Reader Blog: Counter-County

Degree, or Not Degree...

2008-04-29T14:32:00.000-04:00

Well, I’m still pondering “name-brand” graduate schools. Granted, I still have a few more bachelors’ degree classes left, but there’s nothing like getting a head start and I don’t want to lose any momentum! I’m afraid that if I fall too far out of my scholarly routine, I’ll never go back!

This degree will be about income security, personal accomplishment, and having a diploma that will be a return on my educational investment. Not to mention, I would like to set an example for any spawn I produce…even if they choose to pursue a trade instead of higher education; I want them to aim to be as knowledgeable and capable as they can.

Speaking of potential children, I have also decided to pursue my next degree entirely online in order to give me the greatest amount of flexibility. So far, it’s between Boston University and Penn State, with a lean towards Boston; even thought both have a fine reputation for academics. This is mostly due to the fact that Penn State forces you to go to one week residency programs, and that’s NOT how I plan to spend my vacation days! Aside from that, they did not offer as many degree choices that I am interested in, and I’m more comfortable with the interface BU uses.

If you would have told me ten years ago that I would be sitting here today trying to decide between online based graduate schools, I would never have believed either aspect.

Decisions

2008-04-26T15:22:00.000-04:00

Man, I’m still trying to decide on a graduate degree program. This, along with the other challenges life throws at us, have conspired to keep me from blogging!

Back to the former; I’m still trying to pick a graduate degree program. This is the quandary I find myself in: trying to decide between a program that suits my interests, my budget, my lifestyle, and my family’s future. It’s a tenuous balance between all of these factors. Not to mention, I feel pressure to go to a “name brand” university

Do I go for the creative writing program at Rosemont? The project management degree sat Penn State, or the International Management Degree at Boston College (any university that has a Boston Terrier as its mascot HAS to be close to my heart)?

Decisions, Decisions.

Pond

2008-04-11T13:33:00.001-04:00

I’m very pleased to inform you about a positive result from a previously negative situation.

Some of you may remember my story about a certain old man and his pond. I’m happy to report all is well.

The fish were saved, the pond was essentially rebuilt, and baffles were installed to prevent future damage. Sometimes, you just have to make your own luck.

Jury Duty

2008-04-07T21:50:00.000-04:00

The other day, I performed my civic duty…otherwise known as jury duty. This was my second time being summoned as a Chester County juror. I managed to weasel out of my first selection; as I was doing an internship at the time. I probably could have avoided the summons this time, as I believe I have enough credits to be considered a full-time student. Nonetheless, I went.

I felt a strange mix of excitement and foreboding; I was getting a day away from work, but I was venturing into the unknown. Even though it’s been a while since I have lived in West Chester, I managed to navigate rush-hour traffic like a pro. I was surprised to find a space on the second story of the Bi-Centennial Parking Garage, due to the fact that I was over a half-hour early. Everything seemed to be going well…too well.

Sure enough, my arrival at the entrance to the courthouse was a harbinger to things to come. There I encounter a security person that would make any trip through a Philadelphia International Airport’s TSA checkpoint seem like a walk in the park. If I had wanted to be screamed at for inconsequential things at 0800 hours, I would have joined the Marine Corps after high school. Semper Fi, you poser douche-bag.

I had thought my new job was a sad and miserable place to be…until I went to jury duty for our fair county. We were crammed into a small room, and I’m certain we were violating at least one fire code. The stench of overheated bodies filled the air; which was combined with the fear of the unknown, and lashed to my natural distrust of strangers: this was a recipe for disaster.

After everyone had arrived (there’s always a bunch of people who feel the need to be fashionably late; no matter what the venue) and a pep-talk from one of our county judges; we were informed that we were the largest group of jurors ever at the courthouse, and that there were at least six jury trials to be had that day.

TGB was selected to an early civil trial. Unfortunately (?) for me, I wasn’t selected to be a juror on this case. I suppose the lawyers in the trial were frightened off by the aura my superior intellect casts. Ha-ha.

After being cast out of Judge Gavin’s court room, I was “recycled.” I sat in the overcrowded room for five more hours, and through three “false-alarms,” waiting to get my chance to fulfill my obligation to society. Even after enduring sheer, mind-numbing boredom, it wasn’t to be.

