back of Cassie’s car. Or is not already in her closet, with one of her dresses on it. Or hanging one of her husband’s suits? Is that the story you’re telling me here, that I’ m supposed to believe?” I ask.

The surly woman is holding the phone, slightly off her ear now, so that Cassie can hear this insane tirade straight from the horse’s mouth. My mouth.

“Tell ya what. I’m going to give you guys 48 hours to get that hanger back to me. And if you don’t, I’ll take the nine other suits I was going to have tailored here, over to the Turkish Lady. Even though its farther away, and a little less convenient, and the Turkish Lady is not open on Sundays.”

I let them know what a big account they’re about to lose. I’m like a dry cleaning “whale.”

The surly lady thinks about it for a minute. Then she snaps back to her usual self.

“You can do . . . whatever . .. you . . . need . . . to . . . do,” she says in a perfectly sassy, sing-song voice.

I gotta admit. That was a pretty good response.

. . .

The Internet Research

“What are you doing?” my wife asked.

“I’m researching how much Hickey-Freeman hangers cost on eBay,” I tell her.

“Oh boy. Are you serious? Don’t you have any work to do? You know, our anniversary is coming up, have you bought me anything? Or researched any romantic getaways? Let me just answer that myself. That would be a ‘No’ right?” says Tracy. “Shocker,” she says.

“Do you know that they charge as much as $20.00 for one of those hangers? And these hangers on eBay are not even the nice ones. Like the one I had.”

“Why did you leave the fancy hanger at the dry cleaner? If it was so important to you” Tracy asks.

“Because not in my wildest dreams would it ever occur to me that they would steal my hanger. Or claim they threw it in the trash. That’s like taking your car to the dealer for an oil change, and when you go to pick it up, there’s a tire missing,” I say.

I’m pretty proud of that analogy I just made.

“You’re a buffoon,” says Tracy.

. . .

The Non-Apologetic Phone Call

A day later, my cell phone rang.

“Is this Mr. Clune?” said the female voice.

“Yes.”

“This is the dry cleaner. We have the hanger,” she says.

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great! I’ll be right over to get it!” I say excitedly.

“Tracy, I’m going to the dry cleaner! They have my hanger!” I yell upstairs to Tracy as I head to my car.

“Oh thank God! Hoo-ray,” I hear Tracy’s voice upstairs, dripping with sarcasm.

. . .

The Vindication

“Hi, I’m Mr. Clune here to get my hanger,” I say to the woman at the front desk.

It’s the same woman who handled the initial transition when I brought the suit in. It’s Cassie. She looks up and sees me, and I can see her expression change to mild disgust.

“Oh . . . here,” she says, as she reaches under the counter and produces my beloved hanger, and sticks it out at me.

I take the hanger in my hand. I can’t resist . . .

“Where was it?” I ask.

I can see the slight flinch in Cassie’s face. Like the facial tic that Inspector Clouseau’s boss used to get in the Pink Panther movies. I know what she is thinking.

She’s thinking “Can’t this fat bastard just take the thing? Or does he have to rub it in too?”

“Oh, they took it to the other location by accident,” she says.

What does that even mean? I think to myself.

. . .

I Had To Go To The Turkish Lady Anyway

I took another suit back to the same dry cleaner. I bought the suit online, and the dumb suit came with none of the buttons sewn on it. The four buttons that go on the sleeves were not sewn on, so I brought them to the nice Asian Lady.

I kind of knew we were in trouble when she looked at the sleeves with the same shock as I did back home when I saw that we had to sew the buttons on. When I came back to pick up the jacket, she had sewn the buttons on right through the inner lining of the sleeve.

It looked like I had sewn the buttons on.

“You’re not going to charge me for this are you?” I asked as I held the sleeve up to her face.

“No,” she said without a fight.

. . . 

The Turkish Lady

I walked into the new dry cleaner where the Turkish Lady does the tailoring. I showed her the sleeve.

“Tsk-tsk!” said the Turkish Lady, as her eyes bulged. “She didn’t charge you for that did she?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Good. You have to undo the lining, then sew it back up,” she said.

“I knew you would know what to do,” I said.

“Pick up in three days, on Thursday.”

“Okay,” I said.

