Nonfiction

Two Restaurant Reviews...one popular article, one less so.

FReagle — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 01:07:49 GMT

I posted two articles on a website and one attracts perhaps 10 readers a week. Another attracted about 40 readers it's first two days. I wonder if the second one is that much better than the other or did I just get lucky.

Here are the links to both articles. Is there anything you notice that would explain the difference?

Thank you. Whatever I did in the second article, I need to keep doing. Thank you for your feedback.

Tom

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1365979/two_visits_to_the_park_place_diner.html?cat=16

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2106595/a_visit_to_freddies_tavern_in_west.html?cat=8

Don't you Weep

JSquared — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 21:19:29 GMT

The following is my first attempt; as I work to flesh it out, I greatly appreciate any inputs. Thank you for reading, and for your time!

Don't You Weep

The economy may be failing, but sex will always sell. Or at least put food on the table of the lace-clad model with the soft stomach on my computer screen. I paid $12 to view this black-haired woman. She has angry eyes, and tilts her jaw toward the camera like she is looking to me for a fight.

Perhaps she is. The last time I saw her, she certainly was. Then she stood between me and our mother, blocking the doorway way with her angry fists and threatening to kill me if I dared to walk by. That night, once I was safely inside, she tried to set my room on fire. It was the dog who woke me.

She is my sister. Or rather, she used to be. Now she is a fetish queen on my computer screen, with her legs splayed and her panties around the mechanical bull she rides to nowhere. She has covered her body in tattoos. There are hoops, barbells, and studs through a landscape of holes where her flesh used to be. Large letters across her bony chest that read "don't you weep." The words rise and fall over the ribs and collar bones, leaping from her skin like roosters into the ring her gaze creates.

Her body is a canvas of words. She also sports four hooks through her back. There is a picture of her limp, black hair swinging like raven's wings, suspended above a crowd of screaming arms. I wonder what kind of man would pay to see those piercings, those tattoos, that pain, and be aroused.

What kind of man would pay to feed off of her pain?

The third row from the bottom includes a snapshot of her tongue. It swells to fill the screen, and I see a word written across it, above the stud that deforms the lips - "vegan." I wonder what kind of vegan puts meathooks in her back. Isn't the wearing of said hooks some kind of endorsement of the meat processing industry?

I have formed my own life around words, and reading her story on this $12 body causes a sudden rush of sympathetic pain. I push my own tongue against my teeth to stop the flood, and lick the insides of my mouth while I mull over this updated view of the sister I have not seen in six years.

Buddha said that "A merchant, a servant, a thief, a soldier, a priest, or a king: each of them is what he is because of what he does." So what does that make my sister, this angry woman with a cobra face and fleshy body who dangles herself above crowds by the hooks in her back? Buddha was referring to the caste system with his remarks, and I wonder if there is a caste system for prostitutes. If there is, would my sister be one of those classy prostitutes you can buy in the pretty red windows in Amsterdam, the kind with health care? I hope so, for her sake... it could be expensive if those meathooks got infected, and we are in a recession.

. . .

Seeing her makes the old worries rise up. I can taste my old fear, the terror that follows the question - am I like her? Am I like the mother that made her this way? Crazy runs in my family, you see. Turns out that my kind of crazy was different than theirs, but it took time to learn. My kind of crazy is the kind that makes you feel inadequate, guilty, and out of control; the kind that pushes you to regain control through an ever-increasing series of obsessions. The kind of crazy where the compulsions become increasingly destructive. My kind of crazy is not tattooed on my chest, but there were days when it might as well have been.

Those where the days when I would see my mother every day in the mirror. She was the face of my obsessions; my sister was the face of my compulsions. I would stare, and note that the set of my mouth is the same as my mother's. Our mouth gave her wrinkles. Was I going to be wrinkly, too? Would my wrinkles be from anger, or depression, or some kind of manic illness? Oh God, I feel angry and depressed and wrinkly. I'm like her, aren't I, aren't I? Give it to me straight, God.

There was one particular image of her that burned in my brain. We lived in Texas, then, and she is running across the lawn - an overweight woman in jean shorts that pleat in the front, wearing gold jewelry and a thin-lipped smile. Her shoulder-length hair flies back with her movement, making long floppy ears that bounce. The memory does not show what she was running after. Probably something trivial - she was like that. This awkward gallop is as happy as she got, and the sadness of that thought pulls me back to the present. She is a retriever, a destructive golden dog running across the lawn of my memories. I have not seen her in 5 years.

