Really?  Is it all downhill from here?  Are my greatest works behind me?  Am I to disappear into obscurity?  Are the best relationships in my life behind me?  Am I ever going to get married?  Will there ever be any wee JD’s roving the earth looking for trouble?  I ponder these questions and more a lot.  The older I get, the more concerned I become about what kind of legacy, if any, I will leave behind.

Hopefully, I will be on this whacky rock another 40 years.  We don’t know what tomorrow will bring or even if there will be a tomorrow.  The best thing to do is to live life to the full of our potential.  We can do a lot more than we realise.  The human spirit is far more powerful than we can contemplate.  I, like so many others, am a prime example of how the impossible can become possible.

For those of you that already know all of this, please feel free to skip to the next couple of paragraphs.

A day after I was born, I contracted spinal meningitis from someone in the hospital.  I died and came back on numerous occasions over the following days.  They told my family to go ahead and make preparations for my wake.   I didn’t give up and neither did my mother or father.  The fever accompanied by spinal meningitis caused blindness in one eye, hypopituitarism, hypothyroidism, hypoglycaemia, Addison’s disease, and a multitude of other developmental problems.

I developed at an alarming slow rate.  I don’t think I spoke a word ‘til I was three.  I believe my first word was Milk.  The docs said I was retarded and suggested that I be put in a home for such children.  My parents, thankfully, wouldn’t do it.  At the time, they were young and didn’t have the resources or knowledge they have now.  They both worked two jobs in order to pay my medical bills.  Regardless of the issues I may have with my parents, they sacrificed a lot for me.  The older I get, the more I realise that.

I had to wear leg braces to straighten align my feet properly.  Me and Forest Gump have a lot in common.  I had terrible seizures caused by low blood sugar, but it took a young intern to figure out what was causing them.  He was my GP for 36 years and has retired!

When I finally made it to grade school, I wore the clothes of a two year-old.  They didn’t figure out until I was seven that I had/have a dysfunctional pituitary gland.  So, yet another young doctor started pumping me with HGH (Human Growth Hormone), which is now illegal.  And, it is from dead people!  For eleven years, I was stuck with a 5cm long needle every other day.  Sounds like fun, aye?

They told my mother every year that I’d be lucky to reach the next year.  I’ve been poked and prodded more effing times than I would ever like to recount.

When I was 17, I looked like I was ten.  High school was a very precarious time of my life.  It was hell, but it was hell for most people.  But, I struggled through it.

I’m getting sober and tired, so I’ll rush this rambling along.

In 2004, my current doctor told me if I didn’t start taking medication again, I’d be dead in six months.  Needless to say, I’m taking everything that I’m supposed to take to keep me alive.

The same year, my orthopaedic surgeon said I’d be in a wheelchair in five years.  I’m still walking, running, and hiking on a daily basis.

The school district placed me in special ed. classes for the disabled.  My mother took me out, because she said I wasn’t being mentally challenged.  She was right.  I had to work harder, but I prevailed.

Doctors told her that I’d never be able to live on my own.  I moved out over 18 years ago and haven’t been back.

They also said I’d never be able to drive.  While I’ve only technically been driving for a little over five years, I’ve been behind the wheel for decades.

They said I had frontal lobe damage and wouldn’t be able to properly communicate verbally.  I do fair for a southern boy.

They went on to add that I had a low mental capacity and that school should not be a priority.  Wrong again.  I’m on the presidents list at the University and have stopped a liberal lawyer in his or her tracks with facts and figures.  Anytime you can get a lawyer to stop talking and listen, you’re fairly competent.

You can do anything, if you work hard enough for it.  That lad that used to believe that anything was possible is still inside of me.  Even though I still have to deal with adversity everyday, I still keep my head held high and work towards my goals.  Life is hard.  Deal with it and make the best out of a bad situation.

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I need someone to kick me in the arse and tell me to bite me lower lip and take it like a man.  Take what, you ask?  A liberal professor that teaches at my University.  She’s not a bad person, just a woman that tries to push her views upon the rest of us.  I don’t think that politics belong in the classroom.  The class is supposed to be about Juvenile Justice. 

Everything she says revolves around race.  There are far more reason than race that cause juvenile delinquency.  Last Thursday, I had been sitting there quietly for half an hour whilst she ranted about race and how unequal things are in America between ‘whites’ and ‘blacks’.  Twenty or Thirty years ago I would have agreed with her, but not now.  A minority has just as much, if not more, of a chance than anyone else.  If you want to get technical, I’m a minority.  Blue-eyed people only make up 2.2% of the world population.  And, green-eyed people only make up .006% of the world population.  I’m somewhere in between, I guess.  Mind you, these statistics were taken from Wikipedia and are only estimates. 

There are several things that cross the line with me.  You don’t talk badly about the disabled.  You don’t make fun of Southerners.  You don’t make fun of Americans without expecting a retort from me.  And, you don’t make fun of the Irish without getting a counter from me.  I know what you’re going to say, if you’re Irish.  We don’t need your help, JD.  And, we didn’t ask for it.  I know you don’t need my help, but there is something at the core of my being that requires me to stand up what is right and to stand up for those that are not there to retort nonsense.  I’d stand up for a Yankee just as much as I would a Southerner, if I thought that he or she was unjustly being ridiculed.

Back to the professor.  She said that ‘white’ people try use the Irish as an example of Europeans being enslaved, but the Irish have never been enslaved.  “That’s a joke”, she said.  By this point, I had been listening to her for half an hour and my pulse shot up to at least 150 bpm.  I was so mad that my hands and arms were shaking.  If that would have been a man, he’d still be picking his teeth up off the floor with broken fingers.  It wasn’t necessarily what she said, it was how she jokingly played it off. 

With my arms still shaking, I went into a five minute brief history of Irish history.  After interrupting me several times, she finally said that the Irish weren’t scribed on the US Constitution as three fifths of a person.  So, I had to shut up deal with the rest of her rhetoric.   I didn’t have a comeback.  How in the effing hell am I supposed to come back from that one?

Then, one of the country girls defended saying the N word because it is in the media all the time.  The professor and her went back and forth arguing about it for thirty minutes.  There was no way I was going anywhere near that.  That would be political suicide. 

Going into her class is like pulling teeth.  It is the same old new age liberal bunk.  She has every right to be liberal and I have every right to be a Traditionalist with a tinge of old school liberal to mix it up a bit.   I know their playbook and she is reading from it word for word.  The 2012 election is drawing near, so they are pulling out every trick in the book.  One thing that they are pushing in the media is to perpetuate white guilt.  Why should I feel guilty about something that happened way before my time?  This presidential race will be about race once again. 

The sad thing is that most young people, black and white, know nothing about their families history.  How can a person make an informed decision without knowing their own history and the history of the country the live in?  How can we hope to not to repeat the past if we don’t know the past?  America will fall from the inside, if we don’t stop bickering amongst ourselves. 

The last thing I said to her was that we need to move on.  We need to know our history, but we should not be confined by it.  It is a shrine to visit, not a cell to be jailed in.  We are adrift on perilous seas with sails torn to shreds.  Will we let the winds push us into the craggy shore or will we work together and row towards the sandy beach?  Time will tell. 

I would like nothing better than to spend my life taking serene photographs and write poetry, but I can’t.  If I let the politicians and professors alike go unchecked, they’ll be no country left for my nieces, nephews, and my kids (big if there).  The old attitude of just letting them be will not suffice anymore.  I will be stomping the streets this election season.  Leave no stone unturned, I say.

So, onto my question, what is the best way to deal with this lady whom I respect but dislike politically? 

P.S.:  A few weeks ago, I contacted An Garda Siochána about interviewing a Garda.  They got back to me within a few hours and properly told me to feck off.  It was quite hilarious.

