Takes One to Know One

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Thanksgiving, and leading up to it

Every year I spend Thanksgiving away from home. This isn't completely by choice, although it ultimately comes down to just that. You see, trucking is one of those non-stop businesses. While most companies can shut down for the day, or even for the four-day weekend, freight still has to move; because, when Monday comes around, all those people who were off work for the holiday need something to do.

There is an unspoken rule at my company: pick one. It's either Thanksgiving off or Christmas off. We have a choice. Now, you can try taking both off, but it usually means that you get home late for Christmas. I like to safe-side it and leave out mid-October. Then I stay out until Christmas comes around and I have all the leverage in the world to tell my dispatchers that I want to go home for Christmas. They can't really deny me when I've been such a hard worker for the past, what, ten weeks straight? It kinda sucks, but it's usually worth it.

Most of the time I can guarantee that, on Christmas day or the day after, I get the flu. It comes with a combination of being too stubborn to pay twenty bucks to get a flu shot and the fact that, being alone in my truck for weeks at a time, I'm like an Indian with an armful of Anthrax blankets and a few yellow fever handshakes. I just lose my tolerance for sicknesses.

This year, though, I caught a lucky (sic) break. I got the flu yesterday. It means that I won't have to worry about being sick while I'm home, but, regardless of where you are, having the flu sucks.

I felt it coming on around noon or so, when I went inside for an emergency bathroom break and evacuated sickly-smelling water. Uh oh, that smells like flu shit.

About two hours later, I was at a truck stop in full flu mode. Chills, body aches, nausea and, of course, more diarrhea. My first intuition (which I always tell my wife to go with) was to call my company and get approval to stay in a hotel. I didn't, though. It just seemed like too much work at that point. So I evacuated one more time, bought a couple bottles of 7UP and bundled up under my covers to sleep it off. If I can offer one bit of advice concerning the flu: sleep it off.

I awoke a bit later (I'm not sure how long it was), after dreaming that I had farted. Now, this is not a good situation to be in when one has the flu. So I did a quick check - one finger to the back of the pants, which I call "checking the muzzle heat" - and discovered that I had just shit my pants. So I did the only thing a person can do in this situation. I stood up, dropped my pants and shorts and used paper towels to wipe off my shame. I grabbed a new pair of drawers and a pair of sweat shorts, bagged up my paper towels and soiled clothing, and went back to sleep.

I woke up again after about four total hours of being in bed and ventured inside the truck stop. I went to the bathroom to prevent having to change clothes again, bought some water and another 7UP, and went back outside. I called my lovely wife, who was absolutely thrilled that I had shat myself, and then went back to sleep.

I woke up about thirteen hours later feeling much better; a little weak, but better. I had another scare when I sneezed and blew a very fast and big fart, but another muzzle heat check proved negative.

Thanksgiving day itself has been okay. I drove a bit today, but felt a bit depressed. My wife and kids were cooking up turkey and I wasn't there. My father was doing the same, feeling a bit down because he had nobody to host turkey dinner for. It stinks how, as we get older and move away, that we have to remember the past and how precious it really was.

I know that Christmas will be better. Even though my dad won't be able to see the kids this year, we'll send him photos and videos so that he can get some enjoyment out of it. Maybe, someday, we can all be together for the holidays. All of them. Until then, we just have to be content with our own calamities.

Flight Gear

I have always been a fan of flying. As a child, I lived pretty close to all my relatives and never got the chance to take that thrilling childhood flight.

When I went to the army, though, I had to fly to my first duty station for Basic Training. So not only was I in for a lot of excitement with joining the military, I also got to take my first flight. I remember sitting on that plane from Pittsburgh to Atlanta and trying hard not to grin from ear to ear like an eight-year-old boy. But I just couldn't help it.

All these years later I would be hard-pressed to remember every single commercial, military or even helicopter flight that I took. Even today, though, I still get that little childlike thrill when the engines spool up and I start rocketing down the runway.

Since I don't have a lot of opportunities to fly these days what with work and lack of places to go on a plane, I decided to look into the narrow world of flight simulators. If I can't fly all the time for real, I might as well do it from my laptop.

I have already explained that I am not a big fan of paying for things. So the Microsoft side of this venture really didn't enter my possibilities. Once again, however, Google saved the day and found a free flight simulator called Flight Gear.

Flight Gear is an open-source program that you can download from the web. Free of charge. You can even download different aircraft and maps. I fly Boeing 787s, single-engine Cessnas and even a fully-stocked A-10 Warthog that gives one chills when the 30mm gun belches out its death-dealing wall of lead. Fucking incredible.

I have been playing this for a couple months now and it never gets old. I'm quite proficient with it now and, if the need ever arises, I feel pretty confident that I could get a real plane off the ground. Landing it, well, might be a problem. I still don't have that part down fully. I usually overshoot the runway and end up landing in the adjacent field. But I'm fucking bad-ass when it comes to taking off.