The naked sister on my computer screen means the dog has slipped its noose again. The two of them, mother and sister, are connected in their effect on me, and both run about the ridges of my consciousness. My mother has a mole over her lip. After the divorce, while my crazy sister followed our crazy mom across the country, my sister had her lip pierced in the same location to show their unity. They bonded, their marks shouted, over a shared hatred of my father and anyone else with blue eyes. We have the same eyes, my father and me. I think my sister's bipolar brain got bogged down in all that blue, until she hated everyone who wore that shade in the middle of their faces. Her eyes are green, like a snake. It is eerie, seeing her there, still splayed on the monitor, her vegan tongue laughing at the non-kosher meathooks.

Our shoulders curve to similar breadth. Our waists are tiny. We both hold fat beneath the round curve of our bottoms, and on the backs of our arms. Our teeth are straight, and when we smile our grins encompass our faces. I laugh a lot. She does not, or at least, not in these pictures. She does not know that I take my clothes off, too, but I call it "bodybuilding."

They make me worry. Then I worry that worrying is something they would do. The fear makes me want to gnaw on my nails, and chew until the red spatters.

Only a few years ago, I would have sucked my finger into my mouth. Today, however, I take a deep breath. Another. Another. Deeper. "Self," I murmur, "you are looking at pictures of your sister, not your mother. Do not even think about the blood-letting; that blood would make a mess on your new keyboard. The computer was a Christmas present, you've only had it a few weeks, and Jesus probably wouldn't want blood to cover the memories of His birthday. Come on, Self... breathe."

I raise my eyes as I follow my own instructions, rolling my shoulders back. I catch a glimpse of myself in another mirror, the one above my desk. I know how easy it would be to be her, and all the deep breaths in the world cannot hold enough air to cushion those feelings.

I was a prostitute, too, for a while.

Every Day!

ganz — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 05:17:18 GMT

Every day I would love for my husband and children to know how hard I work so they can take every day as a given. Do they know I just went in a conference room, full of VP's and had to explain the downturn in this economy and what I'm going to do to make it right? Do they take into consideration it took me 6 hours to get there, and woke up at 4AM? Do they know that I'm mentally drained when I finally do come home, and there is not a lot left?

Absolutely not. I'm a machine. I draw energy out of pure love. I'm exhausted, spent, but still I must go on. I am a working mother, and collapse into bed, sleeping. My daughter turns on the lights and demands I check her math, vocabulary, etc. Next thing I know my son is requesting I quiz him on his Spanish. Now they leave me alone, and I fall asleep for a couple hours. Now I wake, worried about work, the economy, and bills. I know my struggle is not unusual, but watch stupid TV so I can fall asleep at night with other thoughts in my head...........

Hope

ganz — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 03:52:08 GMT

"Hope is a word that fuels actions, ideas and belief in people." I whispered to my mother.

"Hope is a word that has no substance, and cannot guarantee results." She strongly fires back.

"Hope is a word that has united a country, and caused respect in many parts of the world." I quietly respond.

"Let's hope you feel that way 4 years from now. It won't happen."

I boiled a cup of tea, relaxed and relished in a moment that was monumental for so many. My mother may have different, older ideas on what America is, and I respect her opinions and those of others.

I feel lucky to be able to see and understand a different future for my country. I realized as I heard Obama's speech, and saw history being played out before me that I am a fortunate human being, and it is my right to have hope, and to use that hope and learn from a passionate experience to make me a better American and a better person.

I am a white caucasion female, and I could care less during this election about color, religion, or gender. I worry about this country, and to hear "Yes we can" instills me with a message for us all. "Yes we can." We all need to care enough to believe in the message, and use it in our everyday lives. Passion brings about change, and one man may be able to bring about passion, but is the passion of many that will make the difference.

I only wish my mother was young enough, open minded enough to feel that way when she was young, and to know and believe in the words "Yes We Can." She never thought she had a voice when she was younger, and perhaps her life as a woman would have been different if she had the words ingrained in her, "Yes we can." My children will have this message, and I feel blessed for those words.

kganz

deleted

inmyprime — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 21:54:30 GMT

Stalkers: over achieving fans, or dangerous nuts?

obanion — Thu, 21 Apr 2005 08:12:14 GMT

As the hostess swiped my card this evening, she glanced at it, and then told me, seemingly in jest, that she would remember my name for future stalking purposes. We both laughed, and i replied that i had never had a stalker, or if i did, that i was not aware of it probably because he/she had incredibly stealthy skills. I went on to say that i would feel somewhat complemented to have a stalker, especially her. Now i realize that she was simply playing the flirtation game, and being who i am, i played right back.

As i ventured to my car, i began to ponder more deeply about stalkers and stalkees. At first, all of the statistics and writing concerning the issue of stalking that i had ever read came flooding back to me. And, of course, i began to wonder about that old saying, "many a truth is said in jest", so i began to ponder the possiblities, and my threat level was raised. No, it wasn't like an image of Paul Wolfowitz announcing that my personal color level had been elevated, but i just couldn't help wondering what she might do simply knowing my name.