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I blame it all on Pope Gelasius I.  He’s the one that started this whacky holiday.  I jest, of course.  Valentine’s Day is a grand holiday for those that have someone and a torrid day of shite for the rest of us that or either too high and mighty or too damaged to be of any use to anyone.  If you really think about it, the day is crappy for most folks.  People that are married or in a relationship go out and spend money they don’t have in order to impress upon their loved one that they love them.

The whole commercialisation of Valentine’s Day makes me sick, but I’ll admit that it is nice to come home to a cooked meal.  That’s all I need to feel special.  I believe that I can write a poem far superior to anything poor blokes can buy in a store.  Mind you, not all guys can do that.  But, they can, if they try, come up with something better than what they can buy.  And ladies, if you can’t cook, put on a little something special.  We men are easily impressed by little to no clothing!

May I prevail upon the lot of you to dig deep into your hearts this year and do something special for your significant other?  The northern hemisphere world is still in an economic crisis, so do yourself and me a feckin’ favour, don’t spend money you don’t have.  Pretentiousness and narcissistic attitudes are the reason we are in this mess.  Stop it now.  The best thing we can all do is learn from our past mistakes and do our best not to make them again. 

To me, at least, the most important aspect of St. Valentine’s Day is to tell that special person in our lives how we truly feel about them without holding back.  It is better to be honest than not.  But, if you think she’s fat, don’t say it!  Especially on Valentine’s Day! 

There are men and women out there that have given up on ever finding anyone.  My advice is to never give up and never surrender.  I’ve been kicked, beat with a pocket book (primary days.  I deserved it.), slapped, kneed, whacked across the nose (Welsh chick.  I was legless, but I’m quite sure I didn’t say anything to deserve a whack across the bridge of my nose.), and used.  I’m as crazy about women now as I was in my youth. 

Sometimes we have to make that nervous first step, but if we don’t, we’ll never know what would’ve happened.  My grandfather used to say that the things we don’t do are as important as the things we do.  It took me years to figure that one out.   

To all the men out there:

Stop grunting and pointing.  You wife/girlfriend is not your momma or your maid.  Stop treating her like a piece of property and be glad someone loves your sorry arse.  Listen to their overly narrative stories even though you find them horrendously boring.

To all the women out there:

Stop bitchin’ and moaning.  Sure, your man is a piece of shite.  Well, you picked him.  Deal with what you’ve got and try to make the best of it.  If you care for your man, get involved in the things that he likes to do and he might just do the same. 

I realise this is an oddly formed post, but in my own defence, I am hopped up on cold medicine.  I’m going to bugger off to count some drunken sheep.  I hope you all have a very Happy Valentine’s Day.

I leave you with something that keeps me busy on days like these.  Mind you, this is not my bug, but I do love the sound. 

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Christmas is a grand time of year, but a strange time as well.  People help other people out when they normally couldn’t be arsed to do so.  It ensures us that there is hope for humanity after all.  I did my bit and gave more than I could afford, but that’s what it is all about, yes?  Mind you, I’m not complaining.  I have a warm place to stay and a roof over my head.  That’s more than a lot of people have.  I do my best to remind myself of that every holiday season. 

I’m going to do my best in the new year to stop griping as much and stop using emoticons.  I loath and love the holidays.  As a single man, I’m reminded more than ever how lonely a single life can be.  I don’t normally tend to think of it, because I have so much school work and work that has to be done.  But, with the free time allotted during the cheery season, I’m reminded more than ever.  Family ask me over and over, “When are ya goin’ get married, JD”?  Or, they’ll tag this one on.  “Is there a woman in yer life, JD?”

As if I didn’t feel out of sync already.  Thanks Family.  They mean well.  That’s just their way of saying hurry up and get married.  My Aunt asked me on Christmas Eve like she always does, so I thought I’d mess with her a bit.

“So, Jefferson, any woman in your life?”
”I sure do.”  I stated with an enormous grin.

“Tell us ‘bout her…what’s she like?”   She asks while smiling and sitting down in an antique shield back dining chair.

“Well, she can be cold at times, but she warms up…oh boy.”  I enounced with enthusiasm.

“Really?  How old is she?”

“She’s fit and has plenty of curves, but she’s 45.”

“Ah, an older woman, aye?”

“Yep, but you’d never know it by looking at her”, I said with even more enthusiasm. 

“Is she a redhead?”

“Nope.  The only problem I have with her is that she’s blue.”

“Oh, she’s depressed…Why didn’t you bring her tonight?”  Auntie asked with curiosity.

“I couldn’t fit everyone in her.”  I stated whilst trying not to laugh.

Dazed and confused, she asked, “What?”

“She’s a ‘66 Volkswagen Beetle.”

Everyone busted into laughter and I was picked on for the rest of the night. 

Christmas was rife with drama not caused by me.  Christmas Eve, sister1, niece, nephew, and myself went over to my fathers mothers house as is the tradition.  My pops, stepmother, 4 more sisters, grandmother, two Uncles, and 2 Aunts were there to enjoy some food and watch the wee one’s open presents.  We all had a blast until there was some drama between sister1 and our father.  It was mostly her doing, but there are a lot of bad feelings there.  Things I’ve learned to accept and move on from.  It’s not healthy to hold onto bad things from the past.  The past is the past for a reason.  It shapes us, but it does not define us. 

After the drama was over, I took them home and came home to an empty house.  But, I started working on photos and forgot all about it.  The four glasses of wine might have helped.  Christmas morning, I arose before dawn and went to my sisters to watch my niece and nephew open presents.  My niece is 14 months old.  It’s entertaining to watch the wee one’s figure out how to open a present.  I helped my nephew put together a big gaming chair he received from Santa. 

Later that afternoon, I took my special chocolate oatmeal cookies to my other grandmothers house for Christmas lunch.  There was a wee bit more drama, but not as much as there was Christmas Eve.  I came home to an empty house yet again Christmas night and passed out.  The day after Christmas, I got a call from my mother.  She had just purchased me a new couch and wanted me to come pick it up.  As it happened, my neighbour needed a new couch, so after two hours of getting the old and massive couch out of my house, I gave it to him.  My cousin and one of his boys came over and helped me get the new one in as well as getting old one out.  It was a task and a half. 

I’ve spent the rest of the week sick with a cold.  The new couch has been thoroughly broken in though.  Hopefully the new year will bring good tidings to me and to you as well.

So, how was your Christmas?

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Over the past few months, I’ve heard a lot of anti bully talk and slogans.  I don’t like bullies any more than the next person, but if it were not for the bullies in my past, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.  I might be timider or a total jerk.  Only God knows what I would have become if I hadn’t of stood up for myself in high school after years of torment.

Everyone thinks that because I went to private school, I had it made and didn’t have to contend with such things as bullies, drugs, and threats.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  When I finished high school, I was five feet tall.  I was a small lad that weighed a total of 100 lbs. soaking wet.  At my school, we had around 30 kids in each grade.  It was a small school that I loved. However, when I was a sophomore, the principal started letting kids that had been kicked out of public school, attend our school.  So, all the ingrates whose families could afford private school, came to our school.  That’s when things started to change.

We had this one tall heavy set fella at our school that took joy out of picking little shites like me up and throwing us across a room.  He also enjoyed stuffing us into lockers and pulling our boxers up to our heads.  One day after lunch, I caught him strangling a friend for money.  I yelled for him to stop.  A few seconds later, a teacher came around the corner and he stopped.  He pointed at me, and said, “I’m going to get you, Davis, after school”.

Frankly, I was terrified.  I managed to skip by him, when my ride pulled up.  What he said nagged at me all weekend.  I was boxing with my father that Sunday and almost knocked him off of a three story deck.  I was so nervous Monday morning that I begged my mother to let me stay home.  I ended up going to school that morning, regardless of the consequences. 

