How I’ll make my next million in an hour a day

 

Daylight savings time has started again, in a small percentage of the world. The rest it, and Wrigley field (They’ll never see daylight there), is probably suffering from a shortage of the stuff.

 

Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’ve been saving daylight for most of my life (It doesn’t draw much interest) except for the years I spent in Arizona and Hawaii. I can’t remember if I did it while I was in the navy or not. Those were a drunken blur of chasing women, hoping I didn’t catch anything. I didn’t keep good records either.

 

Anyway, I’ve got an epiphany now and it’s going to make me rich. Look out Fortune-500. I’m going to package and market all of that stockpiled daylight that has just been sitting around in previously dark corners.  The beauty of it is that I can only do it an hour a day, with a mandatory long winter vacation every year. I suppose it doesn’t matter which hour I work, but I’m going to hedge my bet by using the first and last half hours of the day, with a long lunch break and maybe a nap or two between. Those things have helped me move rapidly from job to job over the years.

 

I started looking for a little financial backing without a lot of success. Some of the guys I approached laughed at me. A couple of them suggested I stick my idea where the sun don’t shine … well, Duh ! I guess I’ll just start out by my garage door, filling used pill bottles by hand. I’ve got a lot of those saved up for this kind of occasion that I always knew would come along someday and I have several hypochondriac friends.

 

Eventually I will plow the profits from that into building a bottling plant and, later, perhaps a pipeline to darkest Africa. I can see the day when every town will have drive-through daylight/coffee huts for the early riser on the way to work. A string of vending machines sounds promising too, or perhaps I will set up franchises and let other people do the work while I get a cut.

 

The most likely test markets are going to be in Beijing and either Nome or Little America (whichever is having winter). There are shortages of good pure daylight in those places. I suspect college campuses and political gatherings will be good markets too. They’ll generally buy stuff nobody else would.

 

My biggest competition will be the artificial light industry. I should be able to get over that hurdle by pointing out that such things as light bulbs, especially the curly ones, and key ring flashlights can’t be as good as the real thing. With just those, they’ll never see me coming until it is too late.

 

Having said all of that, I’m going to ask that you don’t tell any of your friends about this. I realize there are people who read this and are now turned on to the idea, no pun intended. On the other hand, the couple dozen or so of those that exist obviously don’t use their time well and are not likely to jump on this, or any other productive idea. Meanwhile I am going to nap for a bit and develop this idea.

‘Tis the Season

    Christmas ain’t what it used to be but maybe never was. I’m settling into the Maine version which promises to be, more often than not, white. My native Oregon, at least in the Willamette valley, is a place to dream of a white Christmas. Every forty or so years the dream comes true. Kids there start writing to Santa when the fall rains begin. Forget the ten years I spent in Arizona, a dream of a snowflake anytime is more likely to be fulfilled.

    Here, Over the Hill and through the Woods to Grandmother’s House is a nice thought. So many times in the past, in other places, it was like booking a room in the Bates Motel, after seeing the movie. Grandmother equaled Mother in Law. I got her a nice present the first year; a brand new cauldron. Things went downhill despite my effort. My new mother-in-law-to-be is in heaven with the rest of the angels. She left a daughter cast from her mold.

   And that twelve days of Christmas stuff  …. NIGHTMARE. You’ll spend more than more than you’ll redeem from the 60 golden rings for enlarging the house to accommodate and feed the rest of the gifts. The key word is ‘golden’ instead of ‘gold’. The cheap plated things you’ll get from the idiot playing out the song will probably be tin filled. If you want to find out where they come from, just check out your list of living ex-Mother’s-in-Law. No wonder boxing day comes the day after Christmas.

   Santa Claus can be another disappointment, ranging from the unshaven drunk who crawled out of the gutter to take advantage of his hygienic habits to  … well, me. It’s the one time of the year you might rather sit on my lap than his. That move is still not recommended by the good judgment fairy.

   When I look in the mirror I see Santa. There is never a winter day when I am unstrapped and allowed out in public that I don’t find myself identified as Jolly old St Nick. There is nothing that feels quite as rewarding as seeing a little jaw drop, followed by a questioning look aimed at Mom or Dad. It’s not like the rest of the year when the see my candy van and have that reaction. I generally crouch down to their level and admit that I am not Santa, but am his brother, Fred. I tell them I see him from time to time and will pass on a message to him if they want me to.

   After seeing the movie, I am going to have to find a name other than Fred.

   I get the same look from adults, hear similar comments. I ignore them. They are addled idiots.