I left the dry cleaner and went next door to the grocery store to pick up one or two items. I even threw in some flowers for Tracy.

I did not have to wait in line long, because I only had a few items and I cut ahead of someone who had a big cart full of groceries.

. . .

When I Got Home

I came into the kitchen, and Tracy looked up from her laptop.

“Oh, flowers, that’s so nice honey …” she said.

“Shit! Goddammit! Shit! No!” I screamed into Tracy’s face.

I just remembered that I left the hanger with the Turkish Lady.

The Author

. . .

Three Days Later

All three days I stared at the ceiling at night.

There’s no way they’ll try to steal my hanger. That’s impossible. That would be like Die Hard. Where he keeps getting trapped in tall buildings with terrorists. That could never happen twice.

On the third day, I went to see the Turkish Lady. When I walked in, I saw that the Turkish Lady was not there, but her nice friendly daughter was working the front desk. I handed her the ticket, and she made the roller coaster spin around until my jacket appeared.

The hanger was gone.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

The Internet Is All Wrong About Sex In The 1980s

The internet claims peoples' "first time" was much earlier than mine

Unsplash

Sometimes you have to skip the internet and go to the library

Writing my Memoir, I mean my novel loosely based on autobiographical material, I have enjoyed researching lots of watershed events from my childhood in the 1970s and ’80s. Things like the introduction of the $2 bill, the “new Coke” flavor, and the last episode of M.A.S.H.

The internet is sometimes a good source for research, but for more serious issues, I found it much more useful going right to primary “hard copy” sources. It’s all well and good to click your mouse around the internet, but you’ve got to get down to the library, roll up your sleeves, and “hit the books,” as it were.

I’ve spent literally hundreds of hours pouring over back issues of Dynamite Magazine, Highlights, Creem, and T.V. Guide. My book will be that much the better for it.

. . .

There’s a lot of misinformation on the internet about when peoples’ “first time” was

One of the topics I had to research, was the average age when kids had sex for the first time back in the 1980s. I forgot to look up that information at the library, unfortunately, so I had to rely on the internet.

Man is there a lot of straight bullshit on the internet about the subject.

I knew I was in trouble right from the start. When I typed in the age when I first had sex, for instance, the internet hit a glitch and bombarded me with links to sites for PTSD, “Late Bloomers,” “Incels” and places to go for therapy.

Even though the internet got confused, and sent me wrong links, it got me to thinking about things.

When I was a kid, sex was dangerous and scary and nobody in my high school had sex

When I was a kid in high school, all I ever heard about sex from older people went like this:

“You shoulda been here a coupla years ago” or “Damn, you missed the Gold Rush” or “Man, all we had was crabs and the clap . . . (followed by) “Too bad now you’re gonna get AIDS and die if you have sex! (followed by a hearty laugh).”

The AIDS epidemic began in 1981, and I went to high school from 1984–1987. There were a lot of fun aspects to the 1980s, but riding the crest of the wave of the AIDS epidemic was not one of them.

Do you know what the internet claims the age was for boys? Back then, and now?

Back then

The internet, which is wrong, says (click on underlined words for links):

Surveys of American adolescents [1980’s] have found that, on the whole, average age at 1st intercourse ranges from 16 to 16.9 years, but some teenagers begin to have intercourse shortly after puberty.

I laughed out loud when I read that. Now, don’t get me wrong, I actually knew a bunch of those “shortly after puberty” cretins. But I’m researching “normal” kids. Normal kids like me. Who had sex at a normal time in life.

One interesting fact these internet sources identified was that boys lie more than girls:

At all ages, males are more likely to report having had intercourse than are females.

“No shit Sherlock!” I thought upon reading that.

Now

Even the information about modern times is crazy wrong, and has kids having sex way, way too young:

The average age of first sexual intercourse in the United States is around 18 for males and around 17 for females,[15][16] and this has been rising in recent years.[17] For those teens who have had sex, 70% of girls and 56% of boys said that their first sexual experience was with a steady partner, while 16% of girls and 28% of boys report losing their virginity to someone they had just met or who was just a friend.[17]

“Yeah right,” I said to myself when I read that.

. . . 

The takeaway

Researching this issue brought home to me that you really can’t trust the things you read on the internet when it comes to important subjects.