Somehow, I managed to sneak by him all day.  The clan of nerds that I was the leader of brought lunch to my hideout in the janitors closet.  The rest of the day dragged on.  One teacher asked me what was wrong, because I was shaking so bad that she could barely read my writing.  I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t.

After the final bell rang, I decided to take the back exit that no one ever used to access the area where parents picked up their kids.  As I furiously ran around the corner towards the exit, a foot tripped me, and I went sliding into the lockers.  Before I could turn around, big boy and his cronies were picking me up like a feather.  I yelled for help, but to no avail.  My eyes darted back and forth searching for anyone to help, but only the girlfriends were there to watch me get beat senseless. 

He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and started picking me up.  It wasn’t that I was necessarily scared of him, it had more to do with the threat and the time that had passed thinking about it.  As he lifted me off the ground, I grew a spine and kicked his knee in as hard as I could.  I had legs of steel back then and still do.  We both fell to the frigid January ground and he started screaming.  The next thing I knew a minute had passed and I was still beating him senseless.  The principle came and after a time of pacing back and forth in the principles office, I explained what happened.   With a tearful, girly, cry, he said that he was just going to scare me. 

We became somewhat friends.  The last thing I heard about him was that he was in jail for attempted theft of an ATM.  I saw him about five years ago.  He was still going on about me busting his kneecap.  That may have been the first time I had to stand up for myself outside of the home, but definitely not the last.  Every time a new student would enter our school with an attitude, they’d test the dominate little shite, me.  But, thanks to big boy, they’d be fully warned ahead of time. 

Ever since I got into that fight in 2007, I’ve not had to be in another.  I don’t like to fight.  I’ll do just about anything to avoid it, but sometimes it is a necessity.  I realise that school is a lot different these days, but the basic rules still apply.  Take down the biggest one and the rest will flee.  Mind you, I’m not encouraging physical altercations, but you’ve got to stand up for yourself and others at some point.

P.S.:  I’ll be back Christmas Day with an inspirational post, I hope.

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In September of 2005, I started this whacky, artsy, and slightly insane blog.  I was flipping through the archives the other day and realised that I have grown up a lot.  There is still much maturing that needs to happen to me and the blog, but who wants to grow up, really?

I used to post intimate relationship matters.  Thankfully for me and the kind readers, I don’t do that anymore.  I’ve learned a great deal about people and the world through this harebrained experiment we call the blogosphere.  I’m grateful that I’ve met so many interesting and inspiring people.

This thing started because I was planning for a trip to Ireland and was searching iTunes for a podcast that might give me some tips.  I happened upon a podcast hosted by two expats living in Belfast, Northern Ireland.  I learned a considerable amount from their show, albeit most of the information was a twisted version of the truth.

The chap producing and hosting the show was inspiring, so I started a wee blog over on blogspot.  I don’t have much use for the guy, but like it or not, his podcast is the reason I started this crazy thing.  It has died and been reborn several times in the last six years.

Blogs are strange things, really.  They are our own personal space filled with our thoughts, dreams, and opinions on whatever subject we choose to discuss on a given day.  It feels private, but it is far from it.  Reading another persons blog is like breaking into their house and reading their diary with their permission.  It’s odd, but the world is odd.  The world is a smaller place because of it and I am very grateful for all of the friends I’ve made.

It is my greatest hope to keep blogging and learning from others.  In 2006, I was in a local pub having a pint and giving the poor sod beside me an earful of my relationship woes, when a nerdy (young version of myself) bloke came running up to me asking if I was the guy on that infamous podcast.  By late 2006, I had started my own podcast, so I was hoping that he was talking about my show.  He was talking about the other show that I was on in June of 2006.  I said that yes it was me and he brought his girlfriend over to meet me.  I told him what really happened on that particular show and he insisted on buying me another pint that I didn’t need.

After that I decided to work hard on the content of the blog and the podcast.  I managed to get the infamous Dr. Don to join the show.  He added hilarity and honesty that you can’t find just anywhere.  In Episode 25, Brian F. made his debut.  He made sure I didn’t go off the deep end with my rants and kept the facts straight.  He also added even more humour to the show.  A few months later Dario Sanchez graced us with his presence.  He’s hilarious and brilliant.  Not long after that, Brian managed to get the smart, funny, and talented Baino to join.  At around the same time, that famous and cantankerous auld fella, Grandad, joined the ranks on episode 44.  And finally, the infamous and hilarious K8 the Gr8 made her entrance and exit on Episode 50, Kilos of Craic.

I thoroughly enjoyed the podcast and would hope to produce one in the future.  There was no money in it, just the joy of getting together with people you know and talking about the craziest topics.  We all knew that we were having some sort of effect on someone somewhere.  When we stopped doing the show, we had several hundred listeners.  Not that many in podcast terms, but enough to encourage us to keep it going.  However, it was taxing on us all.  We had to line up a time to meet across 15 time zones.  It was far from easy but well worth it.

This blog has died off since those pioneering days of blogging and podcasting.  I was going through my own hell and everyone seemed to be going in different directions.  The content started to suffer, so I almost pulled the plug.  Thankfully, I kept it up as more of an archive than anything else.  I started to fall apart like an old stone wall ravaged by storms, but I am gradually rebuilding the wall, one stone at a time.  I can only hope I put them back in the correct order. 

I would not be the man, good or bad, I am today without the lot of you  Thank You all…

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It appears that I have managed to get all A’s this semester.  I’m grateful that I did as well as I did.  I had the same Instructor for two of my classes.  The two classes with her were Criminal Justice and Criminology.  I loved the Criminal Justice class.  The book was an overview of law and criminal justice throughout the ages.  She would ask questions to see if we actually read the chapters and the room would fall silent.   So, starting on the first day of classes, I started answering the questions and giving my opinion on the subject at hand.   Two other students and myself were the only one’s throughout the entire term.

We discussed English Law and how Common Law came into effect in the states in her classes and others.  Actually, my state still observes English Common Law.  In my Law class we went back to how laws were developed in the Roman Empire.  It was quite fascinating.  I’m a lover of history, so I inhaled those chapters.

The other class I had with her was Criminology.  She’s a grand professor and all, but I despised the subject matter.  They used statistics to claim that children of career criminals have a higher probability, due to their environment, of being criminals as well.  Hello?  Is anyone home?  You don’t have to spend millions of dollars to figure that out.  It’s common sense, people!  And, don’t even get me started on Freud.  He was a drug addict that scribed theories in a drug induced state.  But, because he is considered a founder by so many highly paid nutters, I have to take his words as though they are holy.

She and I talked a lot between classes, so she knew that if we talked about Australia or the English imprisonment of the Irish rebels (no offense to the English.  I realise that the Monarchy treated you all just as bad as the Irish, Scottish, and Welsh), I’d speak up and give a brief history.  On a few occasions, I tended to get too passionate and mutter on for too long.  And, when we got to imprisonment of slaves during and before the Civil War, an older African-American lady spoke up.  So, the two or three of us that spoke up and we all learned a lot.  I still have much to learn about the law.

One day I was telling the teacher about getting into a bit of trouble with TSA.  As I was heading down the hallway to leave, one of the young women that never says anything tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around and asked her what was up.  With a countenance that would raise the heartbeat of any man, she smiled, threw her hair back, and said, “I’m Irish”.

Now, I’ve never stated in any class that I’m Irish.  I’ve said that my ancestors were mostly Irish. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, like, my grandmother was from LondonDerry.”

“You mean Derry?”

“I guess….I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee and tell me more about the Irish?”

“Sure”, I said with glee.