Try it out if you have the time and want to fly. Like I said, it's free. I'm not being paid to write this or anything. I just love it and felt like sharing.

Waiting

There are few things in life that are as annoying as forced waiting. Driving a truck and hauling produce makes this a double whammy. Add the fact that produce growers and shippers in Yuma, Arizona have trouble keeping labor (all the illegal immigrants don't want to be so close to the border they just crossed), and you have a real mess.

First of all, there is rarely a time when you only have one place from which to pick up. It's usually two or three.

Then there's the issue of appointments. Nobody shipping fresh bulk produce will give an appointment even a day before the load is supposed to ship. It has to be day-of. One appointment might be at ten in the morning. Your second pick is eight at night.

Now, the first pick won't have their product ready until seven in the evening. Then they take three hours to load you and the second pick closes before you can get their product. Guess what. Now you have to get an appointment for the next day. Now you're a day behind on a load that really should be on a rocket ship in order to get there on time.

So you finally get loaded and off you go. You have to monitor the temperature as you go and your dispatcher calls or sends a message several times a day wanting an ETA to the receiver.

When you get to the receiver you find out that they're backed up and won't be able to unload you for several hours. So now your trailer is a storage facility.

Oh, and if your temperature is off - even if it's because the shipper didn't cool the product properly - the load is rejected. So now you have to wait until your dispatcher can find some shady asshole to buy the product to resell to Asian food stores and food kitchens.

Ah, a day in the life of a reefer hauler. Fucking grand, wouldn't you say? So the least you can do is eat your fucking fruits and vegetables. Because some poor fuck just got paid way too much money to bust his ass to bring it to you.

Childhood Fears

When I was six years old, my father allowed me to stay up and watch a show called "Werewolf". I had thought it was on the USA Network, but after researching I have found that it was initially on FOX. That aside, all I know is that the show scared the living shit out of me.

I was intrigued by it and also didn't want to look like a pussy and run out of the room. The idea that a man, or many men, could change into a wolf and then hunt down fellow humans was completely mesmerizing. The effects ran much deeper, though. This stupid show really got into my head.

At the time we lived in an old white farmhouse right across the road from a corn field. Now, if you've ever spent any time around corn, you know how menacing it is all by itself. When the wind blows the dry stalks and leaves rub together and make a hissing, scraping noise. The stalks all wave in unison and the thought of wandering in there opens up an whole other box of possible terrors. The corn wasn't the worst part of this whole package, though. The real problem lay within the house itself.

Off the dining room was a short hallway that ended at the door of the bedroom where my brothers and I slept. The door is the kind that has the old-style skeleton key hole seen in movies. The hallway had two other "doors" to each side of its short length. One was to the bathroom, the other was to the upper floor. We didn't use the top floor, nor did we venture up there much. The entrance to the upstairs was covered with a piece of paneling that was nailed into the door frame. Around the time that I watched the werewolf show, however, the paneling came down occasionally. This was the beginning of the most horrifying time in my life up to then.

You see, my father and the neighbor, who was actually our landlord, thought that there was some good use to be had of the upper floor. Another bedroom, perhaps. When they took down the paneling and walked up there, I foolishly followed. It was daytime. It was safe.

I remember looking at all the dust and cobwebs and feeling a bit of trepidation. This place hadn't been inhabited in a long time. The paint was all peeling and there was a bit of a claustrophobic feel to the whole thing. I can remember looking out the little window and seeing the driveway below. So far and so remote this little room was.

Now, after we came back down I can't remember whether they put the paneling back up. I would imagine they would; just in case a kid decided to go exploring. In my memory of that time, though, the paneling was only leaned up against the frame. Just enough of an angle so that it wouldn't fall on passersby. It might have been three or four inches from the frame at the bottom.

That night, with my bedroom door fully open and the night light plugged into the socket in the bathroom, I lay in my bed and looked down toward my feet. The view was straight down the hallway, the dining room table in sight. Around the open area between the paneling and the door frame a furry hand with long nails, more like a paw than a hand, reached through and gripped the paneling and moved it; just slightly, but I saw it. Then came the snout, ugly and wrecked by its own overeager dental display. One sniff, two. Then it was gone.

I was scared to the point of temporary paralyzing. I couldn't scream, I couldn't move. It was probably for the better. I didn't want to move. I didn't want it to see me or smell me. It would surely have me before I could run through the hall and across the dining room and living room to my parents' room. It would have me and they wouldn't hear.

This went on for a while. One night the paneling was completely gone for some reason. The werewolf came to the bottom of the stairs and peeked around the corner at me. He snarled, I tried not to shit my pants. He must have gotten tired of it eventually and just went back upstairs.

Now, these were all, of course, hallucinations brought on by intense emotional distress and fear. I don't remember if I ever told my parents about it. Even if I had, there was nothing they could have said that would have eased my fears.

All these years later, after more than twenty years of roaming the earth and living life, only one thing scares me: Werewolves. I'm not even kidding. I fear no man. I fear no official. I fear no beast (werewolves excluded).