When determining whether you can trust polls, or studies, or statistical information, you need to use a little “common sense.” Ask yourself:

“Can I trust this information?”

Then you need to question, does this information jibe with any of my “real world” experience?

If the answer is “No!” well, then you’ve got your answer.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

My Backhanded Uber Ride

I don't know whether I was coming or going

Unsplash

I had to take an Uber ride home this weekend, from a… erm . . . charity event I attended Saturday night. Sunday morning I had to take a ride from downtown San Diego, back to my home in Eastlake Chula Vista, which is about 20 miles and takes about 25 minutes.

. . .

The beginning of the ride

The house where I was picked up from is hidden away in a picturesque wooded canyon near downtown San Diego. You would never know this little hidey-hole area exists if you had not been there. So to make it easier for the driver, I walked down to the bottom of the canyon for an easier pickup.

The Uber car pulled up and the driver exited to open the trunk to allow me to place my guitar case in it. He was about six feet, six inches tall, and had a loud friendly voice. He was wearing a COVID mask.

We both got in the car, and the conversation began.

“This is a nice little area here, you wouldn’t know it existed. I appreciate you coming to the front. That was smart. I picked somebody else up here once and it’s hard to get out,” he said.

I felt smart and helpful.

We turned the corner onto another street.

“Yeah, but you gotta watch out around here. You see right here?” he said, as he pointed to a tiny little coffee shop.

“One night at like 2:00 am I was standing right there, right in that spot, when some fool came up to me and said he was gonna take my ass down. I told this fool, ‘Do you see me? Do you see how big I am? You done picked the wrong one tonight, son.’”

I had lots of questions. I could not imagine any human being who would have felt confident enough to pick this man to annoy or inconvenience let alone try to mug. Nor could I fathom why this man would ever be standing in front of this cute little coffee shop at 2:00 am.

“I wound up having to pick this fool up in the air and throw him down,” the driver said. “I grew up in the hood, you know, and I’m not really afraid of much.”

“That guy must have been extremely drunk, or on drugs to pick you as a target,” I said.

“I picked him up in the air and threw him right down. Then I asked him ‘How you gonna explain you just got beat up by a 60-year-old man, son?’”

Now I felt kinda dumb for standing around that area, with my broken down guitar case. Even if it was a bright early sunny morning.

. . . 

The middle of the ride

The driver and I talked about the biggest single ride fare he ever got and the grand total of his best day of Uber driving. I told him the tragic story of when I left my wallet at home and had to take an Uber from Universal Studios in Los Angeles, all the way back home to Chula Vista. Just to get my wallet. The one-way fare that day was $125.00, and I could not believe how low it was that day.

“Sounds about right,” the driver said, completely unimpressed.

Wait, my estimated fare for this 20-minute ride is over $40.00. A trip from Universal Studios, three hours away from here, through downtown L.A., Orange County, Camp Pendleton, and San Diego County only costing $125.00 does not impress you? I thought.

We got onto the 125 toll road freeway.

‘I wonder how long it took them to build this freeway?’ the driver asked. “I know up here at this part, they were delayed because they hit a lot of rocks,” said the driver.

“Yeah, I remember it taking about five or six years,” I threw out. Feeling kind of knowledgeable.

“It took four and a half years. I worked on the project. I was making $1,000 per week back then. That was a good time.”

I felt dumb again.

. . .

Towards the end of the ride

“We like living down here, even though it’s kind of removed from the rest of the city,” I said to make conversation.

“Oh yeah, it’s real nice down here. Real nice,” said the driver. He waited a minute or two then said “Now that they got schools, stores, and restaurants.”

I thought about what he said, as I stared out the window for a minute or two.

“When did you buy?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“About six years ago,” I said.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” the driver said.

I felt like he was about to tell me something bad. Again.

“Yeah, I looked down here before all that stuff, and the houses were nice, and they were cheap. Really, really cheap.”

I started to feel dumb again.

“I couldn’t figure out why the prices were so low for such nice houses until I realized there were no schools, stores, or restaurants. Then I figured it out and I said ‘Okay, I got it now.’”

We began to get close to my house.

“Then they put in the schools, stores and the restaurants and they just jacked up the prices double or more. Like when you bought.”

. . .