To my estimation, only two of the six jury trials began that day. Has anyone in the county judicial system heard of Six-Sigma, or efficiency? Likely not.

Let’s hope the new Justice Center at least has nicer juror accommodations; like liquor, show-girls, and gambling.

Sound Off, Part Deux

2008-04-04T11:14:00.000-04:00

While I was perusing the Daily Local News this week, my attention was once again drawn to the “Sound Off” section of the editorial page. Previously, I had made comments about how positive this feature of the publication can be, and gave some tips on how contributors could make the most of their comments. Since then, I’ve altered my opinion.

From the standpoint of the newspaper, keeping this section is a great idea. This is apparent from the fact that people (like me) take the time to read it; thus, having things in the paper that generate reader interest, both positive and negative, equates to sales of both copies and advertising. It seems pretty logical thing to do from their perspective; good for them.

Even though I will continue to be sucked into reading “Sound Off,” I’ve decided to address some issues I have with it (again). First, it seems like it’s the same people using the feature all of the time. If it’s not the usual political bashers, or “Sue from Caln,” it’s the guy who feels obligated to remind all of us to turn our wipers and headlights on when it rains (I certainly wish this was my primary societal worry).

Secondly, as someone who writes material that can be rebutted, refuted, and criticized in a very personal and public manner, I feel that “Sound Off” is the easy way out for the intellectually lazy among us. If you feel strongly enough about a subject to scream into an answering machine, you should be able to develop your point of view in a concise written format, and put it into a forum where its merits can be debated.

Keep it real.

Busy

2008-03-31T12:55:00.000-04:00

Things have just been so busy lately, that I have not had much time for leisurely writing. I foolishly thought my workload would be reduced once I sold “The Beast,” but it hasn’t been so. I’ve just been bogged down with the new job, school, and all of the little home things that “spring” up with the change in seasons…and we haven’t even gotten into picking out the new furniture and paint colors yet! Daylight Savings Time isn’t all it’s cracked-up to be.

Oh well, there are certainly much worse problems to be had than lack of time. Now, I just need to spend the next couple of months deciding on a graduate program, and sticking with my choice!

Rain

2008-03-20T21:41:00.001-04:00

Ah, the rain. It’s one of the most powerful weapons in nature’s arsenal. It can form rivers, sustain life, or melt away monuments carved in stone. For as innocent as it may seem to some; it can be just as disastrous to others.

Unfortunately, it’s my duty to report upon these negative effects of our atmospheric friend. The ongoing and, at times, torrential rains our area has seen have wrecked havoc on my father’s fish pond.

To you this may seem insignificant, but then you don’t understand the love and physical toil this lone man has invested in this small piece of heaven on earth; this psycho-physiological oasis. You can never hope to understand…at least not until you look upon your own legacy, or lack thereof, here on Earth and realize how fragile it really is, or could be.
Remember, pray, or meditate for this man who is doing all he can to save the lives of fishes and his own little piece of Nirvana; for whatever you have done, or will do, this man is you and I

Communication Breakdown

2008-03-10T17:41:00.001-04:00

I find it amazing that in this age of unsurpassed communications growth and technological innovation, some business can’t keep their record keeping straight. The worst part is, I’m referring to a company that provides a very simple service, not one that has a lot of complex data to track.

The company I’m referring to is one of those self-storage places here in Chester County. Let’s face it, all they do is rent you a little space for your stuff, and send you a bill. Heck, with all the waivers you have to sign, they don’t even take ANY fiscal responsibility for your stuff once it’s there! Sounds like it should be fairly straight forward and easy to run to me.

Unfortunately, I had to use the services of one of these companies to store The Albatross until I got it sold. Even more unfortunate; I have to keep it temporarily stored there until the buyer is able to come down and pick it up later this month.

Back in January, I signed up for the service there. I remember the young lady struggling to get all my information logged into her computer system. She said they would send me the bill in the mail once a month. This sounded pretty straight forward and simple to me at the time, but as you may have already guessed, it didn’t turn out that way.

I never realized that I had not received the bill yet for February. I’m a very busy guy, and things like that do tend to “slip my system”. Even though the storage company could not remember my address to get my bill to me, they did remember it to send me two certified letters with rather strong language (i.e. “We are DEMANDING that you pay in full the amounts owed to us”) and extra fees attached.