It's such an irrational fear. Science has no proof of the existence of werewolves. They are only a folk legend. Believing in them, or being afraid of them, is stupid.

However, when I see that the moon is full and the clouds shine high in the sky, I WILL NOT get out of my truck in a rural or wild area. If I have to piss so bad that my bladder is going to burst, I would rather piss my pants than step out for a leak.

A little over a week ago I was listening to CT & Jivin on XM Radio and a guy called in saying he had seen a werewolf at a Rest Area in Delaware. As he told his story I could feel my skin puckering up and goose flesh popping up. Even as I write this in a truck stop laundry room, every time someone walks by the door I jump a little. This is how deep this stupid little fear goes.

Now, do I hold it against my dad for letting me watch that show? No. That's ridiculous. I had seen many other monster movies and saw many after that had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, The Exorcist is my all-time favorite movie. The werewolf show just clicked something deep within me and still clicks it today. I actually watched The Howling a while back and, even with all the shitty effects, it still scared me. Fucking werewolves.

I'll probably die with this fear. But I think I would rather fear something ridiculous like a werewolf and have no other fears at all. At least if what I fear kills me, it'll be one hell of a story.

Life Eternal

Ok, people.  Time for some heady shit.

Throughout the annals of time, man has attempted to create for himself an eternal life.  He has used religion, philosophy and medicine to create everlasting existence.  Man does not wish to die.  Doing so is his greatest fear.

Why do we fear death?  Some of it is probably due to the actual act.  Dying would have to suck.  There's that pain factor involved.  Except for dying in your sleep at a very old age, most methods of snuffing it probably involve some amount of pain.  But I doubt that this is really the underlying concern.

I think people fear death because it's an inconceivable state of existence.  Dying is something we all must do, but nobody can sit around and really explain what it's like.  Before the day of your birth, you can't possibly know, from a first-hand account, what life on this planet was like.  Sure, you can read about it and even watch movies and listen to music made before your birth, but you have no real recollection of what it was like to exist back then.  Death will probably end up the same way.  The problem is that we can't seem to reconcile with that idea.  We just can't wrap our heads around the fact that, after we die, things will continue on without us.

I have had much time to ponder over death while driving down the road.  I have broken it down in its sections so that I can imagine, (1) what it's like to die, the actual act of crossing over; and (2) also what may or may not be on the other side.

First off, let's talk about the act of dying.  Most people probably have at least one near-death experience.  I'm not talking about the kind you hear about on the talk shows with seeing a light and all that horse shit.  I'm talking about a time when you were in a situation that, if certain factors had been slightly fluctuated, you would not have survived.  Perhaps you once nearly drowned in your pool.  Maybe a gun you were handling accidentally went off and it was pointed away from you.  Even a car accident where you walked away unscathed.  If a few of the factors were adjusted, you could be dead right now.

I often try to tune myself in to what it would feel like to die.  There are usually two scenarios I run through based upon things I've experienced:  vehicular accident and gunshot.

I've been in a few accidents in my life.  The first one was when I was six and I still wear the scars from it to this day.  I broke both of my clavicles and had 79 stitches put into my face.  A pickup truck T-boned the Volkswagen Bug my mother was driving and my door was the impact point.  Now, even though I can't remember much of what happened that day, I can recreate a similar scenario in my truck.  I often imagine hitting a bridge abutment, since taking on a car is unlikely to result in my death.  I try to imagine seeing the abutment coming toward me and try to think of how it would feel as my truck smashed into it.  I think of how the concrete smashing into my face and body would be excruciating and the breath would instantly be gone, irrecoverable.  Would I hear the bang of the impact?  Probably not.  Would there be a few seconds to ponder or would it just be "lights out"?  Would my neck or my head or my shoulders hurt?  I don't know.  I try to play out all the scenarios.

Now, the gunshot thing is a little different.  It's not a complete destruction of the body like the accident.  I usually think of getting one to the head.  I don't know why, but it's always the most vivid to me.  I have been shot at before, so I have a pretty good idea the impact a bullet has when it strikes an object.  I don't believe that a gunshot to the head hurts very much, if at all.  Scientists are pretty sure that the brain has no nerve endings and can't feel pain.  Of course, the entrance and exit wounds might hurt a bit, but by the time you could register any pain, you're probably already dead.  This one often becomes so real in my mind that I can actually feel a tingling in the center of my forehead while I'm trying to imagine what the impact of the bullet would feel like.  Again, though, is it just a quick thing or do we linger?

Ok, enough with the morbidity.  I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad or sick; I'm just trying to set the stage.  So, after the deed is done, then what?

If you're religious, you probably have been taught about some type of afterlife.  Many believe in a heaven and a hell; each one has its own treats.  Some believe that you "sleep" in your grave until some reanimated deity comes for you.  Then there are those who just believe that death is the end, nothingness.

I'm normally on the side of those who think that death is just a fade-to-black ending; all suffering of life over; nothing; nada.  However, something made me think that maybe it's not.