Anyway, we had a coffee and a I found out that she’s only 18.  Those damn morals got in the way again.  To make a long story short, I told her she was a plastic paddy like me.  There are so many young people out there desperately seeking an identity.  If the parents don’t step up and tell them of their history and that they should be proud of their ancestors, they are certain to pick the wrong identity.  When I’m asked if I’m Irish, I tell people I’m an American of Irish ancestry and I’m proud of my ancestors whether they were fisherman or nobles.  Right, she was really into the fact that I had gotten into trouble with TSA.  And, I told her about my troubles with the Hollyroodhouse British authorities.  Women say they don’t want a troublemaker, but they really do.  If that angel on my shoulder hadn’t been yelling louder, who knows… 

Here’s a few shots from my latest photowalk.  My next post will be structured better.  Sorry for getting off topic.

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I haven’t posted anything in over a month.  Even Google has written me off.  My apologies for the absence.  It has been a tumultuous couple of months.  I don’t enjoy admitting what I’m about to admit, but in order for you to understand what I’m talking about, I feel that I must tell you folks what has been going on in my life.

After repeated job declinations, I went down to the local Disability office and applied for Disability.  I never thought I’d be in a position where I’d have to do such a thing, but the sun doesn’t shine on the same dogs arse everyday.  In the middle of July, I went down to the office and handed the lady that was interviewing me a two page list of conditions and ailments that I have and another list of doctors that could corroborate my story.  It has been almost six months and everything that I stated has been verified.

I was not brought up to take from the government.  My father recited JFK’s famous line, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you can do for your country”.  I grew up in a house where we didn’t want the government intruding upon our lives.  My family shells out six figures a year in taxes to the state alone.  I thought that I had paid in a considerable amount as well.  In my naive stupidity, I reckoned that my country cared about my well being and would help me out during these trying times. 

All I really wanted was assistance until I can finish up my degree, but the fact is that they really don’t give a damn.  I’m not Black, I’m not Hispanic, I’m not Asian, and I’m not enough Native American to claim it.  So, what it comes down to is the fact that I’m a disabled white man that is supposed to pay for every one else to sit on their fat arses.  And, I’m supposed to work my fingers to the bone so a minority or an immigrant can go to college (no offense to my friends and folks I call family overseas, but you all would get free college over here.) and barely pass.

My GPA for this semester is 3.75.  It’s not perfect, but I try really hard and study for hours on end.  I’m a hard worker.  All I’ve ever expected is the chance to succeed and move up the social ladder.  However, this is not what one receives when one works his or her arse off.  Several months ago I went in for a job interview to do Audits for a large commercial company.  Trying to be honest, when the application asked if I was disabled, I checked the yes box.  Big freakin’ mistake.  The lad half my age asked me why I marked that box, so I tried to downplay it and said that I’ve always excelled past anything anyone has ever asked for me.  After a few minutes of asking me questions, he looked over at me, and asked, “Why don’t you take a job as a cashier or janitor like other disabled people?”

I wanted to knock him the feck out, but kept my composure and left after he said he’d keep me on file.  This past week has been a hectic one.  I asked everyone to do their best to leave me alone, so I could properly prepare for finals.  Of course, they did not.  I should have just said I’m free all week  On Tuesday, the day of one of my hardest written exams, I had to go with my cousin to work on a house for me Mum.  Now, I love me Mum and would do anything for her, but it was a bad time to be asking me to paint and install tile flooring.  Dr. Don and myself finished up about two in the afternoon and I came home. 

When I arrived home, I noticed that the mail lady had been here.  With hesitation, I checked the mailbox to see if I had received a letter from the disability office.  By chance, there was a letter in there from them.  I hesitated in opening it, but I did anyway.  I was hoping and praying to get the assistance, so I could finish school unimpeded, but alas, it was a denial letter. 

I called them up and said, “Let me get this straight, I applied for a gub’mint job and couldn’t get it because I’m too blind, but when I ask for assistance as a last resort, I’m not blind enough.”

My vision was just one wee thing on the application, yet they used it as an excuse to deny me.  Yes, I’m a Southern American and I’m Caucasian.  So the feck what?  Look, I’m not a xenophobe.  However, when I’ve seen blatant evidence that minorities are treated better than the rest of us, I tend to get cross!  I used to work with a chap that was Hispanic.  The government paid for his University fees as well as giving him rent and food money equalling about $1100 a month. 

Everyone should be on a level playing field when it comes to jobs and education.  When I finished secondary school, there was no free access to third level education.  Parents of all races and cultures had to save for a long time to send their kids to college.  As it is in the states now, if you’re an immigrant or are anything other than Caucasian, you can go to school for free and have free lodging and food.

I’m not a racist.  I’m just stating the facts as I see them.  We are in hard times.  I realise that.  All I was asking for was assistance for the next few years so I can finish University and make a difference in this world.  But, they couldn’t do that.

I have a new outlook thanks to this denial.  The US government can fuck off!  I will always support the troops, policeman, and fire-fighters, but the politicians and greedy officials can screw somebody else over.  I, and my family, have been screwed over enough!  Don’t ask me for another mother fecking thing, government.  Fuck off with ya.

My sister said it best the other day as we were shopping.  She said, “Everyone from doctors to family and friends have called you retarded and written you off.  You’ve out lived some of them and have done more in the last six years than any of them have in a lifetime.”

I will succeed.  I will hike through rain, sleet, and snow. I will climb the highest peaks and never give up. 

Do you know what happens when you kick a Mutt?  He comes back stronger than ever and chews your effing leg off!

Have a grand week all…

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Today, I went to class and took tests in Criminal Justice and Criminology (sociological perspective of criminal behavior.). I came home and took another d*mn test. I’ve been playing with the new version of Linux Mint ever since I finished my homework. It’s been a fairly boring day. A fairly boring month, if I must admit it. Luckily, Linux Mint and blogilo have been keeping me entertained. And, I’ve managed to sign up for Spring 2012 classes.

In the morning I have Forensics and Criminal Law tomorrow night. I thoroughly enjoy both of those classes and am looking forward to publishing my final papers. The major I’m seeking is grand, but it does have its drawbacks.

I have said in the past that I lead a boring life. Now you know the truth! I hope to have something worth your reading by the end of the week. Have a grand week all…

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What have I been up to?  I know the lot of you are just sitting at your RSS readers every morning in anticipation of my scribbling’s.  Okay, maybe not.  I have been up to utterly nothing except studying and writing papers for my criminal law courses.  Sounds like fun, aye?  Actually, I quite enjoy doing research, but there are always deadlines. 

So, I’ve been rushing from one deadline to the next in an endless vacuum of studious discipline.  Everyone thinks I’m a genius, but I’m far from it.  I just work harder than a lot of them and I have experience they don’t.  Education is life long and vital to survival in todays world.  Even Farmers are learning graphic design and business techniques in order to sell their products in a world market.  I’m the oldest fecker in all of my classes, yet I’m the fastest at spitting out math calculations.  My 16 year-old sister takes two to three times as long to calculate a solution than I do.  What does that say about the youth?  And, I’m supposed to be a complete blabbering idiot. 

There are quite a few things, however, that I have a hard time with.  The upside is that I have some gorgeous co-eds that help me and I help them.  They help me study and I review their papers.  I’d like to review more, but we have an understanding.  And, I’m getting to the age that I want to settle down with one woman, not two or three (as entertaining as that sounds). 

On Thursday of this past week, the courses I’m taking hit home.  I have Forensic Science on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.  It’s an absolutely blast.  The lab is filled with all sorts of fun toys for the enquiring mind.  There’s a gas chronometer, a comparison microscope (for comparing brass striations), a fingerprint scanner, a super glue vapour chamber, an electromagnetic footprint analyser, guns, and all sorts of other cool toys.  It’s a fun class, but Thursday’s class was disturbing.

