Hallmark Train Movie

Many years ago, I sent out a poll where readers could vote on what I was going to blog about next. Time, and a failing memory, prevents me from recalling how many potential blogs were options, but I do remember two. One was how a failure in my central air resulted in extensive water damage and the other was something close to “Why Justin Bieber Should Be Thanked.”

I remember the water damage idea because one guy I worked with INSISTED I write a blog about my failed A/C. The topic in question didn’t get enough votes, but he was so persistent and such a loyal reader I gave the tale a go.

Only one problem……..I could sum up that whole debacle in one or two sentences. Even with my lack of home improvement knowledge to aid me, I can’t say much more than “The pan that catches the condensation inside the A/C thingy…………..it rusted through, ruined lots of drywall, cost lots of money, could have cost a lot more if I didn’t have a home warranty. The End.”

I even explained this in person to him, but he politely requested until the day I left that company ( or maybe he left first….my memory again….) that I write about the A/C failure.

Perhaps I should have vetted the ideas better, actually considered whether I could write a full blog about them first, or maybe I just assumed regardless of the topic I could go on and on with little to no input.

For example, now might be a good time to note I haven’t said a damn thing about about Hallmark Trains. Now is also a good time to mention, we’re still at least two, if not more, paragraphs away. Trust me, we’ll get through this together. Everything will work out in the end, just like every Hallmark movie, ever.

The other candidate was, “Why Justin Bieber Should Be thanked.”

This topic was a casualty of lack of votes, time and effort. During the time of voting, Mr. Bieber was at the peak of his heart throbbingness. Pre-teen and teen girls across the country were shrieking and going into hysterics at the mere mention of his name.

My thinking was as follows:

Perhaps “Thanked” is the wrong word, after all, I’m sure Mr. Bieber made truck loads of cash, but some things to consider:

1. I’m not a parent of a pre-teen or teen girl, but if I was, I would much rather she be enamored by someone who will never come within hundreds of miles of my flyover town. Those little shits down the street who smash our pumpkins every year and egg my house, THOSE are the little bastards who would be dangerously close to my little girl(s).

2. You can argue with me on this next point if you want, but his music doesn’t actually HURT anyone and makes/made lots of girls happy. If there wasn’t a market for it, his brand of mass produced, pre-manufactured market researched McDonald’s equivalent brand of pop music would not exist.

With those two never to be blogs in mind, we fast forward to a Sunday night during holiday season last year. My wife had passed out and the NFL game had just ended. Instead of jarring her awake by shutting the tv off, I switched to one of what I, and I believe she, considers one of her “Sleep Aid” channels; in this case, the Hallmark Channel.

During the holiday season, and what feels like the six months leading up to Christmas, Hallmark runs their made-for-TV holiday movies.

All of these movies follow the same format:

1. Someone lives in the big city and has a strong opinion about Christmas
2. That person winds up in a small town, either on accident or on purpose.
3. They fall in love with someone and either that person or the other person (whichever one hates Christmas) falls back in love with the season.
4. Said person stays in the small town to be with whomever they fell in love with. This big city person is either fired or quits their “Big City” job to start some sort of artsy fartsy shop.
5. Oh! Reminds me, I almost forgot the original negative opinion of Christmas turns out to be something tragic like their grandad died on Christmas after being eaten by radioactive reindeer or something… I’m just kidding, it’s usually something way more boring than that, but he totally croaks,.......always. So whatever grandad, and the traumatized-by-Christmas person did on Christmas, that’s the kind of shop they give up the big city to open.

After I started this blog, Daniel Tosh beat me to the punch of lampooning these movies and did a far better job than I ever could. Hilarious video and that’s what I get for taking two,...three….alright fine FOUR FIVE months to get this blog done.

So I’m gathering up my stuff, water bottle, cell phone, wiener dog, etc. when this particular movie catches my attention. I watch just long enough to acquire sufficient information to keep me up that night and unfortunately for you, make me want to write a very long winded blog.

I must preface this next part, I have nothing against these movies, if they’re your bag, your Justin Bieber I’m sorry. And just like Justin Bieber these movies are not for me, but I acknowledge they aren’t hurting anyone and some people enjoy them, and that’s okay.

Unfortunately in the past I have taken a little too much delight in mocking the established formulas of these movies and my wife refuses to watch them (at least while she’s conscious).

To summarize I’m sorry if I’m about to trash your favorite Hallmark movie and I’m sorry my sarcasm ruined these movies for my wife.

HOWEVER, when said movie involves trains and then causes me to stare at the ceiling for a half hour in disbelief after only seeing five minutes of the thing, the gloves are so incredibly off.