Alright, let's begin with a question:  What is consciousness?  I don't mean the literal dictionary term.  Not that consciousness is a state of being awake and alert.  But what makes consciousness possible?  Is it a number of factors that come together to spark alert life?  What if consciousness lies in a single molecule, or even an atom, that man has not yet discovered?  We certainly know very little about the brain and how it operates.

The other day there was a story about how Chinese scientists disconnected a chimp's arm from its brain and then ran wires from the nerves in the arm to a computer.  The brain was then hooked up to the same computer via similar wiring and, suddenly, the chimp could move its arm.  They disconnected the wires from the brain and hooked them to a different part of the brain and the arm still fucking moved.  How in the hell could that be?  Nobody knows.  The brain is still an ultimate mystery to science.

That said, what if there is a single atom within our bodies that allows us consciousness?  What if it exits our bodies when we die and then seeks out another being that's waiting for that conscious spark?  Maybe it rides on our last breath and floats around looking for a female who is becoming pregnant.  Maybe it sits in our brains and waits for thousands of years before it can be swept up after a long decomposition and then looks for a new host.  And what about those poor souls who suffered at the hands of an eager mind that decided to encase your last breath in a jar, to be used at a later time.  It was once an old wives' tale that a person's soul left them in their last breath; holding a jar over a person's mouth at the moment of their demise could capture a soul.

Even the most ardent atheist cannot deny that, scientifically, we all live forever.  The same atoms that make up your body have existed since the dawn of time.  The air you breathe was probably inhaled and expelled by Roman soldiers or dinosaurs at some point.  When we die and turn to dust, those same atoms will one day be used by the earth to support life.  The carbon that makes up your nose might be part of a frog's leg; your eyes, a blade of grass.  Life must go on and no more of the ingredients can be made.  No matter how you form the Play-dough, you only get so much in the can.

So, does our consciousness live forever?  Will you ever get the chance to find out?  I doubt it.  I think it's pretty evident that, even if my theory is true, the atomic particle can't carry memories with it.  In a way, it really is the end, I guess.  But just think for a moment; some day you might be you, but looking through different eyes.  Your consciousness: alive once again.  You are shed of the memories of your former life, but your consciousness lives inside another host.  I guess that would make us not even human.  Perhaps we are only parasites that feed off of the bodies of living things.  Perhaps "consciousness" is just another tapeworm that feeds off others to exist.

Well, now I freaked myself out with that last paragraph.  Think it over, just don't forget to live in the meantime.

Free Stuff

Just a short time ago, I paid for everything for my computer. As if the fucking thing wasn't expensive enough, I then had to buy antivirus software, MS Office, games and any other programs I wanted. Not anymore!

I've discovered the wonderful world of entitled nerds. They don't like paying for things - just like the rest of us. Only these guys have the skills to create replicas that are just as useful and often better. They don't get paid to design these things; they often do it for a cause: getting it for free.

In recent months I have downloaded, all for free, three different web browsers, full office software, a flight simulation program, a CAD drawing program and a photo-shop-style photo editing program. I still pay for my antivirus; those guys are just too good.

All of the programs work as well as or better than the programs that cost big money. The office software alone (courtesy of openoffice.org) saved me about $150. I believe that PhotoShop costs several hundred as well. Not Gimp, the free one I have now.

Computers are here to stay; I don't think I'm going too far out on a limb saying that. But I believe that the time when you have to pay out to accessorize them is over. Companies like Mozilla and Google have created free programs to make the Internet safer and more enjoyable. I have a black web browser; how cool is that?

I suggest that you explore the web for free alternatives before you go out to buy software. Of course, always do your research and scan everything for viruses and other malware. And don't steal shit; stay off the fucking bit torrent sites. They'll just fuck your computer in the end anyway. Like I said, there's plenty of free stuff out there already.

Oh, by the way, I use Trend Micro for my antivirus in case you cared. They're fucking bad ass.

Gxis la revido!

The Candy Witch

I try to be as much a "live and let live" kind of guy as is humanly possible. I try not to tell other people how to live and, as long as it doesn't affect me personally, I'll often leave people be.

But I am only human and the strange behaviors that have crept into our society do get on my nerves. One of these categories of behavior is the over-mothering parents and legislators.

I grew up in the eighties and nineties in mostly small towns, occasionally given the doubtful privilege of city life. I certainly was injured numerous times and nearly killed a few times. Fortunately, Nature decided I should live a bit longer.

During the summer months I went out after breakfast and often didn't come back until supper was on and, if I was having a particularly good time, stayed out until dark. I wandered the woods and stole from the grocery stores and rode my bike everywhere. I did everything any adventurous boy should. My parents felt that such things were normal and didn't try to keep me from having a good time.

For some reason, those days seem to be over. Not for me, but for kids growing up these days. Every stranger is now a potential pedophile. Every wooded area a site of a fresh shallow grave. Every teacher a parental stand-in.