The Professor had some detectives from the homicide division come over to give us a wee seminar on forensics in the crime scene.  What we ended up seeing was videos and photos of rotting corpses, gun shot wounds, and people that had blown their heads off.  It was very disturbing and horrific.  About half the class either left gagging or crying.  I stayed because I’ve got to be Mr Macho, but I kind of wish I hadn’t have.  I’ve seen a lot in my day, but nothing like seeing a guys head blown clean off and bits of him all over the room he was in. 

When I got out of school Thursday afternoon, I found out that my sisters house had been broken into.  So, I had to go help clean up and board up the window the thieves used to get in.  I crime scene tech was at her house, when I arrived.  We talked about crime scenes and I watched him dust for prints.  I made sure he did it right!  Pricks wore gloves though. 

It has been a fairly boring weekend filled with Tests and one car show.  Everyone loves the Beetle!  The old hippies and the kids alike love my ‘66 Beetle.  In fact, I was driving down the road the other day and a guy hung his head out of his truck at a red-light and said, “Long live the 60’s, man…Rock on”.  It was hilarious!

I’ve got to go study for a test in the morning.  Have a grand week all…

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University life is a grand one, but it does have its irritations.  I have a Professor that goes on a tirade at least once a week.  It usually has something to do with how the younger generation does not respect authority nor do they respect themselves.  I agree with most of that, but do I have to hear it every freaking week for half an hour?  Instead of going over the material that he’s paid to go over, he rants on and on about how people wear hats inside buildings and they are not supposed to or how young men wear the waist of their britches down at their knees.  I agree with this as well, but do I have to hear it?!

This past week he hit one of my buttons.  However, he did insult the Y “Millennium” Generation first.  He said that the “X” Generation is the do nothing generation.  He said the X’s didn’t achieve much of anything and didn’t surpass their parents.  It’s kind of hard to surpass my father, when he came from hardly nothing and ended up a mogul!  I rather not say what I’d have to make in order to surpass my father (the gub’mint is watching, you know?), but it’s a damn lot!  It weighs on my shoulders everyday.  I’m the first born.  It’s my responsibility to outdo him.

I reminded some of the students who were snickering in the background that the social media that they cannot live without was invented by generation X.  I reminded the professor that the fancy computer software that he uses was developed gen-x.  We’ve accomplished a lot, but we did it in the background.  Those baby boomers have to have all of the attention. 

When I defended Gen-X, he asked when I was born.  Curled up in a bashful ball, I whispered, “72”.  He finally got back to the material.  Classrooms in todays Universities are so obtuse and rigid.  Some of the Professors allow more discourse between them and the students, but it is getting rare these days.  They tend to want everything written in the style they choose.  By now, I understand that there has to be order, but too much rigidness is a bad thing, at least for me.  I have a rebellious nature that is unending.  This does not set well with Professors that are former Law Officials. 

My father asked me recently when I was going to stop going to school.  He’s surmised that I’ve been going to school since I was five.  I reminded him of the saying that if you’re not learning, you’re dying.  Life is a learning process from the day we are born, ‘til the day we die.  The collegiate life is not an easy one with all of the freaking deadlines and social hiccups, but it is worth it.

All in all, it’s not a bad life.  I go in every weekday morning to discover lass’ glimmering smiles.  I give advice and hold secrets.  This comes in handy when you need a favour.  Everyone thinks I’m a genius because I make good grades, but as I’ve explained to them a dozen times, I just study harder than they do.  Good grades take dedication.

I’ll be back later this week, maybe, to ramble about something.  I leave you with “Young Glass”, by Hey Rosetta!

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A friend asked me the other day why I, a person that understands humanity far better than most, would study criminal law.  This person said that the system is as corrupt as the criminals.  I agreed to a certain extent but then asked a simple question.  “Ever heard the saying, keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?”

The only way to fix the system is from the inside.  I’d be the happiest man alive, if I could spend my time writing prophetically and poetically.  If you could add photography to the context, I’d be as happy as a Banker horse running free amongst the sand dunes of the North Carolina Outer Banks.  Just like those horses that used to roam uninhibited, we too are not entirely free.  Everyone has baggage and everyone has responsibilities that inhibit our desires to roam free.

I have known for quite a while that I must move in this direction.  Too many good people are getting reamed by the system, while the most insidious characters in society manage to slither away unscathed.  The system is broken and must be repaired the right way.  Greed is a large part of why the system is broke.  I want to make sure that the punishment fits the crime.  Part of the reason why so many bad people walk free is because they know the system better than those that enforce it.  My criminalistics professor said today that police cadets only spend 3 hours out of the 12 weeks in school going over forensic science.  The cops know less than the criminals.  That needs to change!

Once I get my bachelors, there’s a minute chance that I’ll go to law school.  I live for the little people.  Who are the first two groups of people to get screwed over when the economy tanks or anytime for that matter?  The disabled and the elderly!  There has always been one constant in my life.  I live to stand up for those that cannot stand up for themselves.  The times that I have stood up for those that either didn’t know how or were too scared to stand up for themselves glisten like lanterns on lifes path.

With more knowledge comes more responsibility,  but more importantly, more ability.  I have been “Disabled” my entire life and at times have felt disenfranchised by the system.  I want to make sure that disabled people have the chance to a full education and a job they deserve with that education.  I had a potential employer tell me recently that the company he was hiring for could not afford to be liable for me.  He said I was too much of a risk, being blind in one eye and having little depth perception.  I had another guy tell me that I should just get a cashiering job like most disabled people.  I told him to go fuck himself and left.  I don’t “Look” disabled but I’m certainly not going to deny that I have disabilities. 

Whether I stay in the criminal realm or move over to civil law is unknown at this stage.  One thing is for certain, I’m too rebellious and different to ever be corrupted.  And, I’m much too honest to ever be a politician.  I live by one motto, Facta Non Verba.  if we all lived by God’s laws, we’d have no need for our own. 

I’m going to attempt to do two or three post a week to help clear my mind of all of the law jargon that I have soak up during the week.  Have a grand weekend all…

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Over the past few months, crime rates have increased all over the civilised world.  I have noticed an increase in people bumming as well.  Most of these people could live a normal life but chose to bum off of those stupid enough to give them a hand out.  My heart goes out to those that have lost their jobs and are subjugated to begging to feed their families.  In the past two weeks alone, I have been approached six times by bums giving me idiotic stories of why I should give them some money.  Some of their stories are so dubious that I end up getting a good laugh out of it.

Today, however, I was approached by a man with the usual story about having a broken down car at a petrol station that he couldn’t seem to find with his aimless pointing.  I started walking away while he was still rambling, and he said, “You Owe Me”.

“I don’t owe you anything”, I stated whilst continuing to approach my vehicle.

He turned to approach another patron of the petrol station, and whispered, “White Motherf*cker”.

Years ago this would have bothered me, but I really don’t care now.  After handing out more money than I could afford to hand out, I learned how to read people fairly well.  If you are wearing newer shoes than me, I’m not giving you a dime.  If you can’t look me in the eye, I’m certainly not going to trust you. 

My mother and father were not given anything.  They started at the bottom and worked their way up.  And, I certainly have not been the benefactor of some “White” conspiracy.  If anything, I’ve been ostracised by society because of my name and because I am disabled.  Yet, I still continue.  You can’t beg your way through life.  The best feeling in life is to work towards a goal and achieve it.  Even if you don’t achieve it, at least you’ll know in your heart that you tried.  

The era of entitlements for people that choose not to work nor illuminate themselves must end.  There are a number of underlying reasons for the youths rioting and looting in London.  While I have never majored in Sociology, I’ve been a student of it for years.  If one grows up on the dole and hears utterances in the house that the government owes them, then it is only natural that they are going to think the same way.  The same omen can be felt throughout the states as well. 