   I do wish more people would follow the ‘Tis the Season to be Jolly’ hint though. It seems a bit removed from what I suspect the Christmas spirit to be when women draw weapons to determine who gets the best spot to see the tree lighting ceremony. Of course that happened in the same city where they boo Santa Claus, not Maine.

   Christmas decoration replacing Halloween candy on store shelves stretches out the parking problem season a bit longer than I like. While Black Friday may have been named with reference to the stores’ balance sheets, the color takes on more significant meaning as December 25^th looms closer. This is a blog, rather than a police ledger, so I won’t get real specific about that. Suffice it to say we need a few more genuine holiday smiles than the more threatening ones I see so often, usually from people acquainted with me. I used to like to watch professional wrestling matches. I think Christmas has ruined that for me.

   At last though, I am in Maine where, perhaps, Santa Claus really lives. The North Pole is a subterfuge designed to keep the elves caged and working, the paparazzi occupied. People don’t come up here by accident. It’s not on the way to anywhere except Canada, and who wants to go there? The Christmases are usually white, the people are a little more laid back, and the relatives don’t wear gang colors. That, and I am now with the future Mrs. Claus.

Once per decade is ENOUGH !!!

 

            We do things over and over that we don’t seem to learn from. I fell for the logic that a colonoscopy every ten years or so is a good idea. At my age my memory is short. There, now that most of the sensible readers are gone we can get back to talking about sex, or we could if I did that more than once a decade. Maybe I’ll just continue exploring the original subject since you aren’t too squeamish or don’t have to eat a meal right away.

            First of all, I can’t figure out how there is anybody to go to to get one of those done. The procedure was invented during the inquisition, I think, and it should have gone the way of the rack and the iron mask. Were these the bottom doctors of their med school classes? I’ve experienced a lot of things in life I have figured I could do better than the average person does. My first memorable auto accident convinced me a car could be returned to is former condition in less than ten days or so with my leadership in a body shop. If I was a general contractor workmanship on new houses would be better and shortcuts and cheap materials wouldn’t cause my customers anguish. Why does, Baskin and Robbins only have 31 flavors, most of them questionable choices, when I know how to make over 150 of them?

            At no time yesterday did I consider filling out an application for a job in the colonoscopy industry. If they have lunch hours, how can they enjoy them? I’d need a lot more vacation time than they probably offer, about 50 weeks more per year of it. There’s not enough brain bleach in the market to allow me to sleep at night after a day in those mines. The one consolation, I will admit, is that the video can’t be any worse than reality TV.

            The preparation for one isn’t as bad as it used to be. Then, it helped that I had been in the Navy and expanded my vocabulary a bit. I had to drink a gallon bottle of something that tasted like it was left over from someone’s previous colonoscopy.  That was after downing a liquid enema that didn’t taste any better. I spent the day learning that toilet paper is indeed a wood product, and much less entertaining than the sears catalog. Whoever thought up the regime should have been shot, and probably was.

            This time I just had to down two bottles of something almost as bad as that Maine specialty, Moxie. If you haven’t experienced that, just volunteer to prep for a colonoscopy.  You’ll be much more satisfied, for a while. Instructions said to drink 16oz of clear liquid after downing the Lemon Delight or whatever they call it. Yukon Jack worked fine.  The ‘for a while’ part didn’t. I went through six pair of shorts before I understood what magnesium can do for you. Let’s just say it is not a mineral I am ever going to prospect for.  

            Surviving that experience, I was ready to face day two. I hadn’t sobered up enough to change my mind. I’d not recommend driving more than ten miles to the clinic unless you have at least one backup pair of underwear. When you get there you’ll probably have to go through a gate, as the place will most likely be surrounded by a tall electric fence topped with razor wire. They will be designed to keep people IN the compound, in case they sober up. Right next door to the place I went, the EPA had an office. I guess they figured locating there would be a cost saving measure.

            The gown they gave me was a cute backless thing, but light blue isn’t really my color and they wouldn’t let me keep it anyway. Once they got me into that thing I guess they figured I’d be too embarrassed to run away (They don’t know me very well). The nurse seized the opportunity to stick a needle in my arm. I noticed the tubing attached to it didn’t lead to another bottle of Yukon Jack. The bag it was attached to didn’t do much for me but after they lashed me down and wheeled my bed into another room they added something else to it. Then they told me to count backward from nine to seven. It might have been concentrated Yukon Jack and I’ll have to check the stores to see if I can find some. Like most Saturday nights, I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I think I was violated though.

            What they call recovery was not bad. There was no hangover and it was the first time in years I’d been able to fart for longer than it takes to count backward from nine to seven, and not pass out. I’m almost looking forward to my next visit for one of these anal lobotomies or something because.