Everyone wants to be as safe as possible and to Hell with fun. Once the children get on the bus, they're now the responsibility of the teachers.

"Why can't my child read? You're the teacher, so teach. I have a career, you know."

When they return home, it's indoors always.

"Don't go outside, child predators are everywhere. Don't you watch the news? Here, just play this game on the television."

Safety and outsourced responsibility. That's the game in the new media-fed America. Well, let's point the finger and show you some stupid people and their idea of safety.

Now, we all know about the obesity problem in America. Fat little shits sitting on the sofa as their enabling parents feed their vice and keep them from getting a bit of exercise, lest some pederast give their little butts a feel. Stay here, it's safer.

Now, Halloween is just around the corner. The bravest parents will be escorting their little brats door to door in the pursuit of delectable rations of sweets. How fun!

So you get this big bag of candy and haul it home and pour it out on the kitchen table. It's checked for razors and hypos and all manner of things with which the child-hating public would use to kill your child. Now, on to the gluttony, right? Wrong, motherfucker!

You get ten pieces of select favorites and the rest is left for the Candy Witch! What?

That's right. Once again, safety has overridden fun and taken away the joy of life. Now if you have a fat kid, why not just let him eat the candy? It's your fault he's fat in the first place. You won't let him out for exercise, but you take away his candy, too?

Here's a thought: let him eat the candy and then let him run around the neighborhood to burn it off. Why? Because there aren't any pedophiles in your back yard. He's not going to run in the road. No one is planning his demise. Really. I'm not fucking lying to you.

And to make up a character like the Candy Witch because you don't have the fucking balls to tell your kid the truth? You're a fucking spineless liar and shouldn't have had kids until you could speak honestly.

"Honey, the Candy Witch took your candy. Not me. Now, now, don't cry. Santa Claus is coming soon. Let's go to church, you know, Jesus' house."

Why can't parents be honest? What are you afraid of? Well-adjusted kids?

They'll learn all about life from someone else if you don't tell them how it is. Do you really want that? Do you want your son to learn about sex from his friends? Do you want your daughter to learn about love in the back seat of a Honda? Talk to your kids. And do it honestly. You don't want them to grow up thinking of you as a liar.

Extended Hands

There are certain rules that apply to trucking. I don't mean the ones that the government allows the Department of Transportation to rape us with on a daily basis. I'm talking about natural physical laws that rule over all of us. One of these rules basically states that an object - in this case, a truck - requires a constant energy source in order to continue its inertia. That's right, fuel. This is where truck stops come in.

Most truck stops are now owned by corporate companies. Your Flying J's, Petros and Pilots. There are many varieties but most of the amenities and, yes, the problems, are the same. Truck stops usually have a restaurant, showers, laundry facilities and a convenience store. The problems with these are usually minimal. The problems I'm referring to usually are the human type; the ones that roam the parking lot.

Though they vary slightly, these people usually come in four main groups: people who steal, people who sell items, people who sell ass and people who beg.

Now, I hate the people who steal. That's a given. There's nothing worse than sitting in Dallas all day due to lack of loads and you have to sit with your curtains drawn so that some thug won't jump up on your running boards and take a peek as to what electronic goodies you might possess. Then he waits until dark and for you to go take a shit or grab some food and breaks your window and takes all of your shit. These guys should be eviscerated with rusty butter knives in the parking lot and be left for dead.

On to the others. I have no problem with people selling stuff, even though it's usually stolen goods. This might seem strange since I dislike the ones who steal; but if it's not stolen from anybody in the parking lot, it's okay by me. I may or may not have bought some pirated video or stolen pornography. I never buy electronics, though. Usually you get a camera box with a brick in it.

I also have no problem with prostitution. Why shouldn't you be able to charge someone for the same thing that you can legally give away for free? I've never used these services, but I still think that they should be there for those who do.

Now, clearly, the worst of these groups is the final one: the beggar. Nothing makes me angrier than to be accosted by people in need. Yes, I'm an asshole; we've already established that fact. I look at the world in the most natural way a human being can: there are the weak, there are the strong. By supporting the weak you are inherently going against nature. Why? Let's take a look.

The whole god question aside, I think that we can all agree on one point: there are rules to this planet and the universe in which it resides. There are no consequences for breaking these rules because it is impossible to break them. Nature wields an iron fist on this planet in order for the rules to remain in affect.

Here's a bit of useless trivia for you: If you broke down the entire population of the planet earth into 100 people representing everyone, 50 would be male, 50 would be female. Why? Because nature likes it that way. Nature has an order for these people, too. Why do Africans die at an alarming rate while Americans continue to thrive? Because, to Nature, Africans are more expendable. They're easy targets to control population levels. They certainly aren't offering anything to the world, despite what bleeding hearts may tell you.

Nature has to kill people. It does it in order to better care for the ones that mean something. The strong must go on. The weak must be extinguished. One is there to define the other. When an entire level of weakness is eradicated, the next level up becomes the weak. It's all very simple.