There are people, like the elderly and the disabled that need assistance.  But, the lines have been blurred.  Anyone with a grievance or memories of their father or mother yelling at them can automatically get a check every month.  If humans were awarded for the tragedies they’d suffered in their lives, I’d be a millionaire.  This type of entitlement – political correctness – nonsense has to stop.  We can no longer afford it, and it doesn’t really help anyone, especially the younglings. 

Because my family is from the Southern United States, we’ve been bending over backwards and apologising for years about what our ancestors might or might not have done.  I know about the majority of my ancestors.  Most of them were outstanding citizens that fought for freedom.  One of them was a bank robber that was shot five times in the back and lived to tell about it, but I will not discuss him.  Since learning about the strife my ancestors had to endure, I apologise no more. 

Political correctness is on a down turn.  Anyone with a brain is sick to death of it.  Why should I be apologetic about something that I had no control over?  I am not a xenophobe nor a racist.  I am a man from a diverse European and Native American background.  When I fill out a form and it ask to check off a race, I check off Caucasian.  I’m much too light skinned and freckled to check off the Native American box.  My pockets do not instantly fill with gold coins because I’m white. 

We are what we make of ourselves.  You can blame your family or your government for the situation you may be in, but does that really help you in any way?  We are who we are.  Once we are adults, it is our responsibility to make the most of our lives.  I’ve been beat back by society a myriad of times, yet I keep moving forward.  Be all that you can be!

Let me state that I have always stood up for the little people.  The people that are ostracised by society because of a disability, race, or background.  I have no issue with race, just the entitlement madness.  I am starting a new Degree next week at the local University.  It involves the LAW.  I’m tired of the little man getting screwed.  Who are the first to get screwed when the economy goes down the tubes?  The elderly and the disabled!  I’ll discuss this in greater detail in the next post.  Thanks for reading.

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Today was like any other day.  It started out well enough.  I got up (That’s always a plus.), had some porridge with a cuppa, and watched the nonsense on the news.   I was headed out to the school to sort out some financial falderal when my grandmother called asking me to charge up her vehicle because it wouldn’t start.  I obliged and was delayed a wee bit. 

When I finally got to the University office, the place was swarming with younglings trying to get their classes and financial mess in order.  It’s panic time at the school.  Everyone is trying to sign up at once.  Luckily, I have already signed up for my classes.  Every year, however, my account gets audited and I have to go up there and sit for hours to get it sorted out.  I’ve surmised that they are just picking on me because of my name.  Jefferson Davis is not exactly a popular nor well liked name in the south.  But, it does go along with my rebellious nature.

I waited for what seemed like an eternity with a crowd of other students.  There were about 50 students ahead of me in the queue, so I decided to come back the following day.  As I was exiting the building, I noticed three young guys with their shorts down to their ankles following me.  When I arrived at my wee truck, they crowded around me.  I knew what was coming.  I’ve been jumped before.

“Hey man, our car is broke down up here at the gas station…”, the leader said whilst pointing in about ten directions.

The strange thing is that there isn’t a petrol station for about a mile and I know those jokers didn’t walk a mile.  In addition, that line about having a broken down car has been around for decades.

“Where’s your car?”  I asked with an enormous smile.

“It’s…it’s at the gas station”, he replies with a furrowed brown.

“Which gas station?”  I asked whilst trying to supress laughter.

“Man forget it, white boy ain’t gonna give us any money”, an obese fella in the group said whilst swaying back and forth.

The guilt trip is another common ploy, if the first doesn’t work.  I’m to feel bad because I’m Caucasian.  Mind you, everyone uses the broken down car bit.  If I really had thought that these fellas were in distress, I’d loaned them some money.  I offered to buy a bum supper one night.  He declined and stated that he needed the money.  I asked if it was for booze.  He said yes.  I gave him a fiver for his honesty!

“Look man”, the other yells while getting in my face.

About this time, a big 4×4 pickup truck comes flying up to our position, almost hitting one of them.  Two guys that look like they drove straight from Alabama hopped out of the truck. 

“What the fuck is your problem?”  The man that got in my face demanded, as he and the other two men stepped back.

The gent that had been driving walked over to where I was standing, crossed his burly arms, and asked, “These guys giving you a hard time?”.

“You’ll have to ask them that”, I stated whilst looking at them

“Man, forget you”, one of them said as they walked back across the parking lot and got into a car.  They left in a car that was not broke down!

Mark, the man that saved my neck, stood there with me while they tore off down the road.  I joked that I could have taken one, but not all three of them.  He happened to see the scene unfold from across the parking lot.  He was there signing up for welding classes that they offer in the Engineering department.  His son, the young fella unmentioned ‘til now, is in the same programme as me.  When we parted ways, he said, “We take care of our own”.

I jokingly asked him if he was related to Rosie O’Donnell since they share the same surname.  He laughed, and said, “God, no”.

Later on this afternoon, I was out walking down a four lane highway.  The rain started pelting against my back as the sun kissed my face.  I noticed a guy in an old Camaro coming down the road.  He stuck his arm out of the drivers side window, clasped his hand, and yelled, “Erin go bragh”.

I threw my hand up and yelled it back to him.  He waived and continued down the busy thoroughfare.  It didn’t done on me until then that I was wearing a rugby shirt that has Ireland emblazed across it.  The rain stopped and was replaced by steam arising from the sizzling pavement.  I continued walking for miles thinking about the days events. 

Curious day…

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The other day I was out cruising around in the Beetle.  I turned onto an old country road and discovered an old super Beetle coming towards me.  I slowed and stopped as the other Beetle approached.  My driver side window was already rolled down due to the heat, so I leaned out as the bloke in the super slowed.  “Nice super, what year is it?”  I asked with glee.

The guy stopped, and answered, “Gracias, it’s a ‘76 or ‘77, I think”.

“It’s looks great, hardly any rust.”

“Made in Mexico”, he said as he banged on the side of the drivers side door with an enormous smile.

I smiled and slapped my door, and said, “A ‘66, made in Germany”.

“Made in Mexico, better”, he replied, still with a cheeky smirk.

I laughed, and asked, “Yes, but who invented them?”.

“Mexicans?”

With an enormous laugh, I answered, “Whatever, mate…Buenas noches.”

Sometimes you have to laugh the idiocies away.  The Super Beetle was a sad attempt to keep up with the changing times.  You can hardly give the things away now.  Don’t mess with perfection!  Have a grand weekend all.  I’ll be back Sunday evening.

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I sit down here every night and ponder what to write, or better yet, what can I write without betraying trust.  Fiction is always there, but when life is in the bin, I have trouble writing it.  It’s not that it’s not there, it’s just that I can’t bring myself to write the things I should.  Life effing blows for a lot of us these days.  I try not to write when my own life is in the crapper, but sometimes we have to write what is in our hearts at that particular moment.  The last thing I ever want to do is make someone feel worse than they did before reading a post or story of mine.  That’s why there are occasional gaps in blog posting. 

Hemingway once wrote, “The hardest thing to do is to write straight honest prose on human beings. First you have to know the subject; then you have to know how to write. Both take a lifetime to learn, and anybody is cheating who takes politics as a way out. All the outs are too easy, and the thing itself is too hard to do.”

I always liked Hemingway since reading him in school.  His writing style reminded me of my grandad.  My grandfather was an honest man that spoke straight from the heart.  He was quiet and only scolded me when necessary.  Both of my grandfathers were great men.  I can only hope to be as good a father as either one of them were.  My fathers father raised my dad on his own which was unheard of in the 60’s.  He did it though.  My fathers childhood is a book of its own, but Southerners are not allowed to share family secrets with the public. 