Fortunately, my rational side took over. and, i realized that if pretty girls want to stalk me, well, there are much worse things that could happen in life. so, i began to wonder about the whole flip side to stalking. and, i came to the realization that, in a way, being stalked, actually is sort of a complement. although pathetic loosers sometimes are the stalkers, more often then not, they don't actually get stalked themselves. this is because people who are actually stalked, are deemed worthy of being stalked. people who are stalked are actually interesting enough to warrant the attention of someone willing to stalk them. so, in my stange twisted logic, being stalked is in some form, a complement.

Now, before i get jumped upon, let me say that i know full well, that many celebrities as well as many average people have had the unpleasant experience of being stalked. and furthermore, that a number of these stalking episodes have led to violent and sometimes deadly encounters. however, i just can't help thinking that a stalker doesn't just choose his/her subjects at random, but instead develops an uncommon affinity or dislike for a particular person and pursues it to a highly inappropriate degree.

having said that, i still like the concept of having a stalker, so long as he/she doesn't become violent or interfere with my personal business. but, it would signify to me that i have either done something that he/she really liked or related to, or offended to a degree that they dispised every fiber of my being. John Lennon is immortalized partially because of a stalker, and i would like to know that i have either enlightened or irritated someone so much that they would go to such lengths as to actually stalk me. whether they loved or loathed my work, i would still know that i made a connection with someone. but then again, i suppose body guards can be expensive, so i might rethink this whole being stalked thing. after all, i don't want to end up like Salmund Rushdie. note to self: do not anger religious fundamentalists.

Looking for feedback on style.

Brandman — Sat, 23 Sep 2006 14:08:37 GMT

I'd appreciate your feedback on some issues with my writing. My non-fiction story is about the history of the Mustang Ranch brothel and the lives of its former owners Joe and Sally Conforte circa 1976-1980.

My writing for the most part is third person omniscient narrative. I break form in the opening with Joe's and Sally's thoughts an a monlogue of sorts. Their thoughts then lead into scenes.

A couple of scenes are written from the POV of the group of prostitutes that work at the Mustang. The scenes are more thought than action.

The story is written in the present tense.

These style issues work for me but they may seem quircky or odd to someone else. Do I need to post a sample so you understand better?

Thanks to all that reply.

Is Getting a Critique a Sale-Killer?

Teslawriter — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 00:03:30 GMT

Hi all:

Happy 2006! May we all get what we're hoping for (impeachment/conviction and imprisonment for certain governmental office-holders tops my '06 wish list, btw...).

I have a question:

I'm finishing up a short, true story about pulling my boat out of the the water under extreme winter conditions, and I hope to sell it to a boating magazine. If I post it here and ask the good folks whom I haven't insulted, by my political statement, above, (you know who you are, as members of "the reality-based community" lol!) to critique my story, will I have just "published" my story? IOW, will I then be unable to sell the First North American Serial Rights, as it's already appeared in the public domain?

I hope your answers can also explain how people handle this, in the event that yes, I will have forfeited my right to sell the above rights, if I were to post it here.

Also, if I can post it and still retain said rights, where on this site would it be appropriate to post my story, if I wanted any interested parties to critique it?

Thanks in advance!

Warmly,

Peter

Best of 2005 Article

venomlace — Thu, 29 Dec 2005 01:35:53 GMT

I wrote this for Just Press Play and wanted to see what other writers thought of it. Of course it helps if you know something about the gaming industry. Thanks in advance for any feedback.

Welcome to my inaugural Best of the Year piece for Just Press Play. As you will notice, this is not as in-depth as some Best of the Year articles out there. That’s because instead of an entire staff that was able to play every game under the sun - it’s just me, covering what I was able to play during the ever so fast moving 2005.

Here at Just Press Play we pride ourselves as regular gamers, just like most readers. We all have our day jobs, school, and families, but still like to take a little time to cover this wonderful industry. Hopefully, if all goes right, you’ll see some comments or lists from a staffer or two to help broaden this little article.

So without further ado, I give you my Top Ten Games of 2005 (remember, based off what I had the chance to play):