Now I have sat for over an hour waiting for a return phone call. The legacy of the Albatross continues to unfold.

Flight of the Albatross

2008-03-01T09:03:00.001-05:00

Life can be bittersweet. Even our successes can be tarnished by guilt, sadness, remorse, or desire. This past Friday was one of those days for me.

After a difficult day at work, I headed home knowing that I was scheduled to meet another customer who wanted to poke and prod my beloved Chevelle, and then let me know why it wasn’t worth much, and why I should sell it to them at a ridiculously low price, if at all.

I suppose there is no way of putting a true price on something you’re passionate about. I certainly wouldn’t take half as much guff from my Toyota as I did the Chevelle; that tiny marvel of Japanese/American engineering would be in the bone yard with all of the other forgotten mechanical children of man.

I had to wonder if this guy would even show up at the appointed time, as I’ve had a run of no-shows and late-shows the past few weeks; all of them conspiring to waste my time and make selling my car a full-time job. As regular readers will note, this has been going on since August.

To my surprise, the customer (who I’ll call “BG”) was waiting for me a half hour before our appointed time. Retired or not, this was very impressive for someone who lived over five hours away, and was racing bad weather the whole trip. Even more interesting was the fact that he was just recovering from a total replacement of his left knee; which is NOT conducive to driving a muscle car with a heavy mechanical clutch. He even had to employ the services of a friend to make the long drive down, even though his daily-driver was equipped with an automatic.

After a quick meet and greet, we trekked over to the storage place to see the car. The clouds were increasing, the temperature dropping, and a bitter wind was rising from the southwest. There’s nothing like the weather to add a sense of foreboding to an occasion.

After removing the cover, the gentlemen looked over the car and seemed appreciative. They both made some poor attempts at driving The Beast around the expansive lot, but only one of them had a bum knee to blame! BG’s friend even took the car for a drive down the roadways of East Whiteland, and gave his seal of approval, in light of a “touchy clutch”.

Then it was go time; time to get down to serious business. I could see the strain of the decision plainly written on BG’s face, as he kept trying to get me to budge on the price. I figured I would be going home without a deal as he hobbled into his car, out of the cold, to review my folder of automotive receipts. I lost track of time, but I know I was able to get the Chevelle covered back up by myself in the wind, and even crack open my Economics text book. Painful.

BG finally made a move to extricate himself from the passenger seat of his car. That’s when I saw him going for his cash. After months of aborted attempts, a deal was struck. The Beast was going to a new home in southern NY State.

After fighting our way through Frazer traffic, we were able to successfully transfer the title. The Albatross no longer hangs around my neck; it is flying to a new roost where it will, hopefully, get the chance to fly with someone who is able to dedicate the time to it that the bird deserves. Then it might be able to soar like an eagle again.

I’m sad to see it go, but at the same time, it has lifted a great burden off my shoulders. So concludes the muscle car era of my life…for now.

For Your Viewing Pleasure...

2008-02-25T18:59:00.002-05:00

Episode 6

2008-02-25T18:39:00.001-05:00

The heat just exacerbated his hangover. Even this short walk up the street seemed to take all of his will. How much longer could he keep doing this crap? He didn’t know. He would never know. He spent his days hoping for some miracle or sign to guide him; a vision that would never manifest itself. He spent his life swimming in darkness; a darkness that was either imposed by some glitch in his brain chemistry, or the darkness that he imposed upon himself. In that darkness, no light could enter.
He entered the Laundromat with a full hamper in one hand, and a bottle of inexpensive detergent in the other. Upon entering, he was immediately seized by the number of olive faces in his presence, which was extremely unusual in this white-bread town. Throughout the laundromat, eight immigrant woman; the wives and mothers of migrant fruit-pickers, were tending to their broods as they loaded and unloaded multiple washers and dryers. Aside from one elderly caucasian woman lurking by the change machine, his was the only pale face in the joint.
As he searched for an open high-capacity washer, he was immersed in a language he couldn’t hope to understand, and he just KNEW they were talking about him. Realistically, that was very unlikely. Just keeping track of their kids was a far bigger concern for these migrants than anything Rudy had to offer. To them, he was just another rich, lucky gringo. He didn’t know whether he should feel relief from overcoming this bout of paranoia, or be even more suspicious of these people. Their comfort with, or simple lack of attention to the situation made him feel even more uneasy. Why didn’t he matter anywhere? For all they knew, he could have been the head of INS, but they didn’t seem to worry about it. Que Sera, Sera. Persona non grata or persona who cares; he had about as much impact as a marshmallow, and he knew it.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