The very end of the trip

We pulled up to the gate, and I gave the driver the gate code. He punched it in, the gates swung open, and we cruised into the housing community.

“Oh yeah. Yup. I remember this. This is nice. Yeah. I told my wife, this is real nice,” said the driver.

We got up to my street.

“Yeah, but I told her I could never live in a place where the houses are this close together.”

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

Life Was Better Before the Internet

Nobody knew where you were. Or what you were doing

Pixabay

The only technology I had as a kid was a watch with a calculator on it. And they wouldn't even let you wear it at school.

Nobody knew where you were . . .

Nobody expected to see you until dinner time. No matter how old you were.

Or what you were doing

Nobody saw you playing on the heavy equipment in the abandoned, half-built housing development.

Or getting hit by a car, and shaking it off.

Unsplash

Nobody filmed the dumb stuff you did . . .

Nobody recorded you trying to imitate that kid who could stand on his bike with no hands. (Don’t believe me, please click on the underlined words). You just fell hard, severely sprained your wrist, crawled away, and cried alone in peace.

Or the cool stuff either

Nobody recorded the Little League game when you hit for the cycle (single, double, triple, home run). So you could lie and say you hit the home run over the fence when it was really an inside-the-park home run.

And everyone forgot that the pitcher was that one girl who played Little League instead of softball (not that it mattered or anything).

Unsplash

You had to actually talk to your friends

You had to call them on the telephone, and your whole family listened to your conversation and made comments. And even though there was dead air that lasted for two minutes sometimes, it was better than texting.

You could listen to your friend’s parents arguing in the background, so it wasn’t like the fake happy photos everyone posts on Facebook now.

 

Or go visit them

And if it was a really good argument, you could get on your bike and get over there to watch through the window.

Unsplash

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune

I'm Practicing "Mindful Eating" Now

It's not as hard as I thought it was going to be

The Author

Mindful eating relies on mindfulness, a form of meditation. Mindful eating is about developing awareness of your experiences, physical cues, and feelings about food. (Healthline)

 

I work from home a lot. With that comes the temptation to eat too much during the course of the day. So I’m trying to be more Zen, and more “mindful” and conscious of what I’m eating.

I’ve actually lost some weight during the Pandemic because we don’t go out to eat much at all. But my clothes are starting to fit strangely. Particularly my T-shirts, around the mid-section (belly). I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.

So yesterday, I kept notes.

Morning

6:45–7:00 am

I woke up in the morning and brewed the coffee. I typically brew enough to make about eight (8) cups. My wife has two (2), so I drink the other six (6), starting from about 8:00 am to 10:00 am.

I should have the yogurt I bought the other day. The mixed berry one that Tracy told me not to buy, because everyone is sick of it, and wants new flavors.

I’ll eat one of those Chobanis. Since nobody else wants it. With the Peanut Butter granola. I’ll put a bunch of that crap on top.

I have a yogurt with Granola and a couple of cups of coffee.

9:00 am

I bought all those eggs. And that bag of Kraft shredded mixed cheeses. I should make an omelet.

I go into the kitchen and put the frying pan on the stove. I put a quarter stick of butter in the pan to melt. I mix three eggs in a bowl and pour the mix into the frying pan. Then I throw a third of the bag of mixed cheese on top. I toast three pieces of Dave’s Killer Whole Wheat Bread and use another quarter stick of butter on those suckers.

I pour a big glass of milk and go watch part of “First Take” on ESPN. I have two (2) more cups of coffee.

11:30 am

Last week was National Hot Dog Day. We didn’t even celebrate. I’ve got the Sabrett’s hot dogs. They go bad fast if you don’t eat them.

“Tracy, d’ya think Son #1 wants hot dogs?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Probably. He’s in his remote Honors Geometry class until noon,” Tracy says, annoyed, working on some huge house project.

I better make a bunch of those hot dogs so they don’t go bad, I think to myself.

“I’m gonna make a bunch of those hot dogs. So they don’t go bad.” I say out loud.

“Whatever,” says Tracy.

“Last week there was National Hot Dog day. We missed it. You want one?” I ask.

“No! You can’t eat hot dogs every single day. Well, I guess YOU can,” says Tracy. I hear her mutter “Buffoon” under her breath.