1. Resident Evil 4 (GC/PS2) – If you looked at this release as just another Resident Evil filled with poor controls and nightmarish inventory control, you really missed the boat on this one. RE4 is sure to change the way survival horror titles are developed with its intuitive controls, great storyline, incredible graphics, and unsurpassed atmosphere.
2. God of War (PS2) – The game that inspired me to start my first novel. Never before have I controlled a character with Kratos’ ferocity, yet beautifully orchestrated ways of death bringing. Add to that an incredible story centered on brutal ancient Greek Mythology, and you’ve got a game no one can resist. Did I mention the gameplay is second to none in this one?
3. World of Warcraft (PC) – I know, I know, it came out last year and won awards across the board on every website and in every gaming publication possible. But, the way Blizzard keeps cranking out patches that add content inundated enough to be considered expansions, the game becomes endless (and sucks away many hours of potential sleep). And the true Expansion comes out next year. Do I sense another Game (Expansion) of the Year for Blizzard?
4. Half-Life 2 (PC/Xbox) – This game has it all – an engaging story, incredible graphics, and wonderful FPS gameplay. If your computer is unworthy when it comes to games like Half-Life 2, the Xbox port is perfect.
5. Call of Duty 2 (PC/Xbox 360) – The first Call of Duty was amazing, and the second is even more so. Sure there’s way too many WWII shooters out there, but don’t let that turn you off from missing one of the best games ever.
6. Ninja Gaiden Black (Xbox) – If you missed out on Ninja Gaiden when it first came out, now’s your chance to redeem yourself. This game has the best presentation ever seen on a home console. Even if you played it the first time around, there’s enough new stuff to keep your interest (like unlocking the original 8-Bit Ninja Gaiden….woot!). Did I mention you can pick this one up brand new for under 30 bucks?
7. Shadow of the Colossus (PS2) – Waging battle against the largest foes ever seen in a video game is just one of the many treats in this technical wonder of a game. When I say big, I mean like Downtown New York skyscraper big!
8. Mario Power Tennis (GBA) – The big surprise of the year to me. Nintendo has a great track record in making un-popular sports, fun. Throw in Camelot (makers of Golden Sun), and you get not only unheralded tennis play, but some role-playing to boot. This one will keep you entertained on the go for hours.
9. Gun (PC/Xbox/Xbox 360/PS2/GC) – I spent my time with this one on the PC, and enjoyed every bit of it. There were plenty of mixed reviews, but I happened to enjoy the great story, impressive voice acting, and the gritty old west feel that was done to perfection.
10. Quake 4 (PC/Xbox360) – If you have an Xbox 360, DO NOT waste your time on this. Same goes to those with outdated PC’s. With a decent rig, Quake 4 looks and plays impressive as ever. While it doesn’t have the greatest story, it does have some intense moments that are water cooler talk worthy.

So there you have it, a list many will be shaking their heads at, but I didn’t get a chance to play everything this year. Hope you enjoyed it and I plan on expanding on this next year.

In closing, I thought I would share my 2006 wish list (I did get the PSP and four games for Christmas, I wrote the list before).

10 Video Game Related Items I want in 2006
(In no particular order)

1. Xbox 360 – PlayStation fanboys continue to bash Microsoft and their heralded Xbox 360 for the initial release shortages. Apparently they completely forgot about the PS2 release – I’m starting to think the large PS2 library is a bad thing; these guys appear to have fried their brains with so many games.
2. Nintendo Revolution – While some question the approach the Big N is taking with the new controller, I revel about it. I can’t wait to get my hands on that controller and experience games in a whole new fashion. Finally, a first-person shooter on a console system will have the feel of a PC’s mouse and keyboard.
3. PS3 – Let’s not stop now. Writing game reviews means needing every system. The impressive tech demos at E3 2005 were enough to make my head spin. Here’s hoping that we play some games that actually look like that during gameplay.
4. 60”+ HDTV – What self respecting gamer doesn’t want a nice new phat HDTV in which to play their new systems on? I’ve been eyeing the Sony Wega 64” LCD HDTV (when it comes to gaming – Plasma Bad; LCD Good). God help anyone else in family should I ever get one.
5. Widescreen Flat Panel Monitor – If you’re gonna enjoy the consoles and movies on nice widescreen, you mine as well do the same when playing PC games. Since I’m spoiled by my widescreen Toshiba Satellite laptop, I’d like to enjoy World of Warcraft in widescreen bliss on my power rig as well.
6. Nintendo DS – Nintendo rules the handheld market still to this day, and for good reason. Plenty of “Killer Apps” are out for the DS now, and I’d love to play Mario Kart while at work via Wi-Fi.
7. The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess – Ever since I beat the original Zelda for the NES the day it came out, I just can’t seem to get enough. Twilight Princess brings back a realistic, badass looking Link – and he even turns into a wolf (insert oh’s and ah’s here).
8. Trip to E3 2006 – I’ve been there done that before, but I’m really looking forward to 2006. Not only will Xbox 360 and PS3 games be in full force, we’ll also get to play around with that Revolution controller. My goal is to get the brass here at Just Press Play to get us in the doors so we can cover all the details for you.
9. PSP – This sleek little spendy sucker does indeed look good, and some better games should start rolling out in 2006. Just don’t see myself spending 10-15 bucks more than a regular DVD to watch movies on it though, not when I already have a laptop with a beautiful screen.
10. Logitech Wireless Keyboard and Mouse – The latest one ($150) has everything from Bluetooth technology to a hand touch pad for controlling things like your PC volume. Tie this in with that 64” Sony Wega and you have a PC gamers dream come true.