The Price is Right

2008-02-22T15:36:00.001-05:00

It’s been a long month. The intensity of my classes at the university have taken up a lot of my time. Even so, I know I’ll feel great when I can finally walk out of its doors for the last time this summer, and thumb my nose at it; then I’ll just look forward to dodging their donation requests for the rest of my life!

It’s dealing with the unwashed who have been trying to buy my Chevelle that has been the real drain. It’s getting to the point where I think I’ll require credit scores and background checks before I’ll consider communicating with them.

The right car, at the right price is just waiting for the right buyer.

Episode 5

2008-02-12T18:25:00.000-05:00

Rudy awoke in the late afternoon to the din of neighborhood kids over the incessant hum of the largely ineffective air conditioner. Like a punch-drunk Rocky Balboa, he eased himself up from the linoleum canvas. Head pounding, and mind devoid of all thoughts except those of human necessity, he shuffled into the kitchen. He opened up the refrigerator and removed the second of the “Buy One, Get One Free” iced teas he had purchased the previous evening’s grocery excursion. After a long, greedy drag straight from the plastic container, he retrieved the bottle of store-brand ibuprofen the kitchen counter and popped four tablets in his mouth and swallowed. Nothing tastes like a bargain.
The splitting headache and joint pain didn’t matter. He needed to clean up the mess in the bathroom and bedroom. God knows it’s already two-thirds of the way dried on. He grabbed the carpet cleaner, trash can, and two rolls of paper towels and set to work. The smell and sight of the former contents of his stomach set him retching again. Rudy bravely choked down the brew of bile and iced-tea, started breathing through his mouth only, and soldiered on with the task.
After twenty minutes of arduous wiping and scrubbing, the bedroom carpet was returned to its former quasi-clean state. He grabbed his supplies and moved onto the bathroom, warily scuffing past the offending door jamb. Thankfully, this job was a little easier. He methodically wiped the outer part of the toilet with the paper towels and then squirted the inside of the American Standard with foamy cleanser. A few quick circular rubs of the toilet brush, a flick of the flush handle, and mission accomplished.
After stowing the clean-up tools, Rudy removed his offending clothing, tossed them into the hamper, and returned to the bathroom. Mind still devoid of all but necessary thoughts, he deftly adjusted the temperature of the shower to a little less than warm and climbed in. To the rhythmic thrum of the water on the shower curtain, he lathered and even managed a smile devoid of any malice; a rare occurrence these past few months.
After a quick towel off, Rudy donned underwear, olive-drab cargo shorts, and a well worn t-shirt. He gathered his wallet and keys, along with the hamper and laundry supplies. Rudy opened the outside door and his senses were immediately assaulted by the outdoor environment. Stifling heat and humidity immediately set his brow sweating. He could feel the sweat building on the top of his shorn head like rain beads on a freshly waxed car. Heat rose from the asphalt of his building’s parking lot in shimmering waves, and he inhaled the aroma of hot tar blended with noxious vehicle exhaust from the adjoining street. He heard the thrum of cars idling at a near by intersection. It was like a slap to the senses, and caused him to totter slightly.
He continued across the lot and down the street towards the laundromat. He saw the pack of children he had heard earlier riding bikes, and had a fleeting moment of childhood nostalgia. He wished life was that easy again, but was it ever?

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Shinola!

2008-02-10T19:16:00.000-05:00

For a short time, my ire was focused on those suffering from Big Rig Syndrome (BRS). After my experiences the past couple of weeks, I have a new target that we should all focus our gall upon: the Time Waster.

I’m sure you’ve all encountered them… the people who offer false promises, false hope, or simply just get in the way. They are the discarded douche-bags at the bottom of the societal heap. THEY are the time wasters. THEY are the ones that slow us down, and rob us of precious time and sanity.