My father is a god among men, or at least the opposite sex thinks so.  He’s everyone’s hero, even mine on occasion.  I’ve spoken at length before about him being a mogul.  He’s also a helicopter pilot, an airplane pilot, and at one time, a drag racer.  He had a VW Beetle as well.  However, his Beetle had a 454 big block Chevy Alcohol motor in the front of it.  His popularity comes from his gift of gab that obviously skipped me.  Everyone loves the man until he gets done using them.  Don’t misunderstand me, he’s not all bad.  We all have our faults.  I jokingly tell people that I had many mothers and fathers growing up.  Growing up in a business environment usually means you don’t spend much time with your Mum or Pop. 

I’m not complaining.  There were grandparents, friends of the family, and employees there to fill the gap.  There was one fella in particular.  He had two boys and joked with people that he had three sons.  The man taught me a great deal about life.  There was also another family that grew up with my pops.  They offered to adopt me on more than one occasion after seeing the shite I had to contend with at home. 

I was always the weird kid, and my dad hated me for it.  My father is a chameleon.  He can talk to one person at a party about art, turn around and talk to the next person about race cars, and discuss philosophy with the next person.   The man is a genius at it.  He should have been a politician.

I never wanted to be the odd kid.  So many kids and young adults today try to break through their normality by being Goth, emo, punk, or a myriad of other social outcast.  I tried hard to be like every other kid, but because of health issues and because of my odd wiring, it never worked.  In school, I was the leader of a group of kids called the Social Rejects.  We were a jumble of nerds, poets, and just odd kids.  I was brazen for a lad of my size.  I called out the bullies for beating on my friends and paid for it.  We got our revenge though.  I know that one of them is living in Belgium.  Another is living in Santa Barbara.  He does something for a porn production company.  He was always a nutter!

Even though I have other income from property and the occasional photo sell, I still need a fulltime job.  I’m embarrassed to say that I am currently unemployed and have been since March.  So, I spend every morning during the week talking to perspective employers and going to job interviews.  I called me pops the other day to say hello and ask if there were any car shows this weekend.  I didn’t call him to ask for money.  I’d have to get down to about 7 stones before I’d do that.  Money is just not discussed with him.  I’d never ask him anyway.  Below you’ll find a rough representation of what was said.

“Hello”, says he.

“what’s happening?”  I ask.

“Workin’, do you have a job yet?”

“I’ve had several promising interviews this week”, says I, proudly.

“I didn’t ask if you had interviews, I asked if you had a job yet”, he exclaims whilst laughing.

“Nope”, I say with a slight smirk overtaking my countenance.

“Boy, you’re about useless.  You can’t have taken from the Davis’.  You must’ve taken from your mothers side”, says he whilst still laughing.

“Yep”, says I, as the smile fades away.

“I’ve got to get back to work”, says he.

“Alright then, have a good one”, says I.

If you hear shite like that enough, you begin to believe it.  I’ve been listening to his wisecracks since I can remember.  But, as I’ve stated numerous times, he’s not all bad.  I’m a big boy now and have to face up to the fact that I am who I am.  The Bible says that we are supposed to honour our Mothers and Fathers, it doesn’t say that we have to understand them!

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If there is one thing that I despise with a passion, it’s pretentiousness.  There are millions of people throughout the world that are without jobs, money, homes, and food.  Yet, some eejits still think it is necessary to be pompous asses.  I learned at an early age that pompousness was not becoming  nor wise in the grand scheme of things.  I vividly remember getting a motorcycle for my birthday one year.  The doctors said it would be good for my balance.  I learned some tricks on it, so I decided to show my friends.

One afternoon after school, we all gathered around and they watched me do donuts and wheelies on it.  While in the midst of doing a donut, a hand came out of nowhere and jerked me off the bike.  It was my dad.  He hurriedly dragged me by my ear away from the crowd of kids.  His blood red countenance was all I had to see to fear for my life.  He sat me down and told me that those boys were poor and they had no motorcycle to show off and that they’d probably not get much for Christmas.  He also stated that I should’ve been more humble and grateful for what I received.  I was not allowed back on the bike for a month.  In that time, it was stolen and I learned first hand what it felt like to have something I treasured to be taken away.

Eventually, we got the cycle back from some kids that had seen me riding on it that day.  Both of my parents came from humble middle class families.  My father used to tell me about getting a basket of fruit for Christmas and being thrilled about it.  I was born into outright poverty.  The first house I lived in as a baby was a two bedroom shack.  My parents went from nothing to being wealthy moguls in a 20 year period.  Sister #1 was born into an upper middle class family.  Our views on the world are totally different.  I’m as humble as an old hound dog most of the time.  She is a conundrum wrapped in a golden riddle.

I was reminded of the cycle story recently when a friend was touting his $400 sunglasses.  He’s a good lad that has a lot to learn as we all do.  He grew up in a family business as I did.

“Don’t be so pretentious”, I exclaimed, as if scolding a child.

“Don’t be so jealous, yuz want me to buy you a pair?”  He laughingly enquired.

“”My $25 sunglasses work grand”, I replied.

“There you go using words we don’t use and twisting yer accent to try and impress people.”

“First of all, “”Grand”” is not a fancy word.  It’s more of a habit like we use “Y’all” in the south.  And, I was not aware I twisted my accent”, I hollered whilst pacing back and forth.

‘Small man, bug words”, he whispered with a smile.

“Perhaps it’s the man spouting such nonsense that is the small one”, I snarled.

“It’s just that you use fancy words a lot.”

“If I occasionally say a word that is “”fancy”” or unknown to you, it is merely to remind myself that they still exist and that I can still speak them”.”

“The only reason I berated you about being pompous was because I don’t want you to be that kind of person.  You are better than that.  We all are.  We both grew up in a family business.  When I was young, I didn’t learn every aspect of the business and one day everything that I depended on was gone.  I never would have guessed that my parents would divorce.  It was like everything was going fine one day and the next it was all gone.  I, like you, grew up with a very competitive father.  They both started on the bottom and went through the stratosphere.  It’s bloody, there I go again, hard to compete with that.  All I’m saying is learn all that you can, because you never know when it could all fall away.  And for the love of God, stop being so damn ostentatious.”

“There you go again with those effing words”, he laughingly responded.

“Effing?  Ha!  You’re picking up some of it, aren’t ya?”

We laughed and had a drink and then another.

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I do my best to only write things that might help others or me in the future on this blog, but sometimes I just have to write something.  Besides, I’m way behind K8 the Gr8. 

In the past week a lot of things have happened, but it is more about the things that have not happed that really bothers me.  I kept my nephew all week.  He’s a good lad, but far more hard headed and distant than I was at 12.  Simple things like asking him not to slam the car door got really old after yelling it for the twelfth time.  I don’t think there is any resistance between his two ears.  I love the boy like he was my own, but the fact is that he’s my nephew.  I should be able to spoil him for a few hours and send him home.

That’s not how things work out though.  I took him to school and picked him up everyday ‘til the school year was over.  When he got in trouble at school, I was the one that had to go and talk to the principal and be stared at like I was some sort of bad parent when in fact, I’m not a damn parent.  His dad keeps him for two and a half days once every two weeks.   He’s going to have to start taking a greater role, but I’m sure he has a damn good excuse as always. 

Thankfully, my grandmother keeps my niece.  She’s a very well behaved baby, which is odd knowing her mother and father like I do.  My neighbours and I watch her whenever we are asked to.  She’s not mobile yet, so she’s pretty easy to keep an eye on.  And, she’s a really good baby.