Happy New Year everyone, here’s to a new year filled with more gaming bliss! Until next time……Game On!

Keith Michaels
JPP Staff Writer
venomlace@yahoo.com

Please Criteque my short story

protime — Mon, 31 Oct 2005 21:21:00 GMT

HELTER SKELTER AT THE SMELTER

It was one of those damp nasty fall days on Long Island in 1962. I walked into the 400 Club and eased my small frame up on a barstool. I saw the same faces I’d been seeing for the last five years in my neighborhood bar. The place was old style. Long and narrow with a bar on one wall as you walked in and a few tables and chairs with a pool table and juke box in the back. I was here to meet two buddies to plan a robbery of a metal smelter.

“What will ya have Johnny?” Asked Ray the owner.

“Give me a Jack on the rocks Ray. How are you doing?”

“I’m not doing too bad Johnny. How about you?”

“I’m doing pretty good. I just won a hundred fifty out at my dad’s poolroom in East Islip playing straight pool.”

“Wow that’s a nice score. What fool lost that to you?”

“His daddy owns a big paving company.”

“Not for long if the kid keeps playing people you.”

He had bought the bar about a year ago from the original owner’s widow. Ray had lived here in Oceanside all his life. He had been taken prisoner in World War One and hated violence. If you even looked like you were going to throw a punch, he threw you out and banned you for a week. But if he liked you, he would do anything for you. Including loaning you money or letting you run a tab. I knew Ray all my life. In fact, he and my dad went to school together. They both played semi-pro baseball together also. With his silver hair and quick wit, his friends called him The Silver Fox.

“Let me know if you’re going to the track tonight Johnny. I have some horses I want to bet.”

“Sorry Ray. I’m not going tonight.”

“With a pocket full of money your not going to the track?”

“I’m going to try to keep it for more than one day.”

“I hear that.” He said.

“Has Bob or Chuck been in today?”

“Bob was in around lunchtime. I haven’t seen Chuck in a few days.”

Ok thanks, let me have another drink and have something your self.”

“Thanks, I think I will.” He said.

Ray poured himself a Scotch on the rocks and tossed most of it down.

“Cheers Johnny. Thanks.”

“Cheer.”

“Here comes Bob and Chuck now.” He said.

“Give them whatever they’re drinking and tell them to come back to the table I’m at Ray.”

A few minutes later Bob and Chuck came back and sat down. Bob was well over six-foot and about two hundred pounds of blue-collar muscle, with a Black Belt in Karate. He was nobody to mess with when he was drinking heavy. The only reason he had all the work he wanted was he was the best torch man around these parts. He could cut a car up in three-foot sections in less than an hour. Bob worked when he needed money. He worked mostly for chop shops and at Chucks wrecking yard, whenever the price of metal went way up and Chuck wanted a lot of cars cut to take to the scrap yard. Bob and Chuck were in their early thirties and friends since childhood. I was twenty-five.

Chuck was around six foot and over two hundred. He was easy going, and rarely was in a fight. You really had to do something to his family or screw with his money to get him that mad. He leased a piece of land down by the canal for his wreaking yard.

Me on the other hand am five foot six in shoes and about one fifty. I boxed when I was in my teens and had a good enough record to turn pro. When I had a record of thirty-one and one, someone connected to the mob asked to be my manager. I didn’t want to get into that so I just quit boxing. Then I did a tour in the Army with the Cold Weather Special Forces. I’m a mechanic by trade now, but make most of my money on pool tables. My dad was a road pool player when he was younger and taught me how to shoot and hustle at a young age.

Even though I can hold my own in a fight, I’m small compared to most of the troublemakers around town. Bob and Chuck have saved my butt many times over the years. Chuck says I have way too big a mouth for someone that small. It has something to do with me being mostly Irish and Indian. Not a good combo for drinking.

One night a few years ago we were in a biker bar out in Islip. Bob and Chuck told me if I started anything in there, I was on my own. Of course I got drunk and thought I was ten foot tall and bullet proof in no time. There was a big biker dude I had been mouthing off to and staring down for about an hour. When I went to the men’s room, the guy followed me in and beat hell out of me, then hung me up on the cloths hook on the back of the door and left me hanging there until Bob came and got me down. It was embarrassing.

“Hi guys.”

“Hey.” They both said in unison.

“Do you have everything worked out for the job? Bob asked.

“It’s all set for one o’clock Monday morning. I have everything planed. We should be in and out in two hours. The workers start coming in by five, so we need to be out of there well before that.” I said.

“Why not go in on the weekend when no workers come in?” Bob asked.