My frustration with selling my Chevelle has reached a crescendo. In all honesty, I can afford to keep it, and I do love it. Like many hobbies that have passed before it, I figured I’d just sell it to some lucky soul, walk away from it, and move on to the next phase of my life. For that is what I do…I’m like the Phoenix of hobbies; reborn from one interest to the next. If I were rich; you could rightfully call me eccentric.
So, to my point: the Time Wasters became involved, and you all know the type… people who really can’t afford to buy my car, people who don’t know shit from Shinola, or just the run-of-the-mill tire kickers. All of them have conspired to waste my precious time. I have to take time to return their emails, return their calls, and worst yet: wait for them to show up. Stop the insanity!!! I can hardly wait for the day I can find a realistic buyer

Shinola

2008-02-10T18:28:00.000-05:00

For a short time, my ire was focused on those suffering from Big Rig Syndrome (BRS). After my experiences the past couple of weeks, I have a new target that we should all focus our gall upon: the Time Waster.

I’m sure you’ve all encountered them… the people who offer false promises, false hope, or simply just get in the way. They are the discarded douche-bags at the bottom of the societal heap. THEY are the time wasters. THEY are the ones that slow us down, and rob us of precious time and sanity.

My frustration with selling my Chevelle has reached a crescendo. In all honesty, I can afford to keep it, and I do love it. Like many hobbies that have passed before it, I figured I’d just sell it to some lucky soul, walk away from it, and move on to the next phase of my life. For that is what I do…I’m like a Phoenix being reborn from one interest to another. If I was rich; you could rightfully call me eccentric.

So, to my point: the Time Wasters became involved. You all know the type… people who really can’t afford to buy my car, people who don’t know shit from Shinola, or just the run-of-the-mill tire kickers. All of them have conspired to waste my precious time. I have to take time to return their emails, return their calls, and worst yet: wait for them to show up. Stop the Insanity!!!

Episode 4

2008-02-06T18:03:00.000-05:00

With his attempt to get to work on cleaning the spew, the spins only increase in their intensity. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, as not to disturb the neighbors who lie just past the paper-thin drywall in their own white-trash paradise. The spins. He could deal with the headaches and the effects of dehydration which were sure to come later, but the spins were an entirely different matter. The spins were by far the worst part of excessively imbibing alcohol. Hell, it wasn’t even so much a spin, as it was a shaking of the visible universe. Spins were like a carnival ride; shaking was just wrong. Just like some 9.0 earthquake striking the Far East, but instead of the ocean cresting into a great tsunami, the vomit would crest from your esophagus in great, painful, heaving torrents.
“Ummph!” He jumped into action, trying his damnedest to keep the oncoming torrent at bay. In the dark, he managed to bang his shoulder on the bedroom doorway. While moving full-speed, Rudy’s little toe caught the corner of the bathroom door jam, sending bolts of pain; pain so exquisite he could see it in white flashes before his eyes like heat-lightening. “Ummmmmmmmmmmm,” he groaned loudly while trying to keep his trap closed. So much for not waking the neighbors; oh well, fuck’em.
Rudy made his way to the toilet and relieved himself of his gastric burden in many painful, heaving spasms. Once done, he stayed kneeling, sweating, and reeling from the exertion. A solitary tear dripped from his left eye. Drunk or no, he still had to question his motives, and his sanity. “Why do I do this shit,” he croaked, half expecting an answer from a deity whose existence he more than doubted. In His/Her/Its own strange way, that deity granted Rudy mercy. He fell unconscious on the bathroom linoleum for the next two hours.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Episode 3

2008-02-02T23:36:00.000-05:00

He’d probably have been better of smoking weed than attempting to drown himself in eighty proof alcohol. It would have had less negative side-effects and would have allowed him to him to sleep well into the morning. For some reason, the stomach just can’t handle as much as the lungs. He was just too damn upstanding for that illegal shit though; at least the felonious shit. Even so, it’s not like the depressed really need more depressants; they just need something to take the edge off so that they can face another day. In that strange sense, the things that destroy us can be the same things that keep us going.
With an audible sigh, he faces the clean-up task ahead. It’s better to get it done now, shitty as he may feel, then to let it dry into the carpet and be forced to clean it up completely sober, or have to worry about the $400 dollar rental deposit. Screw it. His mind vacillates between living and dying like some ethereal coin flip. Is this shit worth it? Is any of it worth it? Do I waste the effort, or not? Where’s Christ or the Dali Lama when you need to answer this crap? So is life, or death, for that matter. Our existence can come down to something as seemingly insignificant as our willingness to clean up puke. Yeah or nay. Do or do not.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Episode 2