 

Hidden Treasure

Having turned sixty-five I am now allowed to do things I’ve never done before, things that were denied me by such forces as the good judgment of youth. We all know how good that really is once we hit the golden age zone.  I intend to take advantage of the opportunity. Why wouldn’t I?

I’ve got a doozy, enough to make my daughters shake their heads and say “Daaaad …”, for my first go around. I’m sure my girlfriend will be supportive. Maybe I should by her some things to go out onto the beach with me, but she’ll probably say she already has everything she needs.

I’m going to head for Goodwill to find a few things I’ll need, besides a petite red dress  (I lost my last one during a street chase) and a large bra, the largest I can find (a guy can dream, can’t he), I’m going to get an aloha shirt and a pair of baggy short pants that fall, hopefully not literally, to the knee from mid stomach. Either mint green or a pale blue pin stripe will do. Accessories will be pale yellow or red mid-calf socks and a wide brown leather belt, nothing too fancy. Reluctantly I’ll don a pair of sandals. I’ve never liked or worn sandals. (back to the street chase thing again). I’ll top it all off with some sort of natural colored straw hat with a wide brim and a pair of sun glasses.

That is the necessary uniform when I head for the beach with my new metal detector and start hunting treasure. Where else would the pirates have buried it? I intend to make my next million quickly. It’ll be a couple of months before I can find my way back into the United States (not the street chase thing this time) and get to Maine. It’s safe to tell you all about it because most of you have never heard of Maine. Those who don’t live in New Hampshire (whose residents can’t read) have no idea where it is. “Isn’t that by Rhode Island?” The couple dozen who can pass both tests were undoubtedly drunk when they stumbled onto it and probably still are. Drunks who get that badly lost are seldom able to take even that first AA step.

I laugh at those who settle for finding car keys in the sand. The few times the car and the owner are not gone are probably good for about ten bucks a pop. It takes a long time to make a million that way. Even those who find the occasional diamond ring or Rolex or Rolls Royce buried in the sand (I’ve never had much luck fencing expensive cars) usually only do so once or twice or so in their lives. They are, unlike me, hopeless dreamers.

Unknowingly, I have practiced for this hobby for many years. I have gone treasure hunting every time I’ve gotten onto an airplane. That little pouch that has gotten closer and closer to your knees over the years often hides something special, and I almost always go digging. Some of the best things have gotten past weak stomached airplane cleaning crews, but that’s another blog.

During the time I am waiting to sneak back to Maine, I’m going to visit the library and find some books about buried treasure, maybe “Treasure Island”. I guess I’ll have to learn French too, since they can’t seem to get their hands on many books written in English here in Quebec. I may have to resort to Amazon, or Abebooks or maybe e-bay and build my own library of how-to and what-was-lost books. About all I’ll need after that are some antique maps that shouldn’t run over a couple of grand or so. That’ll barely dent my next million. I’ll just have to skip a few meals or switch to something cheaper than Alpo until I get it.

Oh yeah, I’ll need a shovel, and maybe a flintlock pistol too. Since I don’t know what the state laws are regarding sharing treasure with the tax collectors and municipal authorities, I’ll do my detecting in the daylight and dig at night. Probably better pick up a flashlight or lantern too. Which is cheaper, lamp oil or batteries? When I get a good reading, I’ll look as nonchalant as anyone about to dig up a million dollars or so can. If someone is looking over my shoulder, I’ll pretend it’s nothing important, maybe just a Rolls Royce or a pull tab from an old soda can, so they won’t catch on and dig up the treasure as soon as I turn my back.

When you hear a giant sucking sound, followed by an insane laugh, on some mid-July night this summer, you’ll know I’ve lifted my first shovel full of wet sand out of the surf and am on my way to becoming maybe the richest AARP or MENSA* member ever.

 

 

*Men seeking action, I think (So far, they say I haven’t passed ‘the test’ to join, whatever that is. Maybe this endeavor will do the trick.)

Google Brian Quigley

Google Brian Quigley.

   I went into a jewelry store on Black Friday. That whole sentence is ludicrous.

  I rarely shop after Thanksgiving (or before it), NEVER brave the elements the day following it, and have no holes in my body screaming for a new diamond. With a medical alert bracelet on one wrist and a cheap watch on the other, I don’t participate in robbery from either side of the counter in jewelry stores. The most expensive piece of decoration I’ve ever worn doesn’t get to five figures, even with the decimal point.

  This year, I broke all of the rules and followed the love of my life into one of them. A half an hour later I walked out without having spent a dime, despite the efforts of the soft sell ex-used car salesmen. My distrust of anyone who wears a suit or really nice dress anywhere except at weddings and funerals continues unabated.