So, therefore, by supporting the weak you are actually going against Nature's plan. If you hand a bum a dollar and he lives another day because of it, you've just given Nature the finger. And if you give a bum a dollar and then he eats a cheeseburger and, having sated his appetite, then rapes a woman to relieve himself of another urge, you've really told Nature to go fuck herself. That woman now has to live with being raped; or she may kill herself before she can find a way to save humankind from its own blunders. Way to go, stupid.

So the next time some doe-eyed fuck starts to tell you his sob story and asks for money or food or a ride, walk away. Say no. Not only will you keep your money in your pocket but you'll also get a smile from Mother Nature; she's got plans for that bum.

Back to Work

Going back to work is always a drag for me. I don't get weekends and holidays off like most people. I go out for several weeks at a time and work every single day until I decide it's time to head home. Then I take a week or so off.

Years ago going back out was really hard. My wife and I just weren't used to being apart. She would cry and we both wondered when we would see each other again. Having children also made it difficult. I sometimes would have nightmares about something happening to them -- being so far away often made me feel helpless to protect them.

I can remember buying a lottery ticket and checking the numbers the night before I had to leave and hoping beyond hope that I would hit and never have to leave my family ever again. A naive assumption, but I guess you have to dream big.

People often ask me how I can be gone for so long and not see my wife and kids. I tell them that sometimes you have to think with your head instead of your heart. Sure, being away sucks; but having to worry about where the next meal will come from, like my parents did, sucks even more. In an era where most families struggle with dual incomes and child care, I do quite well with one income and a wife who stays home. In fact, with only a high school diploma, my income compares to a graduate degree and about a decade in the job market; I looked it up.

Also, with all the technology today, I'm really not that far away. I talk to them on my cell phone; the same phone I'm blogging with right now. I also have a laptop to email and share pictures and videos. And if I need to get home in a hurry, the wonders of flight will have me there within a few hours.

Working is just one of those things that all of us have to do. Some get home every night and some of us don't. It's just a "whatever works" kind of scenario. This is just what works for me.

Chiropractors: The Scourge of...Everywhere

My wife and I took the kids to a local farm the other day. This is one of those places where they decide to open it up to the public and make a little cake on the side that way. It's a lot of fun for the kids. They have animals to view and pet and feed, a bakery, even a haunted house. When you leave, you grab a pumpkin and you've had yourself a fun time.

We walked in and saw the chickens and goats and my son and youngest daughter really enjoyed sitting in the local Fire Company's pumper truck. Then we walked across a little drive where the food and some more animals are located. Right in the entrance way was a tent with a special chair and three jerk-offs in scrubs: a chiropractic office right up Uncle Jed's alley.

I turned to my wife and said, "These guys will set themselves up anywhere!" And it's really true. You can't go to a fair, home show, bazaar or even a line of shitters outside of a concert without a chiropractor trying to sell his craft.

Now, I have no problem with carny acts. In fact, I'm a big fan. I think there's nothing better than someone blatantly ripping off some idiot with three cups and a ball bearing. It's hilarious to me. But somewhere deep down in my soul is a true hatred for chiropractors.

Their act is not unlike the three card monte dealer, but it seems a bit more seedy when you're being given a fancy back massage by a guy with a doctorate and a cow is shitting fifteen feet away. It's snake oil salesmen stuff to me.

And I think some of these guys are a bit on the perverted side. My wife used to go years ago to help with a back injury she received as a kid. After only a session or two, she asked me to sit in there with her because she felt very uncomfortable with the guy. He was in his fifties and he made ME feel a bit uneasy; what with his weird pervert smile and eager hands.

I guess there's nothing intrinsically wrong with chiropractic; I've read both sides of the argument and I think that the art is sometimes necessary. I just don't like having to walk down the midway and hear, "Try to win a teddy bear for the lady, sir?"; "Knock down the bottles, win a prize!"; and then, "How'd you like some help with that posture, sir? Ever been to a chiropractor?" Yick.

Womanly Ways

I'm married; have been for almost nine years now. I've done pretty well at figuring out my wife and I can honestly say that she rarely wins an argument with me. I have also done my best to help her adjust her views on certain things. She would say that I corrupted her. Whatever; either way, it's probably been for the better.

However, one of our more frequent arguments is over my penchant for the female form; often every female form. I have always said that the female body trumps anything else when it comes to beauty. I have traveled all over the world and seen a good amount of scenery on this great green earth of ours, and I still have found nothing that quite takes my breath away the way a woman does. So when I see something or, rather, someone that catches my eye, I'm prone to take a quick look. I think all men do this; the more testosterone-rich of us do it a bit more.

The only problem is that my wife often will see the girl I'm about to take a look at before I do. She knows what I like and preempts me: she'll stare right at my face and wait for me to look; then it's time for an argument.

She's not really mean about it. I think it has more to do with common female insecurities. Most women are "catty" and don't like other women. They're often competitive and will do ridiculously cruel things to each other over the smallest, stupidest shit.