In my short time viewing this movie I learned that this modern day train is stuck in the mountains, no cell signal and the engineer can’t get a hold of anyone to let them know they are caught in a snow drift.

As I walked towards my bedroom an old man was handing out blankets on this holiday train to passengers, reassuring happy Christmas sweater wearing kids of every race who expressed concern “They wouldn't have Christmas Eve.” or “Santa wouldn’t find them”.

One of what I assume was one of the main characters remarks how good the old main is with children. Which reminds me of another rule these movies where there is always an old man who wanted to have kids but sadly never did for heart string  pulling reasons. This old man occasionally turns out to be Santa about 56% of the time. I didn’t watch this movie long enough to find out.

So let’s rehash the situation: A modern passenger train is completely off the grid. It’s full of Christmas trees and stupid sweaters and Christmas Joy.

Apparently nobody is looking for this train or care that they haven’t heard from it in hours. That has to be the case right? Otherwise never mind all the modern GPS equipment, internet access (which must also not be working) if you really couldn’t find a train…...FOLLOW THE TRACKS….LITERALLY…..IT’S ON TRACKS….it’s a TRAIN...not some 747 that could plummet into the vast Pacific ocean 5000 miles offshore never to be seen again.

Another thing to consider no direct long distance passenger service currently exists in the US. So for example if you take Amtrak from Chicago to Seattle it’s going to stop at every town with the slightest semblance of a station.

I can't help but picture a man sauntering up to one of those tiny one room stations, like the one in McCook where Amtrak barely slows down at 4 am….He proceeds to stand there and wait,...no train. He looks at his watch, "Mhmmm.....my train was supposed to be here three days ago,.....Oh well , I'm sure everything is fine" he says to himself as he returns to the parking lot, gets in his car and just drives home.

Or maybe he talks to the station master before returning to his car....

"Yeah,.....hi.....I bought a ticket for train #113 three days ago,....and it never...um….you know…..showed up......is something wrong?"

The station master at least in my imagination is almost like a static and robotic dead behind the eyes post office employee with a five o'clock shadow and an inability to blink. He possesses all the personality of a plastic piece of fruit.

His response "Yeah, we have no idea where it is."

Confused the man replies. "So are you guys looking for it or......"

"Nah, not really" the station master replies flatly.

"Can't you track it down somehow? Is there like a radar but for trains?" asks the trainless ticket holder.

"What a stupid question to ask,........and you are a stupid person for asking, everybody knows trains can only be tracked visually."

"Really!?"

"Really" echos the station master adding ".....and while we're just making shit up, fun fact:Trains vision is based on movement, so if you see one stand still so it can't see you, otherwise it might eat you."

Okay, so I went a little overboard with my fictional scenario, but we had fun with it didn't we?

In truth trains are dispatched at places like the Harriman Center in Omaha.

Think air traffic control…..only for trains. The center is also called "the bunker" to those in the know (for example people with Wikipedia) because the building was built to withstand a number of natural and man made disasters, including tornadoes. This is because if the bunker went dark all the trains on Union Pacific's 32,100ish miles of track would come to (hopefully) a complete stop. Either that or they would all crash into each other, not to mention all the other railroads Union Pacific shares track with, crosses the path of other railroads….etc.  

Why is this necessary? Well in real life the rail line to train ratio isn't 1:1 as indicated in the movie. What I'm getting at is that by being "stuck" in the snow this train is blocking trains on either side of it from getting to their destination, like a broke down pick-up with its hood up and steam rolling out, only there are no other lanes and cars are backed up on either side blocked and blaring their horns.

Don't get me wrong in the past, the distant past, say when train travel was the only way to get around, mountain railroading was dangerous and unfortunately deadly, think pre-1900s, maybe there were incidents after that but think of the amount of technological innovation in the last 120 years. I think this train wouldn't be stuck for long.

Like I said things did happen, enough in fact that they had "snow sheds", effectively man made wooden tunnels where trains could sit if avalanches were a danger.

Now though I know rail nerds like myself who go hiking looking for traces of these no longer needed structures always on rail lines that were replaced and abandoned when more direct and less dangerous lines were built.

Two more gripes and then I'll wrap this up. Snow clearing rail lines are a rare and awesome site. Very rarely are blowers needed usually just plows can do the job but when a blower is in action they are a site to see ← also a good video to see just how deep snow has to get before it’s a ‘blower’ problem.

I recently came across a post from a guy in North Dakota. He has lived there his entire life and just recently saw a plow for the first time. Keep in mind this is in NORTH *$@#ing DAKOTA, and he’s only see a train snow plow ONCE in his life.