“Because Mac is off the weekends and the ship that the guy from Brooklyn will offload the ingots takes off for somewhere overseas at around nine every Monday morning.”

“What about the cops?” Chuck asked.

“The cops only make two swings by there. Once a little after midnight and once at around four in the morning. I’ll need to park by the phone booth by the deli and wait for the cop to make his first check on the smelter. Then we can bring the trucks to the smelter and do our thing.”

“You said you were going to take care of the guard?” Bob said.

“I gave Mac two hundred and fifty dollars to let me hit him in the head with something to make him bleed a little. Then I’ll tie him up and leave him in the guard shack for the workers to find in the morning.”

Mac was a friend of mine. I take him with me to a strange bar or poolroom where I’m going to play for big money. He is well over six-foot and around three hundred pounds. He really can’t fight well, but he looks mean as hell. I have never had any trouble getting out of the places with the money I’ve won. Mac isn’t the brightest star in the sky though. So it was easy to get him to go along with his part in the job.

“Sounds like you got everything covered.” Chuck said.

“I should. I’ve been planning it for over a year.”

“I priced the scrap value today. Take all the ingots you can get. The price is as high as I have ever seen it.” Chuck said.

“Ok with me.” I said.

“Chuck said we could get between twenty-five and thirty-five grand on the truck.” Bob said.

“Wow that’s a nice score.” I said.

“The scrap yard in Brooklyn is going to pay us in cash too. We might have to wait a day or two for some of it, but the guy is good for it.” Bob said.

“George Morrow just came in. Did you hear someone carjacked him yesterday on his courier route? Now he has no car to use for work.” Chuck said.

“Hi George. Sorry to hear about your car being stolen.” I said.

“Hi Johnny. I can’t get a rental paid for by my insurance company either. I didn’t have commercial insurance on it. If I push it they will drop me. I don‘t know what the hell I‘m going to do now.”

“Here’s four hundred. I wish I could help you more but that should get you a rental for a week or so way you can work.” I said.

“I can’t take that Johnny. God knows when I could pay you back.”

“Go ahead and take it, I’ll only give it to the horses anyhow. Pay me a little a week when you get back on your feet.”

Chuck threw a fifty on top of my money and Bob broke down and put a twenty down.

“Thanks a lot guys. Your lifesavers.” He said as he walked off to the bathroom.

“You’re a sucker Johnny.” Bob said.

“The guy is a hard worker and he has a wife and three kids. Besides I’m going to be coming into a nice chunk of money in the next few days.” I said.

We all laughed at that.

“Not too long ago I went broke playing a guy at the Blue Duck some eight ball. I still thought I could beat him. George was there and slipped me a hundred bucks to get back in action with the guy.”

“Did you win?” Bob asked.

“I beat the guy for my three hundred back, plus six hundred.”

“Way to go Johnny.” Chuck said.

“If you could stay sober when you played pool, you would be hard to beat for anyone. Your problem is you drink too much when you’re playing.” Chuck said.

“Thank you Doctor Abby. What are you my frigging therapist?”

“I’m not kidding. I know Tommy Tusco, the pool pro from Queens. He told me no one wants to play you for money when you’re sober.” Chuck said.

“Lets get back to business here and get off my back.” I said.

“You said we don’t need to bring anything but the two-flatbed trucks right?” Bob said.

“Bring work gloves, ski masks and make sure you cover any lettering on the trucks with those magnetic signs I had made up for you.”

“Couldn’t you think to put anything better than Sal’s hauling on the sign’s?” Chuck said.

“I saw his truck out in East Islip the other day. It’s a red ford just like yours. If someone sees the truck going in or leaving the smelter, it will take the heat to him for awhile.” I said.

“You’re a clever little thing Johnny.” Chuck said.

“The cut will be thirty-five percent for Chuck because we’re using his Trucks. Thirty-five percent for me for planning the job and thirty for you Bob. Does that sound fair?” I asked.

They both grunted yes.

“Ok let’s get some more drinks and go over everything one more time.” I said.

“I have it set up with the guy in Brooklyn to put all the ingots on the ship as soon as we get there. Just in case the cops start looking at scrap yards for the stolen stuff some time Monday, the stuff will be out of there by ten. I think it’s going to Japan.” I said.

“I got two big tarps to cover to stuff on the truck.” Chuck said.

“It looks like we have everything covered. I’m going to go home and get some sleep. I’ll call you both tomorrow to make sure nothing has come up.”

On the way to my car, Joe Farina the local bookie that I took bets for stopped me with two of his goons. When Joe had one goon with him you were all right, but two meant there was going to be some trouble.

“Hi Joe, what’s going on?”

“You owe me three grand.” Joe said.

“For what?”

“Your buddy Timmy called in three grand worth of bets and took off when he lost.”