She'll usually post one question to me: "Why aren't I enough for you?" Now, I have answered this question many times. In fact, I've probably spent time that can be measured in days answering this question. Yet she still asks it every time.

Now, it's not that she's not enough. I love her and I'm very sexually attracted to her. She's a good egg and has done everything I've ever asked of her sexually. Sometimes she has to be eased into it, but she's a goer, for sure. I've been faithful, never even considering cheating on her. I've done my part and she's done hers.

However, it's been said, "Show me the hottest woman in the world, and I'll show you a guy who's tired of fucking her."

And it's true. If you look at it from a moral or societal standard, men really are scumbags. You say your vows and agree to this and that, and then you take a peek at every piece of trim that walks by -- usually on the way to the airport for your honeymoon.

Why do we (I) do it? It's a pretty simple explanation, but not one based in emotion, which is why women can't understand it.

You see, throughout the animal kingdom, males roam around and look for tail. A male lion has a harem of females who do his bidding. A younger lion must move in on his turf, battle it out with the king, and hope to win and take over: bang, instant variety of pussy. Now, men are a bit the same way. Men fight over women, get beaten up over women. It's stupid if you look at it from an intellectual standpoint, but men will risk life, limb and reputation for that sweet, sweet woman. But, we cannot be satisfied with just one.

Monogamy is essentially a commitment to battle millions of years of evolution. We have created for ourselves a society in which it is wrong for men to act upon nature's most intrinsic ideal: procreate. Life must be followed by life. There must be someone else to take over or, well, something will happen.

As a monogamous man, I have decided to put aside nature's desires, at least on a grand scale. I do have four kids, so I guess I haven't failed Mother Nature entirely. I'm happy enough and love my wife and kids; I just, sometimes, have to take a peek.

Religulous

My wife and I went to see Bill Maher's documentary Religulous last night. We went to the 10:10 pm showing and shared the theater with only fourteen other people, which was very nice.

Maher was really good in it. I had heard on Opie & Anthony that he had somehow incorporated comedy into the film, something I felt might prove difficult given the premise of the movie. But he really knocked it out of the park. This movie wasn't just funny, it was hilarious.

He conducted interviews and incorporated old clips from really bad religious movies to explain the context of the interviews and also to give a push to the comedic aspect of the interview. I especially liked it when he would ask a question that might prove a bit rough to answer and all he got in response was an open-mouth gawp or that funny open/close/open/close mouth movement like fish do.

We were fortunate enough to have in the audience a guy with a great laugh. That always helps spice up a joke. This guy would scream laugh and that somehow made it funnier.

I was pleased to see Maher take on Islam, which is something a lot of these religion-bashing cowards often won't do. They think about the feel of a rough blade being run across their throats and get chicken-shit PDQ. Not Maher. He actually went into the Muslim Temple on the
Mount in Jerusalem, despite being yelled at by an angry and, according to the guy being interviewed, tolerant Muslim man. It was also pointed out that, in the Temple, women have their own special corner to worship. How tolerant they are!

Some of the other people he interviewed were: an ex-homosexual preacher who insisted on a full-body hug from Maher when the interview was over, a Jew who was against Israel and met with Iranian president Mahmoud Amedihoyahoya (or whatever his name is), and an Aussie with a creepy beard who runs a creation museum in Kentucky -- you can ride a dinosaur there, just like Jesus!

All in all, it was a great flick. If you're a believer, though, it could give you that hot-under-the-collar feeling. Maher's evidence is hard to counter. Everyone from Truck Stop Preachers to a Senator from Arkansas turned into guppy-mouthed idiots when the tough questions came out. Check it out.

Oh, and my wife told me to mention what a wonderful time we had. We don't get out much together and we jumped at the chance last night. We got a bit drunk at Outback Steakhouse, played air hockey (she beat me) and then saw the movie. It was a really nice evening.

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Birthday Party

Today we're hosting my daughter's sixth birthday party. Well, hosting
isn't really the proper word; more like mediating.

We're at an indoor golf place in the mall that's lit up with black
lights. It would be a great place to hang out as a teenager and deep-
dick your teenage girlfriend in the corner. Instead, I'm surrounded by
a dozen six-year-olds with clubs that they swing at crotch level.

The little shits hit the ball with the same force as I would use if I
were beating my worst enemy to death in a blind rage. There are little
glow-in-the-dark golf balls flying like missiles.

And why are kids such fucking little ingrates? They open presents and
have a look on their face like, "Oh, is this the best you can do?" So
you have to coax them into not blurting out some asshole comment and
hoping like all-mighty fuck that they've developed enough tact not to
shit all over their little friends' feelings. This shouldn't be so
goddamned stressful.

Anyway, it's better than having it at the house. Fuck that.