Like I mentioned earlier even plows aren't needed much as locomotives are plenty powerful on their own, Just don't be standing too close to the platform*.

The last concern of our holiday passengers is that "The train only has enough 'gas?'  (I can't remember the exact wording. ) to keep the train warm and have electricity for a dangerously short amount of time.

Bullshit.

In the late 90's a surprise early october freeze caught heavy full foliage trees across the state of Nebraska in shock. The weight of the ice and snow brought down heavy branches and even entire trees. Even in Lincoln we were without power for at least a day or two.

Rural small towns were not so lucky. Many small town faced weeks without power. One lucky small town was rescued by an unlikely source, a Union Pacific GP38-2. They plugged the locomotive into the grid and the ENTIRE TOWN had enough power for as long as they needed it.

Some things to know about the GP38-2. If it was a car it would be a compact car, a two door hatchback that your dad used to teach you to drive a stick. In other words, not the unworldly fuel efficient pollution standards meeting, wonders of modern science monsters that currently roam the mainlines of America's freight hauling tracks (part 2).

Trains magazine did a piece on the most American Locomotive, what they should have called it was 'most ordinary'.

To find this most American Locomotive the process went something like this:

1. Find the most manufactured operating locomotive
2. Find the company that has ordered the most of that model
3. Pick one of that company's fleet.

They then adorned it with a plaque on it's side under the side windows.

There may have been more logic on picking that exact locomotive, but I can't remember. The thing wore it's plaque for a while, had an article published about it and is now probably scrapped.

So you have a small, extremely ordinary locomotive powering an entire town. This is a P42 Genesis, the locomotive of choice for Amtrak's long distance trains, usually two adorn the front of most passenger trains. I doubt they even need two, more likely a fail safe in case one breaks down.....say....in the mountains,.....in the snow......just sayin'......

Like most GE locomotives the “42” is short for that many hundreds of horsepower so... 4200 horsepower (the “P” is for Passenger service in case you care). For comparison the little GP38-2 maxes out at 2000 horsepower. So one P42 has a little more than twice the the horsepower a locomotive that kept the electricity of a small town going for weeks, and this Holiday train most likely has two P42, so…..8400 horsepower.

I think that train could more than keep the lights on and the train warm for some time.

All of this train talk coming from a guy who can happily watch YouTube videos of simply trains rolling by. Not the biggest sin when one considers some of the content on YouTube.

Still, most people who encounter a train in real life greet such an event with annoyance and could never understand why someone would willfully watch videos of trains on YouTube.

Just like my co-worker who wanted so badly to hear about the demise of my A/C unit or a twelve year old listening to Justin Bieber,  people want what they want. When such a need arises the content will usually be provided.

Such a need exists for these Hallmark movies because lots of people enjoy them. Therefore, Hallmark keeps making them.

Comparing apples to apples, myself watching YouTube videos might lose out to Hallmark movies on the "you're a dork" scale. At least the Hallmark movies have a plot, unlike a coal train rolling by.

In the end nobody should have to apologize for what they are into as long as it's legal and moral. Just make sure you have your facts straight if you're going to bring up trains, otherwise the gloves come off, the train nerd glasses come on and you might get a long winded blog as a result.

* =Post blog test,....can you guess what kind of locomotive this is?

Tar-jay Doors

A cold early March wind blew in our faces. My wife’s longer gait and more urgent pace had created distance between her, and my daughter and me.

My daughter’s two year old hand held mine. She didn't seem bothered by the cold wind or the increasing distance between her mother, the shopping cart and her little brother in cargo.

She didn’t seem affected at all until Target’s automatic doors began to close behind her mother and company. A brief “Nooooo-” was uttered into the cold air by her tiny voice. A ‘no’ cut short when the automatic door fully opened again for us having never fully closed.

That moment, that brief moment between the door starting to close and reopen she learned about automatic doors. She doesn’t know how they work, why they are there or even what they are called. All she knows is that when you get near them they open. She’ll never have that urgent ‘No’ moment again. The ‘No’ moment was the first and last time she’ll worry about that kind of door closing and separating her from her mom and brother.

From now until the day she finally learns everything there is to know about automated doors, such doors will be filed away in her little mind next to other kinds of doors.

Doors at home are easy, usually open, have metal things you can turn, sometimes you can’t, they are stuck (locked) but she doesn’t know why and it doesn’t happen enough to inquire about this type of state for a door.

Some doors slide like the back porch door. Perhaps she thinks those doors are only for dogs or only to go outside. This would make sense as this is the only sliding door she has encountered. Then there's the door to daddy’s work, the doors there need ‘beeped’ before they can be opened. She doesn’t know why and doesn’t seem to care but daddy has a square thing on a necklace that makes the doors beep open. From what I can tell the doors that need to be ‘beeped’ are her favorite, always good for an impressed cheer from her.