I am blessed to still have two grandmothers.  I love them both very much.  I do the shopping for one, sometimes both of them, once or twice a week.  One of them had to have surgery Friday on her wrist.  She fell and broke her wrist while taking out the trash.  I didn’t mind staying with her all day in the hospital, but I had all of this other mess going on.  What really irritates me is the fact that she has three kids and 12 grandkids, but I’m always the only one that answers the phone.  One son, not my dad, does help out, but he’s the only other one. 

Grandmother is in her 80’s.  Any buffer she might have had to stop her from saying everything she thinks, left before I started knowing her.  She’s a lovely lady and has always been kind to me.  However, she has a way of mentally wearing down the sanest of people.  She’s not one to be crossed.  That is for certain. 

I sat with her in a waiting area while they were prepping her for surgery.  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glimpse of a nurse that looked identical to my ex.  The ex that I go on about far too often.  Part of me knew it couldn’t be her, but before I could stop myself, I yelled her name and went galloping over to the desk she was standing behind.  My blood pressure must have been through the roof, because I was as red as a boiled lobster and about to hyperventilate.  She asked if I was alright.  I, of course, said I was fine and hobbled back over to where I had been sitting. 

By the time I got home Friday night, I was very close to a mental melt down.  Saturday morning I felt better, so I decided to go for a ride in the beetle and do some hiking up in the mountains.  As soon as I got up there, I received a message that my other grandmother was headed to the hospital with heart palpitations.  So, I had to turn around and head home.  Thankfully, she was fine.  This has happened six or seven times in the past ten years, but they can’t never seem to figure it out.  They give her medicine and send her home.  Needless to say, I was wrecked after all the drama of not knowing if she was alright. 

Today has been a fairly calm Sunday, but who knows what tomorrow will hold.  I think I’m going turn my mobile off and go hiking in the morning.  I’m not a self centred person, but I’m sick and tired of pulling people out of the fire, so to speak.  Ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve tried to be the voice of sanity in an insane world.  I’ve tried to stop fights.  I’ve done my best to get people to do the right things and not the wrong.  I’ve tried to be the voice of reason to those that would listen.  I was the only sober voice to family members drunken idiocies. 

I’m far from perfect and certain not without sin, but I’m sick of mending wounds that I didn’t make.  I’m exhausted.  I have nothing to effing show for it except my own scars and heartache.  I can’t do it anymore.  I can’t.  Christ, I could fill a library with the screwed up tales of just one side of me family.  However, they are like the mafia.  What happens within the family, stays in the family. 

Many apologies for the unorganised gibberish.  Anyone know where I can disappear to for about a month, so they’ll have to deal with their own drama? 

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Yesterday, I went hiking up at Jones Gap State Park, where I volunteered last year.  I decided to hike the most operose trail available, Hospital Rock.  It is estimated to be between 4.5 and 5 miles long.  The terrain starts out on a fairly level grade and steadfastly transforms to a steep and craggy path, if a person would be so kind as to call it a path.  It is more like an ancient path that has been recently discovered. 

Ancient boulders act as markers while pieces of kyanite, smoky quartz, garnet, tourmaline, and pyrite litter the trail.  All it takes is a wee bit of wonderment to spot them glistening in the rays of sun filtering through the trees.  This particular trail has its own history that is mostly made up of old stories that could be as much fiction as they are non-fiction.  The story states that Confederate soldiers hid out under a massive rock that has a large cavern under it.  It is said that these men hid out there to mend their wounds after the Civil War was over.  No one seems to know who was there or for how long.  One thing is for certain after witnessing the rock for myself, many campfires have been lit there over the centuries.  The ceiling, or underside of the rock, is laden with a thick layer of carbon.

There are dozens of trails in the Upstate of South Carolina that have been used for centuries.  People tend to forget about the Native Americans, Cherokee in this area, that have roamed this land since the Bison were here.  They cut out these trails for trade.  Then, the white man (me ancestors) came and used them for the same purpose along with the movement of soldiers from one fort or village to another.  They were used considerably during the Revolutionary War as a tactical advantage to surprise the Red Coats.  They were used yet again during the Civil War for the same purpose.  The element of surprise is a grand one.  During prohibition, they were used to transport moonshine.  They are still being used today, albeit at a lesser extent, to transport illegal narcotics.

The history behind these places is what drives me to keep returning.  Along with the fact that being one with nature is a way of ridding one’s self with the woe’s of this MAD modern society.  It is imperative that we get away from the madness as much as possible to cleanse our minds and souls.  That is exactly what I was doing yesterday, when I heard a light rustling of leaves below me.

I stopped in my tracks and listened closely.  I heard the snapping of twigs down in the ravine between two ridges.  I looked down and discovered something black crawling through the woodlands.  I couldn’t make a figure out through the vibrantly green foliage, but I knew what it was just by its heavy breathing.  Black Bears are out in large numbers this year due to their native habitat being destroyed by man, so that man can have a plusher house overlooking the valley. 

I lightly walked up the trail, being careful not to make a sound as I passed him or her.  It is better to leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone.  Unless, however, you happen to be carrying food and they are hungry.  They are inquisitive and powerful creatures that I respect.  That is the problem with mankind.  We have lost respect for that which could tell us the most about ourselves.

About a half mile past the bear, I heard a light buzzing on the trail.  I was breathing heavily due to the 3,000ft ascent I was climbing.   The buzzing got louder and as I was about to turn around, I caught the glimpse of a dozen or so dirt daubers coming straight towards me.  I had dealt with these beast of the sky before, so I decided to use the same tactic that worked well in the last scenario – run!

The 35lbs. of gear that had been weighing on my shoulders suddenly became light as a feather, as I ran through the forest.  I looked back to see if they were still following me and managed to tumble over some rocks, banging my shin up in the process.  I ended up not making it to the Rock.  I was exhausted and didn’t want to fight the dirt daubers again.  They really don’t like something about me.  I get chased by them every year up there!

I passed by where I discovered the black bear but didn’t see him or her anywhere.  He or she was close to the river, so it may have been on its way down to do some fishing or bathing.  After all of the excitement, I headed home and passed out.  Another day in the life of Jefferson Davis. 

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A few days ago I entered a pact with K8 the Gr8.  If one of us blogs, the other has to.  It has worked out great and finally got me off my arse and got my fingers on the keyboard where they belong.  I’m writing whatever comes to mind, ‘til I can sort out some short fiction that I’m working on.

This evening, I decided to go down to city centre to peruse the park and surroundings and hopefully get some pictures.  I got more than I bargained for, but I like surprises.  I was making my way through the exhaust fumes of the traffic, when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a redhead that that I know standing on the corner when I was about to turn.

I rolled down the window, leaned out, and said, “Hey Red, come here”.

She looked over while jabbering something inaudible on her mobile.  She came running over with those beaming green eyes and her infamous strawberry golden ringlets flailing in the summer zephyr.

“What are you doing down here?”  I asked whilst observing the man in a BMW convertible, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m down here to meet some girlfriends for dinner”, she said whilst leaning into the truck.

“Can I come along?”  I asked while watching her look at herself in the side mirror.

The light is about to turn green by this point.

“No”, she exclaims.

“Get your cute butt in here and you can hang out with me ‘til they get here.”

She hopped in the other side and I looked over at the guy in the BMW.  He shook his head, and yelled, “Man, I ain’t never seen a white boy pick up a chick like that.  You sure you’re not part brother?”

“Hey, I’m everyone’s brother”, I said, as I laughingly pulled away.

She hung out with me while I took pictures and told me about every minute of everyday I had missed.  She talks 24/7! 

The girls showed up and they went off to play.  I love her to bits, but my patience for her antics is finite these days.  Actually, she and Scarlet from a previous post are a lot alike.  That’s what scares me!  What can I say, I have a genetic predisposition for redheads. 

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