  I did, however, have my first ‘I’m thankful for …’ item for next year’s holiday table. Off to the side, clearly away from the jewels protected by glass, was the most valuable treasure in the store. He was dressed in clothing that might be passed over on a Black Friday in a Goodwill store. Those and the apron he wore over them were ready for the wash. So were his hands. All were tinted with the gray of a jewelry maker.

 I imagine most large jewelry stores have one of these people. Many are probably better hidden than this one was. They are probably seldom noticed and even more rarely approached. He attracted me like a lug nut to magnet. Then again, I gather round kitchen knife and bird whistle salesmen. The experience always proves more valuable than the merchandise.

 The things he made were nothing I’d wear, even in drag. Nor would my lady. They were good enough to place highly in competitions though. Brian Quigley showed me the award that had just arrived by mail that day. He said there were over 3,000 competitors, thirty of whom were invited to the award ceremony where twelve winners received their hardware. He got a second in silver jewelry design. He’s won other awards as well.

 All started in response to my usual ‘where the hell did that come from?’ type of question. This time I wanted to know if there was a lapidary supply shop in town. The suits and dresses knew that their store sent their stones out to be cut somewhere but had no useful info other than a suggestion that I check the internet. I never thought of that.

 Brian knew there wasn’t one and also didn’t mind if I watched him work for a few minutes. I’ve never been silent that long. One thing led to another, and another, and another. I know a lot more about a guy who struggled through high school but has a son who splits atoms. I was reminded about how things of quality are made too.

  Showing me the necklace that won his latest award, he explained how the heavy piece of steampunk jewelry (Google that … no .. really .. Google it) started with the pieces on the ends that connect at the back of the neck. He showed me how each link, about an inch long, followed the contours of the human body in a matter that prevented the centerpiece from ‘popping a wheelie’ on the wearer’s chest. The explanation wasn’t long but it reminded me just how much attention to detail went into making something that worked right.

 Given the right weather, I’ll take the same care in making a bottle of maple syrup for him next year when the sap flows. Given the reminder, I’ll apply it to my books as I write. If those do as well as his jewelry I’ll buy a piece of his work, even though I may never wear it. Right now, to get the rest of the picture, I’m going to Google ‘Brian Quigley’.

 

I'm Goin' Abroad

I'm Goin’ abroad …

For those who may have read some of my earlier blogs, this is not about womens. The squeamish may continue reading. And, to really come clean from the start, I admit to a lie almost as big as the one I’m dealing with here. I ain’t goin’ abroad.

I ran into a discussion that began with the question of whether ‘you’, which I took to mean me, agreed with a Harvard study which concluded that people who travel abroad are more creative, better managers, have better luck starting businesses etc. Not wishing to travel even as far as Boston, I didn’t chase after the study and read it. I’d much rather shoot from the hip at a blurry target with a large load, hoping I might graze part of it and chase it away.

In the interest of saving time for those who are only hanging in here long enough to find out what my answers is before they do something constructive; NO, I don’t agree. There. The rest of you might consider getting a real life. Until you do that, you might want to examine the quality of my load.

My first inclination, and all of those I’ve had since, is to presume this is a poorly constructed study of an atypical population. I rawthah (Harvard thing, you know) presume this is a study designed to make the children think there was a reason to go abroad other than to chase (or be chased by) feriners and probably drink un-American beer. Most of the young have not learned to appreciate the finer rotguts yet, nor has the novelty of unshaven legs and armpits, on womens, worn off.

Having seen through the base purpose of this thing, it’s my pleasure to desiccate the finding, whether real or made up. If I’m wrong, a remote possibility, then the project is worthwhile, we should use government money to send everybody abroad, and we wind up with the greatest country in the world. It might work out even better if properly selected individuals were sent abroad with one-way tickets.

As to the creative thing, of course people who travel the world are more creative. Dummies wouldn’t think of going abroad, or even to St Louis. Those who are smart enough not to need to be creative are staying home too. They’ve pretty much got everything they want right here. The most creative ones of all are the parents who have figured out how to get the kids out of town so they can finally have a peaceful summer.

I’ve traveled abroad quite a bit and there are few who describe me as more creative (of anything good) than before I went, or maybe any kind of creative at all. Yeah, that’s the smart ones again. Point proven without grant money.

As for being better at starting a successful business, let’s face it; it’s not about foreign travel. Those who can afford plane tickets to someplace there is really no good reason to go, also have a little bit more startup money. The pauper ain’t getting on that plane and he ain’t developing the credit line to go spurs a flying into anything much bigger and a lemonade stand or a franchise for Lucy’s 5 cent advice.