She doesn’t have a name for the Target doors yet or “Tar-Jay” as we say in our family in a sarcastic quasi-french accent in order to make Target seem more fancy, after all, it’s not like it’s Walmart. We’re fancy like that.

I’m glad I was holding her hand for that moment. I’m sure there are lots of little firsts, little discoveries each day for her nobody notices. Findings filed away amongst like objects, words and situations. Filed away similarly to the section for knowledge about doors and how they work.

I walked with her throughout Target, through the frozen foods section. I watched her reflection in the glass at looking at everything, soaking up every object with a child's hunger for knowledge. As her face traveled down the glass the world looked so big compared to her little face.

We passed through an aisle, this one had flavored jams right at her eye level.

“Strawberry” she said pointing. Pointing, not asking, pointing, not demanding. Just an object with a name, a noise which matched. Her call of “Strawberry” was a tiny call to the world that despite the world filled with unknowns, this was something she knew. Take that, big mysterious world.

Next came pondering, complete with tiny index finger to mouth in intense contemplation. “This one” she said pointing to one of the two different types of strawberry jam. Up until her thoughtful decision I hadn’t noticed that several different kinds of strawberry jams were down there.

I can’t read my daughter’s mind, but if I could I’m betting the cute little gears turning were doing so for one of two reasons, or perhaps a combination of both.

One, she was mimicking her mother, and what she thinks one does in a store, especially a grocery store. You stop, look at two similar looking objects, decide on one, and then put it in your cart. And/or two, most of last football season in order to make her pick for college football she would decide between two logos, usually going with the animal mascots. Last year was a good year for animal mascots and she won the bowl pick’em challenge. This despite picking “The Lady” her name for the Florida State Seminoles mascot, a name which is technically incorrect but on the other,....oh so right. She was told she won, but there were no prizes so I’m sure she’s forgotten about her victory by now.

Maybe her college bowl pick’em victory will be her required short personal story on Jeopardy someday. “I understand you won something special at a very young age” says some guy who replaced Alex Trebek in a suit reading off a small piece of blue digital paper. “Yes I did! …..and my dad wrote a blog about it” she replies to the audience who chuckles at the novelty and nostalgia of a written blog.

Back in the present, and in the jam aisle to be more specific, we hear the far off distant wail of a tantrum coming from the toy section of Tar-jay. I am reminded of going to the store myself as a child. One of the first and sometimes only questions was if the toy section could be visited. Whether or not this question should be broached was based on the mood of whichever adult I was with and their mood at the time. When I grew out of asking this question my brother took up the mantle. He seemed not to bother taking the adult’s mood into consideration and bravely asked no matter the circumstances.

My daughter doesn’t yet know about the toy section, and that is fine by me. That is a discovery for another day.  

Post Script: Since writing this I have heard my daughter refer to a door’s state as being “locked” so more door knowledge has been filed away.

A Least I'm Announcing It This Time

You may see a sizable gap between this and my next post. I just don't get much out of these like I used to.

I'm going to try and focus more on my book. Really the biggest obsticles to this venture are this:

And my own inability to sit my lazy ass in front of a keyboard and not be distracted by the Internets many time sink land mines. Plans are in place to remedy or at least lessen these obstacles.

Catch you on down the trail.

Lana, Sing It To Me One Time

By the time you read this a week of lasts will have already begun. A journey that started with fighting off nausea and the corresponding opposite end of the body equivalent will begin to come to an end.

A little more than two years ago I started to journey to work. The first two days were way more than a struggle; in reality a test of wills. A combination of withdrawal flashbacks, a broken air conditioner at home in July, and worry about what I thought at the time would be the last job I’d ever have would be like.

I didn’t listen to Lana on those first two days. More than likely it was Morning Phase by Beck, home to a song that would culminate in a three part blog series. A series that was one of the few I managed to put out during my time at my current job. A job I very rarely could ever stop thinking about, even during weekend, family functions, laying in bed at night.

The soothing melodies of Morning Phase helped me that first day as I contemplated whether I would make it all the way to work or not, my emergency barf bucket in the seat next to me.

I drove and counted the mile markers. I was more concerned about that opposite end of my body, no real bucket for that kind of emergency.. I know, TMI, but buckle up there is a lot more where that came from.

That first drive after I calmed down somewhat and I realised I was actually going to make it, a new wave of nervousness washed over me. The feeling of warmth, heat, panic washing over my body. ‘What will happen once I get there?!’