2008-01-30T17:31:00.000-05:00

What follows is a work of fiction, and all included characters are fictional and do not represent any actual persons, living or deceased; even though many of the geographic locations are real places. I would also like to let readers know that much of my content tends to be raw, and possibly offensive to some. So, if colorful language and content offends your sensibilities, please avoid reading any further. That said, I hope you find it stimulating.

Episode 2
4:30AM on a June Saturday finds Rudy in a familiar position, on his knees, sweating, and coated with a lacquer of his own vomit. He’s even managed to squirt a little shit into his whitie-tighties due to the violence of his projectile vomiting. Ah, the sweet caress of demon alcohol. Somehow, the mostly finished bottle of sugary convenience store iced-tea with a lemon twist and the remnants of a bargain-brand vodka bottle just don’t look so appealing anymore. He knows he’s been out for at least three hours; three whole hours of comfortable, dreamless, stupor and escape. Three hours to forget about the pain of being alive, and being the victim of a shitty excuse for an existence. He even thinks of masturbating for a brief moment, and then the spins start. No joy in Mudville.
He didn’t start the night with the intention of committing suicide, but thoughts of going out like Hendrix or Moon did cross his mind. Too bad he was never that lucky.
The worst part of the whole ordeal is that he’s the one that will have to clean up the mess. Who in the hell else going to do it? That’s the joys of the single life in Gettysburg. The only excitement is the excitement you create, and tonight’s excitement is absolutely a solo effort.
He feels a slight vibration on the thinly carpeted floor. Then the sound becomes more apparent over the din of some bullshit hair-metal on the CD player: another fucking chicken truck. He thinks of one word: cock-suckers. Those cock-suckers, those cock-suckers that drive about sixty miles per hour through this shitty excuse for a town; not only are the trucks loud, you get that vibration and the incessant sleigh-bell like rattle of tightly packed poultry cages. Rudy thinks of those chickens. Those poor, stupid fucking chickens riding blindly, and in fear, to their dooms on that unseasonably hot June morning; all to be consumed by even dumber bastards at fast food restaurants, and in countless frozen entrées. Yum.
A rational thought briefly crosses Rudy’s mind, how did all those Jews feel on those trains? He’s sure some of them believed the Nazi’s promises through either shear naivety or blind hope, but most of them had to know. They had to know they were on a train to their final destination and couldn’t do a damn thing but hope. Hope for the intervention of a benevolent God. “Christ, I watch too much fucking Hitler Channel,” Rudy mutters to himself as he surveys the filth he has surrounded himself with.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Fiction

2008-01-28T18:10:00.000-05:00

I present my first attempt at fiction to you all, and even I don’t know where it’s headed. I’ll attempt to keep plugging forward with an episode a week.

What follows is a work of fiction, and all included characters are fictional and do not represent any actual persons, living or deceased; even though many of the geographic locations are real places. I would also like to let readers know that much of my content tends to be raw, and possibly offensive to some. So, if colorful language and content offends your sensibilities, please avoid reading any further. That said, I hope you find it stimulating.