I’ll grant that the rare observant traveler might realize that, when he goes home, he can pack slugs in snail shells and sell them to France. Or it might be obvious that he can pack anything, even ball bearings and hamsters, in beer and sell them to Germany. On the other hand it would be clear that anything tasteful, or flavourful, isn’t going to go over real big in England, unless you boil it, including ball bearings and hamsters, for several days.

The last conclusion that I bother to remember is that the time spent in Paris or Bolivia isn't going to create a better manager. Unless were talking soccer coach here, or maybe in the latter case, bribery, this is mainly wishful thinking or bait from a travel agency. Since this is a proper discussion about something from an Ivy League institution, I’ll relent and call it sushi from a travel agency.

Those of us who have any concept of the annual review system know better. That is where a group of peers or bosses get together and decide who the best managers are. You will rarely see a token representative of the managed asked for input. Jealousy and politics play a much bigger role than performance. Because those who have money will more often have the college degree which definitively predicts how successful a manager is, they are most like to rise, like cream, to the top. Those are the same fools who went to Europe or Bangladesh. By the way, when selecting that school, it’s best to remember that Harvard trumps a satellite campus of Southern Appalachia State Community College around the old review session.

Most of what you have just worked your way through is most of what showed up, wanted or unwanted, in my response in the discussion. I’m not sure how it went over since I was either the first or the only participant. Either that or nobody had anything better to add. I may get drunk enough someday to go back and check.

   Two boys, who had just read some of my writing for the first time, were impressed enough to want to ask me questions about it. That’s a pretty good indication of how young they were.

   One of them remarked on my use of metaphors. His eager face did not match his friend’s which had the same confused look as mine did. I was already starting to like the second kid more than the first. He added to the favor by saving me embarrassment by asking “what’s a metaphor?”

   Even though I had no idea what he was talking about I lied like a Mafia lawyer. I re-engineered the conversation by explaining that metaphors were like skunks. They are pretty, but to make anything useful from them is not worth the effort.

  Unimpressed, the first kid charged on asking “Didn’t your English teacher ever tell you about them?”

  Rescuing my new friend, to whom I hoped the question was directed, I allowed as maybe mine probably could have and might have even tried to when I wasn’t paying close enough attention to block the attempt. Anyhow, it didn’t matter. My know-it all English teacher had never written a book. I had a couple under my belt and will likely have a couple more as soon as I can sneak them past the attendants.

   Boy #1 shook his head in disgust, probably at the newly appreciated fact that English class wasn’t all it was pumped up to be. I hated to see him so disappointed so I told him the only thing a writer really had to know was how to tell a good story and what a decent sentence sounded like.

   Boy #2 was smiling again. He figured he had ignored enough English teachers to be well on his way to a good career in writing. I fueled his hope when I told him that things like metaphors and adjectives were just there because they fit. It would be up to the legions of unpublished English teachers in the future to explain anything more detailed than that.

   That’s the way it is with books and teachers, and even some writers. Unable to produce anything original they make careers out of dreaming up stuff the author never even thought about.  They make authors seem smarter and deeper than God made them by being dumber than God hoped teachers were. We, of course, know better, in both cases.

    There are more books about how and why Shakespeare wrote his plays than the old Bard ever wrote in producing his collection of works. Mainly he just stole a lot of common old stories and changed them just enough to fit the times and get a few laughs or tears. Don’t tell that to the experts who have explained all of the inner meanings of them.

   I can comfortably continue pecking away knowing that, maybe someday, my books will be accredited to a brilliant wordsmith who could say ‘this’ by saying ‘that’. The less effort and thought I put in the better I’ll do. Can you imagine how many theories I can kill if I write “The toast was burnt until it was completely black.” Instead of “the hunk of charcoal on my plate was inedible.”? I’m going with the charcoal, and will continue with every vague or broad sentence I can conjure.

   Like it or not, considerably better than ninety percent of what is written, anywhere by anybody, is going to be totally forgotten in a couple hundred years. There just aren’t that many Bibles or “Iliad’s” being written any more. How long do you suppose people will continue to struggle through ‘War and Peace’ or anything Dickens ever wrote?

   The best I can hope for is to, for a short time, catch the interest of some teacher who has run out of real homework and decides to burden her students with the task of explain what Porter Starr Byrd was really saying when he wrote his greatest book. I’ll be interested in finding out myself.

   Boy #2 won’t care and, by not, will be a couple hundred years ahead of his time. Boy #1, with his attitude, won’t matter.