Well I did. I elbowed my way in on the first morning meeting even though I wasn’t supposed to. In theory I just wanted to get it over with, get in the building. Despite a morning of staring into a fan and trying to get cool enough to get to the A/C of my car without vomiting on the way, I was still very early.

As I worked up the courage to enter the building of my new job the heat and noise of nearby I-80 was broken by a loud, familiar and comforting sound. The sound of a diesel locomotive horn making its way through the industrial area just behind the building across the parking lot. She was dropping off cars at nearby industrial buildings and I thought to myself ‘Maybe I can do this after all’.

That comfort felt like a million miles away from how I started the morning. Laying on the bathroom floor, with my knees in my chest pressing against my stomach, the only way to fight off the panic once it reaches my stomach. I stayed in that position my finger over the ‘call’ button, all set to dial my recruiter and tell her I couldn’t do this ‘thing’ after all.

During the panic of realising I was going to make it to Omaha without vomiting or shitting my pants, I contemplated turning around and calling the boss I had for less than a week at my old job. The whole thing was so crazy surely they’d have me back.

I had been told by my old company that they had made a mistake, had lumped me in with the wrong department and my old job was mine to keep. This was after a verbal offer from my new job and hours before a written offer was to come. I informed my week old boss, one of the few who hadn’t been fired, and he just smiled and understood. He said he was afraid this would happen and wished me well.

I never thought twice about staying. I wanted to go somewhere I was wanted, somewhere that wasn’t so dysfunctional they couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what department I was in before laying me off.

When things change in my life they happen in a flurry just like they did a little more than two years ago. Things remain the same 99% of the time but when things change, they change all at once, and just beforehand a bout of deja vu precedes the sea change.

This flurry was no different. I’m still waiting for a new flurry, a new deja vu bout. I need it, badly.

After the meeting and introductions, my new colleagues, then only two of them in the office and one working remotely, offered to take me to lunch. I passed, leary of a stomach that was still teetering on the brink.

My recruiter called or was perhaps tipped off by the handler that dropped me off. Word got back to my supervisor and thus began a long string of attempted accommodations by my new job to help with something I was battling that I don’t think they ever fully understood.

My new boss said take an hour, drive around, get calmed down. They cared about me, worked with me, treated me like I mattered. That’s why I hung on, perhaps hung on longer than I should have. Hung on until a voice deep in my brain refused one last time, stared out onto the interstate, before returning to the building and resigning.

The third day I can remember how relieved I was signing the direct deposit papers, that way I thought, no matter what I’ll get paid for the few days I survived.

I could go on and on about every moment of my time at my soon to be ending job, but as I was cleaning my car this afternoon in preparation for a week of lasts I knew I had to write about Lana.

Lana Del Rey. The sometimes pouty, sometimes deep, sometimes almost rapping and some would argue overly sound engineer enhanced voice sang me to work during that first summer. As I cleaned out my car I made the decision that I’d listen to her during my week of last commutes. My last monday commute, Tuesday commute, etc.

Fittingly my car needed cleaned out from my last withdrawal based disaster, a road trip with my brother he and I had looked forward to for months. The whole thing came crashing down when I realised late into the night that I had forgotten an important medication and that warmth corsed through my body. My brother drove me home, our hotel room left empty, he understood, supported me, just like all my friends and family during these last two years.

As I threw away the unused second baseball games tickets, the reason for the failed road trip, I wondered if that’s how I could  identify with someone who sings about falling in love with a James Dean look-a-like. I could always hear the support of my loved ones in her voice. My wife's voice in particular in her lyrics.

I told you that no matter what you did I'd be by your side

Cause Ima ride or die

Whether you fail or fly

Now I’m calling on Lana one more time. I’ll take her “like a vit-a-min” as I drive down the interstate into the darkness of the unknown.

Life is cyclical. In a lot of ways after everything I’ve been through I’m back where I started. I have a pregnant wife just like I did when I started the job, I had no idea what the future held or if I could handle it.

Not everything is Groundhog Day two years later with me or with the album that got me through that first summer. I discovered the extended edition with eight more songs. Will I mix in those new songs just like I’ll mix in what I learned at my soon to be over job? I haven’t decided yet, but I do know that I will listen to a little “Summer Time Sadness” or the soaring fire works backed “National Anthem” during my week of lasts.

After I come home with my last load of desktop paraphernalia I’ll have nothing but a frantic job search. I’ll be staring down the barrel of a fear that added to the cocktail of worry on those first days. The fear of running out of meds and going through withdrawal. I’m sure I’ll take a break or two to play “Video Games”.

So sing it to me one last week Lana as I drive down the Interstate into the unknown.