Episode 1
Simmering misguided hatred of everything had become his passion, his world, and his ever expanding universe. He seethed at everything imaginable, from asshole motorists who cut someone else off to the jack-off who couldn’t drink without slurping. No imagined insult, no matter how minute, escaped his notice. Worst yet, he never forgot them. They just sat there stewing in the hell-broth of his mind. No release, no savior, no escape.
He could never shake the feelings of abandonment that enveloped him. Though an outside observer could never find cause for these emotions, he felt them and they burned like a foundry inside him. The boy, unable to truly cross the bridge into manhood, felt that he never really belonged to anything. He just knew those friends he had were never really friends: they were either using him to assuage their own egos, or were just looking for someone else to share this swim through misery and despair. His god, the one that was supposed to be so fucking benevolent and omnipotent, managed to leave him high and dry again. He never listened, never fixed anything, and most certainly never brought any sweet vengeance or merciful justice. How in the hell could a righteous god let all this crazy bullshit happen in the world, and worst yet him? Why in the fuck could everyone else be happy, and not him?
Who can work towards heaven when you’re in constant hell? Who can hope for sunny weather in the middle of a hurricane? Certainly not Rudy, for his life has always been a level-five, certifiable, shit-storm. The anger blown rains of misery never ceased. Rudy was mired in a deep depression. A depression that pursued him like a pack of feral dogs, ripping him down by his Achilles, gnawing him into submission, and devouring every bit of life in his soul.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Rescue Me and Love Me!

2008-01-26T12:38:00.001-05:00

They call me The Beast, and I’m a 1972 Chevelle SS clone. I’ve had a great life, but my owner doesn’t have time to spend with me anymore, and has told me to find a new home. I currently face the humiliation of sitting in a cold storage area amongst recreational vehicles, boats, and trailers. My horsepower sits idle and untapped until my owner can find the time to come over and drive me. I fondly remember when he would drive me everyday and wave to all of the fans who adore me. I’m not only full of great memories; I create new ones everyday I’m allowed to drive wide-open on the highway, or when you take the time to upgrade me. I’m originally from down south, but now I’m titled and inspected in Pennsylvania and good to go.

I’m a middle-of-the-road classic. I’m not a heap or a show car; I’m a great driver. My appearance is fair to good, and my drive train is very good to great. My body and frame are solid, rust free, undercoated, and lacking in Bondo. My throbbing heart is a high output; four bolt 350, with a radical cam, headers, and a sweet sounding Flowmaster exhaust. I always fool people into thinking I’m powered by a 396 or a 454! Best yet, I have no pollution controls to rob my horsepower. My Tremec five speed transmission and drive shaft are only a year old, and my awesome 3.73 twelve bolt posi-rear was rebuilt at the same time. I have power front disc brakes and power steering, and drive straight, fast, and true. I have a new gas tank and suspension components, but my therapist says I should have my lower bushings replaced soon to keep me optimal. I do have a tiny power steering leak, but he says that’s pretty normal for a high performance classic of my vintage. I think my paint should be replaced at some point, but a good waxing will do for now. I have a little bit of rust on my trunk pan, wheels, and side view mirrors, but that’s pretty easy to get a handle on.

Please save me from a life of idleness and love me. My owner is willing to sacrifice me for $12,000 firm, as he has a lot of green and love invested in me on top of the $15,000 he paid for me. Cash is king, but he’ll consider certified checks or Internet escrow. If you're seriously willing to take me on, leave your email address for my owner. I would also like to thank my therapist, Uncle Cliff, of Cliff Froggatt’s Auto Service in Narvon PA (717-354-6376) for giving me expert care and upgrades when I’ve needed it. He’s not only a great auto therapist, he’s a great friend, singer, and a mechanical magician!

Help Fight BRS

2008-01-25T20:13:00.000-05:00

Friends, I have found another problem I need to address. It is an illness that can affect anyone of any sex, race, religion, or creed that is above sixteen years of age. Even so, people of the upper-middle class seem to suffer most. The terrible plague that has befallen us is known as BRS, and its victims are many.

BRS is the acronym for Big Rig Syndrome. This infirmity is suffered by people who, for whatever reason, purchase and drive vehicles far too large for themselves. It could be because of ego, peer-pressure, or simple ignorance; the reasoning does not matter nearly as much as the results. Aside from the environmental issues (for which I can’t rightfully throw any stones), there are more practical concerns.

These people are a menace on the roadways. They constantly weave into opposing traffic, have near misses, and drive too fast a for road conditions which is due to a false sense of security provided by four-wheel drive and extra sheet metal. The worst is when they try to make turns into driveways, or at intersections. Sweet Jesus, you’d think they’re driving one of those old fashioned tractor and tiller fire trucks, or trying to put the QE2 into dry-dock. They have to come to a complete stop first, and then attempt to negotiate a turn most of us could handle in excess of twenty-five miles per hour. Hell, that’s IF they’re not on their cell phone!

