If you are ever traveling on route 9 east through the New Hampshire border town of Chesterfield, and you’re not stuck behind some slow poke (me), watch your speed.  The limit changes from 35 to 45 then to 55 and back again to 35 just about every quarter mile or so. The local police have a ball targeting vehicles with out of state tags.

Whenever I’m traveling in the area, the way I fight back is by consistently traveling 5 miles an hour UNDER the speed limit. They can’t give me a speeding ticket. AND they can’t give anyone traveling behind me a ticket either.

On a similar note:

“If you’re not outraged, you’re just not paying attention.”

I’m not sure if it’s outrage fatigue, (heaven knows the Fox folks have been in a fever ever since a black man went in the Whitehouse through the front door) or if it’s the constant main stream brain washing:

~It can only get worse.

~Poor people who don’t work hard enough get what they deserve.

~Formerly middle class people who become poor, didn’t work hard enough.

~Government can’t afford to help people.

~Sacrifices need to be made, but not by rich people & corporations.

~Compromise = electoral victory.

~Sanctimonious purists are fucking retards. Ignore them.

~Equal protection under the Law, is more like a suggestion.

But it seems to me, along side of the deepening cynicism, acceptance of hypocrisy, and the general feeling of helplessness, that people are getting a bit more cranky.

hmm. Imagine that…

Oh yeah, snakes on the mother fucking plane.

One of the reasons I enjoy The Stars Hollow Gazette & Docudharma is because I like their take on current events.  I’m always finding something new that I hadn’t seen or heard before.  I’m always finding something to forward to friends and talk with people about. But there are days I just can’t deal with.  The news, the state of the country, the hypocrisy of our elected leaders, it’s all just too much.  Those days when the only new news is the same old bad news.

I suspect it’s the same for folks like ek & TheMomCat. On some of those days I’ll find an article like this here, a funny story about life in Connecticut, and I’ll laugh and escape for a bit.  For me anyway, a story like that IS a community service.

So that inspired me. And as long as ek is going all James Thurber Garrison Keillor, well… I thought I’d add some.

This is the story of the first time my brother saved my life. The first time I can remember anyway. There were probably other saves but I’m not very good with that time period between the venetian blinds that I remember clearly from the hospital room where I was born, and when I was about age three.  If I had to guess, in this story I was somewhere between three-and-a-half and five.

I was mad. Really really mad. I remember just being incredibly angry. I don’t actually remember what had upset me but whatever it was, I was full on furious. I was mad a lot when I was little. Probably because it sucks being little.

I had made up my mind. I was running away from home. I told my family that I was going to live with the wolves in the woods down the street. The wooded area near my home was a river valley about five miles long and a mile wide complete with an abandoned railroad bed and six lane expressway being constructed on the opposite side of the river. Even with my small size, I could pull down small trees off the steep hill sides.  I would make a place to live out of small timber. I didn’t need anybody!  

I wasn’t allowed to play in the valley which was what made it such an exciting place.  It was dangerous. Back in the 70s folks around town regularly used it as a dumping ground for yard & construction debris, old refrigerators, doors still on, burnt out cars and such. Plus there were dangerous looking motorcyclists constantly racing their Harley’s back and forth on the railroad bed and out on the half finished highway.  I would jump off the cinder trail and hide behind trees whenever a motorcycle approached. I never felt threatened by them. I was fascinated by how they managed to keep their long hair from getting tangled in their back wheels. I reasoned their long hair was why they had to ride so fast. If they where to slow down and go off road to chase me, it would get snagged in the gears and they’d surely get their heads ripped off. Besides, I could run fast. Really fast when I was going down hill.

That’s what I was doing. Running as fast as my small legs would go. Down hill, away from home to live in the woods with the wolves.

I felt like I was flying. My feet were going so fast I was barely touching the ground.

And that’s when I heard him. Behind me. Cah Clomp. Cah Clomp. Cah Clomp.