A Little Bit Sad

I don’t believe in guilty pleasures in the traditional sense. I like what I like and I’ll tell you if you ask. I don’t care if you make fun of me for listening to Lady Gaga or finding a sort of dorky beauty in Napoleon Dynamite. It’s what I like, I’m a grown man, I don’t have to preface my interests with “It’s a guilty pleasure…..” translation: “I’m self conscious you won’t think I’m as cool if I told you what I REALLY like”

I do have a different kind of guilty pleasure though. This time of my own definition. This guilty pleasure is literally so because I feel guilty for spending whatever amount of time I spent on it. Literal, actual, guilt. I’m sorry I forgot to water your plants while you were on vacation and they died guilt.

This guilt lives on Reddit. A site declaring itself “The Front Page of The Internet” and I believe accurately so. I believe they could go a step farther and say “The Front Page of YOUR Internet” because it is made of a countless number of sub-categories called “Subs” for anything and everything you can imagine. This site is sort of the rule 34 of things you could possibly be interested in. If you like it, there is no doubt is a “sub” for it. So much so there is a sub made up entirely of posts about the bizarre often mind boggling variety of subs that exist called “Of Course It’s a thing” or r/ofcoursethatsathing in reddit verse.

* A link to something that plays every episode of “The Simpsons” simultaneously.

* a sub reddit devoted to spiders in erotic positions

* Mallsoft (or Mallcore) - a subgenre of vaporwave inspired by elevator music meant to evoke the feeling of being in a mall

* An unironic sub for organizing meet ups for anti-social people

* Lego French Fries

* A magazine (yes they still print them) devoted entirely to Fidget Spinners

* Mail Me to the GOP - a website that will send your cremated remains to the GOP if you die because of your health insurance being changed

* Officially Licensed Air Guitar strings

* r/SaveBrendan an entire sub dedicated to resurrecting the career of actor Brendan Fraser.

* r/Counting literally people taking turns posting the next number in a sequence

And a couple strange ones I actually came to enjoy

* r/WtssTaDaMiT an acronym for the surprisingly erotic and tasteful When. the. Sun. Shines. Through. a. Dress. And. Makes .it Translucent.

And

* r/DesirePath “A desire path (also known as a desire line, social trail, goat track or bootleg trail) can be a path created as a consequence of foot or bicycle traffic. The path usually represents the shortest or most easily navigated route between an origin and destination. The width of the path and its erosion are indicators of the amount of use the path receives. Desire paths emerge as shortcuts where constructed ways take a circuitous route, or have gaps, or are lacking entirely.”

THAT is a mouthful and yet an entire community of folks are devoted to it, posting pictures of new found “Desire Paths” daily. This isn’t my guilty pleasure, and actually I didn’t find it on r/ofcourseitsathing. Instead it came to me as a question on one of the default subs, askReddit; subs that you are automatically a member of or at least initially are when you sign up for a free reddit account. Things pretty much everyone is into, like r/pictures, r/funny, and r/awesome. These starter set subs have a name in the reddit verse but I can’t recall it at the moment.

The question came to me in AskReddit. Finally, my guilty pleasure. Remember when we were talking about that? No? Well I’m sure their is a sub devoted to forgetting things in blogs…..anyway.

The question was simply “Why do I find ‘r/DesirePath’ so enjoyable?” Like most things on the internet, and Reddit is no exception, I assumed it to be pornographic so I tepidly gave it a gander. Relieved, I responded something like “Don’t spend too much time trying to figure out why you enjoy something, just enjoy it.” A good answer but as I sit here I’ll be damned if I could tell you why I like that sub either.

Like any other question on askReddit this question couldn’t be answered with a quick “Yes” or “No”, didn’t use the textbox (for which the mods are quite militant about), and some other rules I can't remember.

Just like everything else these days gamification is used to add an unnecessarily unfair spice to the mix. You get points based on how popular a post of yours is, or your comment on a post. Of course you can “upvote” or “downvote” a post or comment too. The result is everyone racing to make it to the front page of whatever sub they are on. AskReddit’s competition can be quite brutal.

That clickbait about “20 things Cops admit to doing on the job” your Aunt emailed you this morning? It was probably just yesterday’s top askReddit question. Sometimes they don’t even bother stripping the reddit formatting off said articles.

I’m addicted to askReddit. Not so much concerned with racking up points, but answering questions. Yeah, it hurts when I get downvoted or get responses that are mean, but I’ve built up quite a tolerance for it. I guess that is another good thing I hadn’t thought of.

Question after question, some don’t apply some do, but I just can’t stop and I feel guilty for just how long I’ve been answering questions.