I make six hot dogs in buns. Two (2) for me, and four (4) for Son #1, and Son #2. I use Grey Poupon mustard, relish, and I eat half a bag of Ruffles Family Size potato chips. I have to throw out an old jar of Dill pickles.

Afternoon

1:15 pm

I just finished a bunch of work.

I deserve a treat.

I eat three (3) Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies, with a glass of milk (non-fat).

I watch part of the old version of “Cape Fear” on TCM.

Robert Mitchum is a badass.

3:30 pm

I just finished some more work. I go to the refrigerator.

I tear open the Prosciutto. I eat two slivers, and go back to the man cave and wash it down with a Cherry Coke (mini) from my refrigerator that looks like a Marshall Stack Amplifier.

Me Again

4:45 pm

I got enough work done today. I’m gonna go sit in the jacuzzi.

'Hello It's Me," - Todd Rundgren

I load up my backpack that has a cooler in the bottom with three or four Snapples, and some ice packs.

I drink three Snapples. Two (2) Diet Tropa-A-Rockas and one (1) Lemon.

Uh-oh. I can’t read the trivia under the Snapple caps without reading glasses anymore.

Dusk

6:15 pm

I gotta cook that Ribeye Steak I bought yesterday. So it doesn’t go bad, I think to myself.

I get out of the jacuzzi and go to the kitchen. Using a large BBQ fork, I stab some holes in a potato and put it in the oven to bake for two hours at 400 degrees.

At 7:25 pm I get out of the jacuzzi again and turn on the grill in the backyard, to cook the steak.

Evening

8:15 pm

I eat a grilled Ribeye Steak slathered with olive oil and Montreal Steak seasoning, mushrooms sautéed with a half stick of butter, and a baked potato with butter, sour cream, and chives.

8:45 pm

A little dessert never hurt anyone, I think to myself.

I eat three Brownie Bites, with a glass of milk.

9:30 pm

I have bottled water. A mini one.

Yep, Me.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

 

I Still Don't Believe in the Ghost I Saw

Cue the Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody"

Unsplash

My wife and I were sitting in bed watching T. V. and looking at our phones. A woman ghost in a torn wedding dress floated into the room through the bedroom door, hovered for a second, and then disappeared up through the ceiling.

I waited a few seconds.

I tried to think of an explanation.

It was condensation from the air conditioning. No. The air conditioning is not on. Something came out of the fire detection thingy on the ceiling. No. One of the kids is vaping, and I just busted him. No.

The ghost looked like one of the ghosts in the movie "Poltergeist." It stretched out, and its mouth opened wide and grotesque as it went up into the ceiling. It also reminded me of the ones that float around the dining room in the Haunted House at Disneyland. It was definitely a woman, and she was wearing a wedding dress, or some sort of outfit from olden times, like the 1920s or earlier.

Finally, I just had to give in.

"Did you just see that?" I asked my wife.

"Oh my god! I wasn't going to say anything, because I know you don't believe in ghosts!" she said.

"Do not say anything to the kids. We're not moving, and I don't want them scared about anything," I implored her.

"I always told you there were ghosts! And that I can predict the future, and I'm always right!" my wife said with way too much delight.

"Oh god, here we go," I thought. "I'm screwed."

 . . .

"Son #2 saw the ghost last night, didn't you?" says my wife, as we're in the car.

"Yep. He was downstairs and he came up behind me. Then he whispered my name," said Son #2.

"There are no ghosts in the house," I say.

"Yes there are! You saw it yourself!" says my wife.

"The thing I saw, was a woman if it was anything," I said.

"See, there's ghosts," my wife said.

. . .

I woke up. I came down the stairs, following the smell of coffee. My wife and her brother who was staying with us for a few days were sitting at the kitchen counter.

"Tell him! Tell him right now!" said my wife, throwing up her hands, then crossing her arms smugly.

"You guys have a ghost in your guest room," said the brother.

I just stared at him pissed off.

"It tried to have its way with me last night."

"Dude, you drank a sixer of Coors Lite last night," I reminded the brother.

"Nope, nope. This was hours later. It woke me up, and held me down."

"Well, according to the "Long Island Medium" here, and Son #2, the ghost is a MAN!" I said. "So I hope He WAS GENTLE!"

© Copyright Jack Clune 2020