“He’s not my buddy Joe. You’re the one that sent him to me.”

“You know the rules, you placed the bets for him, and you make good on them. Either you find him and make him pay up or pay it your self. I don‘t care which. You have two days.”

“Give me a break. You said the guy was good, then when he splits it‘s on me?”

One of the goons stepped in front of me with an I’m going to enjoy this look on his face. I hit him as hard as I could with a left to the liver and a right to the kidney. He went down on one knee. The other goon grabbed me and held me until the other one got up. Then he worked me over pretty well with body shots.

“That’s enough. I‘m sure he‘s got the idea now.” Joe said to the goons.

“Joe I don’t have three grand and I have no idea where Timmy is at.”

“You have two days to get me my money or your history Johnny. I’ll have them break your hands and arms so bad that you’ll never hold a pool cue again.”

Then they all walked over to Joe’s Cadillac and left. I went back in the bar to have a quick double of Jack, then left for home. Just what I needed, Joe the bookie on my ass now. I could probably get my dad to talk to Joe, but at twenty-five I figured it was time I handled my own problems. After soaking in the bathtub for almost an hour I went to bed.

The next two days I asked around about Timmy. Finally someone told me he took off to Florida. The guy said he borrowed money from everyone he could and then took off. Real nice guy. If I didn’t have this smelter job coming up tonight I would go and look for him. I would pay Joe with the profits from the smelter job, then take a trip down to Florida after it was over.

It was after midnight as we sat in the trucks in front of the closed deli waiting on the cop to make his first check on the smelter.

“Where the hell are the cop’s when you need them?” Bob said nervously.

“There he is now. He didn’t even stop. He just slowed down a bit. It must be donut time for him.” I said.

“Let’s do it.” Chuck said as he fired up his truck.

Bob dropped me off in front of the side gate. After snipping the barbwire on top of the fence, I scaled it easily. I found Mac in the guard shack reading the Racing Form.

“Ok Mac, this is it. Remember what to say when they question you tomorrow. Make sure they bring you to an emergency room. Maybe you can collect worker comp for awhile too.”

“Be careful not to hit me too hard.”

“Sit back down in your chair. I don’t want to have to try and pick your fat butt up off the floor after I hit you.”

As soon as his butt hit the chair I smacked him good on his forehead. He fell out of the chair onto the floor and out like a light. What a wimp. I saw he had a pretty good size gash on his head as I tried to pick him up. He wouldn’t budge. When I heard the two trucks come in, I went and got Bob and Chuck to help me lift Mac to the chair so I could tie him.

“What did you do, Kill him?” Bob asked.

“I just gave him a little tap. I can’t help it he can’t take a little shot to the head.”

“That looks like more than a little tap.” Bob said.

“Just help me get him in the chair please. He will be fine.”

“By the looks of that gash you hit him pretty good.” Chuck said.

We got him in the chair with much effort. I tied him to the chair and tied the chair to a set of pipes that came out on the floor.

“Ok let’s get this stuff loaded and get the hell out of here.” I said.

“We have the trucks parked so we can load them from all sides. Why don’t you go out by the gate and watch for cops. There are only two forklifts anyhow.” Chuck said.

“It’s after one already. How long will it take you to get the trucks loaded and tied down?”

“About an hour or less.” Bob said.

“Ok I’ll be out by the front gate.”

As I was walking away I saw them starting to load the pallets of ingots onto the trucks. Everything was going to plan so far.

A little less than an hour later and five cigarettes, a big tractor-trailer with a long flatbed pulled up to the gate. On the door it said Able Hauling Company. The driver got out of the truck and walked up to the gate.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked.

“I’m here to pick up twenty-six tons of ingots. Where’s Mac the guard at?”

“He called in sick today. They called me in to work for him.”

“Well here’s the paperwork. Open the gate.”

I had to think fast.

“Didn’t your company tell you that they canceled the pick up?”

“When the hell did they do that?”

“I think just today.”

“Can I use your phone to call my dispatch?”

“All our phones are down. I think the whole area is out.”

“That’s frigging great. I drove all the way here from Jersey.”

“I’m sorry no one told you, but I know it’s true because they told me that the load was on hold until next week for some reason.”

“They probably know the price of metal is going up next week.”

“Is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but that’s the only reason they ever hold loads of metal up.”

“All I can say is that I’m sorry. Someone at your place should have told you.”

“I’m going to find a phone so I can chew the dispatcher out.”

“Go down to the end of this road and make a right. Then go about two miles to the Blue Duck Bar. There’s a phone right outside it.”

“Ok thanks.” He said walking back to the truck.

“I knew the outside phone was broke all the time there and the bar was closed at this hour. I just hoped they didn’t fix it in the last few days. We needed all the time we could get before he got hold of his dispatcher. I didn’t know anything about this pick-up.