Instead of going to the front page where the upvotes and posts are in the thousands or tens of thousands, no one is going to see your post there, I always spam the “new” button. These are the freshest questions and they never stop. Eventually I do, but not before I feeling guilty for lost time.

Sure some good has come from it. I believe I legitimately helped a young man think of mutual interest to ask a friend of his out with, and how and when to do it. I got zero karma (the tally of upvotes) out of the deal but I felt like I helped him.

One question stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t answer it right away. Not the best question in the world but it stopped me, and stuck in my memory days later and unfortunately I found the answer. The question was “What do you find a little bit sad?”

I didn’t have an answer and I can’t remember if I saved it. You can save posts if you like. I do so when I have nothing to contribute but still want to know how a blind guy knows when to quit wiping his ass or a question similarly interesting. Those questions take time to bloom though, so I save them for later, like checking a net I’d thrown overboard hours earlier. Sometimes you get a bumper crop and sometimes you get nada.

Switching gears quickly. When I work from home I often stand for the conference call that is my morning meeting. We all say what we’re going to do that day and I only have to pay attention enough to know when it’s my turn to talk. As I did so over the spring I noticed a happy little play set. Consisting of waterways and bridges and a crane on my deck. It had a truck, boat and a piece of bulky child safe plastic cargo that could fit in either and be moved about by the crane. Stop lights made of stickers to tell the truck or boat when to go or stop. A bridge for the truck to go over the water and little stopping arms to make little locks for the boat.

Rain water normally made the boat float and I always vowed to play with it with my daughter or even by myself. Back to the original guilty pleasure definition…...I don’t care if you think I’m three decades too old, that shit looked like fun.

After the call is over I would go back to my desk and hammer away at work for nine hours and forget all about the little boat.

One day not long ago I peered over the deck after pacing about as I often do. I don’t smoke or have any other reason to go outside, but I still like it out there, so I pace. Down in what used to be a rose bush area were the various pieces of the play set. Abandoned in the dirt and soon to be forgotten about. I got a little bit sad and finally found my answer.

My calls to work are now a little bit sad. I don’t know where the set came from, I don’t know how it got knocked clear across the deck and onto the ground below and I don’t know if it ever got played with, but life goes on.

As an adult who is married to a wife that runs a daycare I’m no stranger to derelict toys; Barbie shoes without a match, tiny chairs and closets and all sorts of things that hurt like hell when you step on them, but this set,....this set was different.

I remembered how lost or broken toys filled me with sadness as a child. I tried to be good, but I was a kid, that’s what they do. To this day I’m really hard on stuff no matter how careful I am.

I suppose it’s good the little dock’s ultimate fate is now just  “a little sad” to me as an adult. I’ve grown, I’ve gotten tougher. Just like my skin in those particularly nasty barbed comments directed at me in askReddit. Speaking of which I’m at my laptop and askReddit is just a tab away and I’m starting to get the shakes.

For pictures of the crane in (before and after) check out the official twitter: @The SmittyBlog

Sketch

Sketch: noun a rough or unfinished drawing or painting, often made to assist in making a more finished picture.

Or my prefered definition of the comedic variety of a sketch (skip to the 4:51 mark if it doesn’t do it for you automatically).

Although these are both excellent definitions of the respective variations of a sketch, I’d like to create one of my own.

I haven’t come up with a catchy title, but I’m envisioning a written version to add to the above two types.

I don’t write fiction often, but when I do I get a clear single image or images in my head and write in great detail about that scene. I have no idea where this image comes from or where this ‘written sketch’ is going. I make no plans, no outlines, just feverishly describe with great detail what I see. I get the feeling that in the unlikely event I should ever finish a short story, the reader would drown in Chekhov's guns. I sort of delite in the idea, not in drowning readers but in breaking rules and restraints on how and what I should write.

In order to rebel fully though, you must actually finish something. Yet this is not the case. I invariably walk away from the keyboard with the full intent to continue on whatever sketch I just created later, but I almost never do. What is left is a written version of a few buildings, a lake or peninsula with mountains in the background and so forth.

The sketch gets filed away in its own folder and forgotten about. I daydream about continuing this sketch or that sketch but nothing ever comes of these thoughts.

So I’ve amassed a written sketchbook over the years. I can only think of one short story I’ve finished. The rest are just “rough” and “unfinished” chunks of texts taking up space on the google cloud. Some are only a few words long hinting at bizarre dreams from the night prior.

This used to bother me. It used to even make me angry or depressed. To the point where I would start thinking of these sketches, or have a flash and WANT to write out what I see but can’t at the moment. Instead I write a prompt and file it away. These thoughts angered me because I thought “what is the point?” I might sketch them, I might not. Even if I do it won’t amount to a completed work so stop thinking about it.