10/11/2008 The Fucking Mall

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Sugar Hangover

I have been on the "Atkins" method of the low sugar, low carbohydrate diets for about seven weeks now.  It has worked well enough:  I feel better, I have lost some weight and my energy is up.  However, as I found out yesterday, my tolerance for anything sugary is virtually nonexistent.

See, yesterday was my daughter's sixth birthday; and birthdays in our house are highly regarded and very important.  As her father, I try to be as accommodating as possible; to my own detriment, it turns out.

Traditionally, the birthday boy or girl gets to choose the supper meal for the day.  They also get cake and such for dessert; candles, singing and all.

I had planned to have a small sliver of cake -- it's only proper.  However, my wife suggested that I should also partake in the supper of choice - pizza - since my daughter might feel slighted if I didn't.  So I partook.  Immediately, I realized it was a mistake.  That stupid pizza hit my gut like a shotgun blast.  Instant churn, like low-grade poison.  I knew that this was going to turn out badly later, so I figured, Hey, if I'm going to suffer, I might as well enjoy myself now.  So I followed up the slice of pizza with a second; cutting off and not eating the crust, as if that would help.

Then on to the cake.  Yellow cake, chocolate icing; a massive construction of two 13 x 9 inch cakes stacked, icing between and on top and all around.  Three cans of icing.  When I make a cake, I make a motherfucking cake.

The first piece was hard to eat because it was so damned sweet.  The second piece was a little easier; I just had to fight the expansion in my stomach.

However, I hadn't even put my fork down before the first volley was released and my system was attacking me.  Mad dash to the bathroom -- time to spray-paint the porcelain.

Ever heard the sound of an A-10 Warthog as it sprays bullets at tanks and completely wipes out every living thing in the area?  It sounds like a deep, guttural belch.  My tookis made that sound yesterday.  Several times, actually.

It eventually subsided.  A couple Gas-X pills and I felt better, but very tired.  When I woke up this morning I felt pretty good.  My wife whipped up some sausage and eggs for me this morning, the usual fare for an Atkins enthusiast.  Just looking at it made me feel queasy.  It was greasy and heavy and I only ate a portion of it.

I've never had a hangover before.  I'm one of those fortunate people that can drink as much as I want and never suffer from a headache or upset stomach.  However, I found out that, as far as sugar consumption goes, I'm not immune.  Complete sugar hangover.  This might be fair warning for the alcohol aspect: as I've gotten older, it, too, might eventually affect me.

Sometimes a "diet" actually turns into a lifestyle.  The pros and cons of participating in a life-changing regimen must be weighed and the participant must decide whether or not it's worth it.  If I cut out the sugar, I could lose weight and feel better and maybe even live longer.  However, food is my vice, if I could consider myself to have one.

This, too, shall pass; and I'll be eating fine, fatty meats and losing weight again.  But sometimes acquiescing to predetermined protocols makes for loose guts, loose stools a stomach like an industrial butter churn.

The name...

The title of this blog is actually a nickname I was given.

It probably sounds like I am good with a knife, or perhaps I am known for my cutting comments. True or not, these are not the source of this silly moniker.

Here's how it started...

As I've already told you, I am a truck driver; but I am not your average truck driver. I take loads the others can't do. I go places others won't go and I do it all faster and better. I try not to brag, but this is definitely my forté.

These abilities often receive a lot of recognition, and that has been so in my case. Fighter pilots are given their handle by other pilots, truck drivers either make them up themselves or are given one by dispatch. Mine was the latter.

I have a dispatcher and friend who only knew of one other Barry, and it wasn't even a real person. Ever see the movie "The Client"? It is based upon a John Grisham novel of the same name. Well, one of the thugs that works for the mob boss is an humongous dummy named Barry. He's good with a knife. They call him...Barry The Blade. So, to my good friend, it only made sense that the only other Barry he had ever met should share that name.

I guess to some it sounds cool. I don't care either way. I guess it's nice to know that someone thinks about you enough to think that you're worthy of a nickname.

The only time my name ever changes is when I "whine". This means I have to call off the dogs because I'm being beaten down by too many miles in too short a time. It's hardly whining; sometimes I have to do it to save my life. Then I'm called Barry The Bleeder. You see, it's like Blade, because it has a Bl- in the front...oof. My friends are douche bags.

The beginning...

This is my first attempt to put all of the things that go through my head on the record. Perhaps a little knowledge of me would be best to set the stage.

I am happily married and a father of four. I drive a truck for a living and travel all over the 48 continental United States. I drive for the majority of the day and that often leads to very deep thinking for which most people have no time. Some might consider this lucky; these people should not read this blog.

I am not prone to lies nor will I hold back my opinion for the sake of others or their feelings. I often use harsh words and I often hurt others' feelings for my own personal amusement.

You will find that I have an opinion on almost everything. Some of them will sound ridiculous to some, others might actually agree with me. Who knows?: Maybe some of my ideas will one day make the world a better place. Only time will tell.

So if you've somehow found yourself reading this I hope that you will return once I have some more written. I hope this leads to something.

10/8/2008 Washington State