I must have made twenty strides for every one of his but he was still gaining on me. He wore those 70s style brown half boots with the zippers on the side and I was wearing lace up sneakers. I should have been faster than him. Like I said my feet were flying on air I was going so fast.

Halfway down the block, only half way to the woods, my brother grabbed me by the back of my shirt and caught me. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe I had been stopped. I don’t remember if I took a swing at him. It wouldn’t have mattered. He could stick out his long arms and keep me from making contact anyway. I’d just be swinging and missing.

I don’t remember what happened next. I was probably kicking and screaming the whole way home. I just remember being amazed that I wasn’t able to out run him in those odd looking half boots. And I remember being mad about it.

Twenty years later I’d joke that I still hadn’t forgiven him for catching me.

Had I been successful, I surely would have died. Honestly, I had no plan beyond pulling down some trees and making a fort. He saved my life.  

Later in life he would teach me to float on my back when I got tired swimming. He gave me tips on how to kiss a girl and how to smoke without coughing like an amateur. He taught me that when hurt, responding with indifference was way more powerful than responding with anger. He helped me write dozens of papers so I could graduate from high school. He helped me write multiple dozens of papers so I could graduate from college. He was my best man when I married. He was my best friend after my divorce. He has saved my ass and helped me out of more tight spots more times than I could possibly list. There have been times where he has saved me from myself.

Keeping me from living with the wolves was just the first time.

Figured I’d hop onto the cliche bandwagon with this clip. I expect it will be well worn segue music on the cable channels soon if not already.

I was never a Van Halen fan but I remember this tune well. Embarrassing as it is to admit, it was very popular back when I was in high school.

My money is on a grand betrayal before January 1st anyway.

Van Halen, Jump, 1984

Songwriters: DUPRI, JERMAINE/WEBSTER, GREGORY ALLEN/PIERCE, MARVIN R

Vocals: David Lee Roth

Guitar: Eddie Van Halen

Bass: Michael Anthony

Drums: Alex Van Halen

(Words by Van Halen)

To spare your ears I’ve posted the lyrics below-

Which is the evilest thing of all

They Might Be Giants, Dr. Evil

Songwriters: FLANSBURGH, JOHN / LINNELL, JOHN

ek hornbeck, You are…an incorrigible troublemaker.

You are…a registered incorrigible troublemaker.

You have always been…a registered incorrigible troublemaker.

It’s pretty obvious who wins this battle.

The moral to the story is: Don’t piss off a Snow Plow Truck Driver.  So feel free to skip the rest of this post.  What follows is all of the useless details that make the story extra funny to me and perhaps my family.

The story starts three days ago at about six o’clock in the evening.  Our land line rang and the caller ID said it was city hall.  Because none of us owe city hall any money, we figured it was safe to answer.  It was a robocall from our newly elected small town mayor.  We call him Mayor NoNeck Jr. due to the physical deformities caused by his steroid use while he was in high school.  (We feel Mayor NoNeck Jr. is a kinder nickname than the one for his other steroid induced deformity.) It’s kind of tough to blame the poor kid for juicing.  His father, a known juicer himself, has been the high school football coach for the last twenty some years.

As part of the new reverse 911 system the young Mayor NoNeck was calling to inform us that he had declared a snow emergency and that there was a parking ban.  No parking on the streets of our tiny town for the next 48 hours.

We were expecting three to six inches of snow overnight followed by rain, followed by sleet, followed by freezing rain in the morning, followed by another three to six inches of snow overnight followed by rain, followed by sleet, followed by freezing rain the next morning.

What we found the first morning was only three inches of snow with a crusty top about a half inch thick.  It was raining but I figured it was better to lift three inches of slush twice than to try to lift six inches of icy slush once.  I should mention we do have one of those new modern snow blowers; however we’ve found that if the snow is actually heavy enough that you’d want to use it, that’s when it’s too heavy for the machine.  

I started shoveling the driveway where it meets the road.  Our home is on the side of a hill and the steep part of the driveway is towards the street.  I thought I’d get a head start by doing a quick first pass on the hard part before the apron was plowed in.  No plows had hit our road… yet.