For the safety of everyone and the sanity of myself: you know damn right and well its too big for you to handle safely, so trade it in on something smaller!

Ears

2008-01-22T18:42:00.000-05:00

Boy, I’ve been up to my ears in it lately. I wanted to use brute force to pound my way through the rest of my undergraduate program, but it’s fighting back! What I THOUGHT would be easy electives for me, have turned out to be rather intensive. Combine this with me running around and trying to get that car sold, and dealing with the typical administrative problems with Immaculata University, and starting a new job, the typical things life throws your way; and you’re just asking for disaster.

Surprisingly, I’ve been holding up pretty well. I certainly have to give a lot of credit to my wife, family, and friends for all of their support. It’s a tough phase, but it’ll pass like all of the others before it. Then, it’ll just be a whole new batch of problems!

I really have to get to get that car sold. I love it, but it’s really kicking my ass right now!

bee

2008-01-18T18:02:00.000-05:00

Most of my readers, no matter how few they are (thanks AJ :)), probably recognize that my persistent antagonist, aka “bee,” happens to be the very woman who whelped this literary pup.

I ask all of you (which is probably just the aforementioned AJ) to join me in encouraging her to either: 1) start her own blog, or 2) finish her book(s) and try to have it published.

“Excuse me if I’m clinging on to life, but my parents wove me from tight thread.” –Jeanne Calment (famous for living to the age of 122).

PS: I’m thinking of turning the blog into a fictional serial. It would help me meet some of the requirements of that MFA program, and it might be more fun than hearing me bitch and complain. If you have any subject-matter ideas, let me know. Beginning is the hardest part!

Dilema

2008-01-17T18:37:00.000-05:00

It’s not exactly a big deal, but I have found myself brooding over some more choices. The first choice, whether or not to go to graduate school, seems pretty straightforward. I have to answer yes to it; worst case scenario: I hate it and quit, but I at least gave it a go and won’t have all those “what if” doubts swirling in my head. I have already picked a school that I’m very likely to be accepted to. Simple.

The second choice is tougher. I have found myself forced to decide between an MA in English Publication with a concentration in writing and editing, and a MFA in Creative Writing. I certainly have time to decide, as I won’t finish my BA until September, but I’ve always been one to look ahead. Carpe Next Year.

Right now, I’ve been leaning towards the Creative Writing degree. I’m guessing it would look less impressive on a professional resume, but the title Master of Fine Arts does have a sweet ring to it. Not to mention, there’s that “he’s an artist” excuse every time I mess up something mere mortals can do with their eyes closed. My brain will be churning on this one for a while, but anticipation is the best part of almost everything, is it not?

Gauntlet

2008-01-15T19:12:00.000-05:00

I’m afraid that my personal critic, otherwise known as “bee,” has laid down a gauntlet, of sorts. Bee thinks that the move from muscle car (which I STILL own) to economy ride, and the transition from night-time laborer to “9-5” cubicle-flunky somehow make me family man material. I think not.

To this assault I say: Ha, Ha! Remember, we are all stuck working for “the man,” and we do what we need to do to achieve our ends. Which, in my case, is getting an education, keeping a comfortable (but not lavish) home, driving a balls-out car, computer games, music, and enjoying what the arts have to offer.

Like the great AC/DC once encouraged, “Stand up and be counted!” Continue the fight my revolutionary brothers and sisters…your guerilla struggles against the corporate entities will be hallowed in the future! Kind of like that “Terminator” movie…

Continue to wear their business casual clothes, exist in their cubicles, and support their coffee funds; and all the while, constantly subvert their existence with half-ass work! Fight the power, indeed.

“Believe some say the neon signs...Might allow speakers repeatin’...And everything is fine...A subtle silence...To demolish the troubled conscious...Of a compass with no knowledge...And every freedom denied...Every dream is designed and broadcasted...From the masters to the masses...From the antennas on top of the trine...As far as the receiving planet during a panic is shorted...It reports back everything in your mind...Everything is lying...Everything is dying...Everything is a rule...And everything is a crime...Everything was healed...And everything rewinds...And new weather burn the feathers off everything's line”*

*From “Streets on Fire,” as recorded by Lupe Fiasco.