I usually can’t though, adding to the frustration.

I’m not sure when it happened or why, but I just came to accept them for what they are, vague, rough images used to quell whatever need to write I felt at the time. Yes, I suck at finishing things, especially written, fictional things, but at least some internal purpose was served and in the unlikely event I feel the need to revisit that scene, I know just where my sketchbook is.

In the spirit of sketches I thought I’d share one that is particularly fitting. I didn’t realize how fitting until I reread for the first time in a very long time. The very first line was the flash that got me going. Everything else was leading up to that line and made on the spot (during the feverish stage I mentioned above). In the story the main character laments the lack of desire to write even though he spends most of his workday wanting to. So I figured, right on topic for this particular blog.

“Maybe part of the motivation is that you’re NOT supposed to be doing it.” She questioned taking another long drag from her cigarette, staring off into the distance deep in thought.

I had never really considered myself the rebellious type but that could indeed be part of my problem. Still, it didn’t quite fit. I wanted it to fit, needed it to fit, but yet somehow, like the missing ingredient in the family recipe, something was just not quite right during the taste test.

“Nah” I said, “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Or maybe you’re just fucking lazy.” She scratched her head with her right hand and her left held her cigarette at length while individual strands of blond hairs danced about her face in the early fall breeze. They seemed to have minds of their own, tiny tentacles reaching into the air for microbes to feast on.

I followed the tentacles back to their source, her dark brown roots had covered a lot of area on either side of her part. I’d never seen so much root on anyone else. Was that the ‘in’ thing now? Nah, she wouldn’t be bothered with that crap. Everything about her was so beautifully unplanned and out of control. If it was ‘in’ it would just be an annoying coincidence to her.

Unfortunately that lack of caring seemed to extend to me as well.

Suddenly she snapped back to reality. “Hey! Did you hear me?” she said before adding “I just called you fucking lazy.” Her head tilted to the side as she immediately started lightly laughing while flicking her cigarette.

‘She did didn’t she?’ I thought. And she didn’t care one bit about how I would take it. With her head turned and mouth open in a light laugh I admired her teeth. I couldn’t really describe them to you but they were special, special in a way that growing up with a parent who couldn’t afford to get you braces made teeth special.

I suddenly really hated my teeth. Then I suddenly realized I hadn’t said anything in a really long time.

Quick, say something, my brain urged! But be cool,......pretend you haven’t been Facebook stalking her since 8th grade.

“I….” was all I got out and probably for the better. I don’t know what was to follow but it couldn’t have been great. In fact, it would probably have been an immensely embarrassing bramble of words that would go in my hall of fame of awkward utterances to attractive females.

“Later” she had interrupted unknowingly, while ashing her cigarette right there on the handicap ramp in the back of the building. She didn’t know she interrupted me, which brought me some solace, but I felt like I was in a dream where a monster was chasing me and I couldn’t make a sound.

Instead the monster was up, swirling effortlessly around. Up the ramp it went, no hair flip exposing the neck, no look back at me.

An unbuttoned black and blue plaid shirt flapped uncaring in the wind. Only parts of the plain black shirt underneath could be seen as the plaid was tossed about by the wind. Her jeans were ripped in all the right places and black Converse shoes quickly made their way up the ramp.

And just like that it was over. After a summer where I had just so happened to end up interning at the same place she worked. A crush thought lost then brought back to life with all the subtlety of high voltage resuscitation paddles.

I stood there in a mannequin-like state until the metal door slammed on its own, jolting me back to reality.

In retrospect I should have given myself more credit. I’m surprised I managed to say anything. Then I began the first replay of the events that just happened for the first of what would be many many replays to come. I had been writing at one of the outdoor break area benches.

The voice had hit me like lightning, so fast and bright its source I didn’t immediately register. She had asked in a bored tone “Whatcha’ writtin’?”. After turning though, the sound of the voice resonated in my head. As it did so, I responded on autopilot, again perhaps better that way.

While her two words tried to penetrate my thick skull, the memories of our shared youth clouded the inside of my skull’s thickness. I managed simply, “They’re supposed to look like meeting notes, but everyday day during our morning meeting I write a little bit on a story. I’m not supposed to, but I’m so bored……...I always promise myself I’ll work on it more when I’m not busy or at work but I never do, and I never know why.”

My thoughts coming full circle, I was once again aware of where I was, in a small courtyard at the bottom of our building. At some point I must have stood to face her, although I have no recollection of doing that. I must have taken the elevator back up to the office, but the butterflies in my stomach could have probably gotten me up there just fine.