When he pulled away I ran back to the trucks to tell them what happened and to see how much longer it was going to take to load.

“About another fifteen minutes and another fifteen to tie it down.” Chuck said.

“We need to get the hell out of here now.” I said.

“I’m not leaving without the full loads.” Bob said.

“I’m going back to the gate. Get the rest loaded fast. I don’t like this. The truck driver is calling his dispatcher that will probably call someone high up from here. Then it will hit the fan fast.” I said.

I ran back to the gate only to get another surprise. A county cop car was parked at the gate and a cop was walking to the gate.

“Hi officer, what can I do for you?”

“Where’s Mac at?”

“He called in sick today. My name is Fred Boes. I’m working his shift.”

“You got any coffee in the shack?”

“No I’m sorry I don’t drink it. I didn’t know anyone would stop in this time of the morning, sorry.”

“It’s no problem. Who is working back there?”

“Two guys are working on moving stuff around. Mac told me the other day they were going to put up another building.” I lied.

“Your suppose to let the police know when people will be working here. That way we know no one is trying to rob the place.”

“I’m sorry I thought that management took care of that.”

“It’s ok. I’ll let my dispatcher know that there are people here working.” He said as he walked to his car.

“Thank you.”

I saw him on his radio. This was getting bad. He needed to get the hell out of here. I made believe I was walking away while I waved to him. Maybe he would pull away.

Watching from behind some oil drums I could see him writing something on a clipboard. Then he pulled away slowly. I ran back to Bob and Chuck to tell them about the cop. The trucks were all loaded and tied down, but Bob and Chuck were no where in site. Then I heard banging from the main office. It sounded like metal on metal. When I got to the office door I saw Bob swinging a sledgehammer at a big old safe up against one wall.

“What the hell are you guys doing. The cops were just here. They will be back soon I’m sure. We don‘t have time for this.”

“We’re going to get the money out of this safe.” Bob said swinging the sledge.

“Come on out of there. You don’t even know if there is any money in it.”

“I’ll have it open in a minute.”

I could see by the greedy look in both their eyes that they weren’t going to leave without opening it. I was starting to panic now.

“Come on. We have around thirty grand on the trucks to split between us. Lets not blow it and get caught over what is probably nothing in the safe.” I shouted.

Almost an hour later they got it opened. It had a little over a hundred dollars in it and a lot of useless papers.

“Now can we get the hell out of here you morons? It‘s after three in the morning. We‘re way off schedule.”

I ran to the shack to check on Mac before we left.

“How are you feeling?”

“I have a hell of a headache and need to be untied to go to the bathroom.”

“Go in your pants. It will make it look better. I’ll see you in two days with the rest of your money. We’re going to give you another five hundred.”

“Come on Johnny. Let me go to the bathroom.”

“No. I’ll see you in two days. Remember what to tell the police when they find you.”

Running back to the trucks I felt bad for not letting him go to the bathroom, but I had no time for it. We needed to get out of here and into Brooklyn fast.

“Come on I’ll open and close the gates behind you.” I shouted.

After locking the gates back up we headed for Brooklyn and our payday. The trucks were over loaded. I hoped Highway Patrol didn’t stop us.

The forty-five minute trip went off with no problems. After weighing both trucks on their scale, they unloaded the ingots onto a flatbed railroad car and covered them with tarps.

“I thought they were going out by ship this morning.” I asked in a panic.

“There was a change of plans. The ship won’t leave till Thursday now. Don’t worry the train will pull out before nine this morning. Come on into the office and I’ll pay you for the stuff. You got thirty-two thousand coming to you.” The owner said.

To my surprise the guy paid us in full. Chuck and I got eleven thousand plus and Bob got ninety-five hundred. More than a lot of people made in a year.

We drove the trucks back to Chucks wreaking yard and went into his office for a quick drink to celebrate.

“I’m going to take my share and buy this piece of land. Chuck said.

“I’m going to wait for a few months for everything to settle down, and then I’m buying a brand new three-quarter ton Ford pick-up with dual wheels.” Said Bob.

“What are you doing with yours Johnny? After paying Joe the bookie first.” Chuck asked.

“I’m not paying him a dime. I’m driving down to Florida to live. I’ll be leaving as soon as I see Mac and pay him his five hundred.

This is one robbery that turned out good for everyone. Chuck owns his own wreaking yard; Bob has his new truck and does side jobs for Chuck and some local chop shops. Mac got a raise and fifteen hundred dollars for his injury, then got married. You can find me sipping Margarita's on Clearwater Beach on Florida’s West Coast and playing in high stake pool games at night. I guess the only one that got screwed was the insurance company and they will just raise everybody’s rates to make up the difference and more. I love it when a plan comes together.

END

Heros Return

pnugent — Sat, 22 Oct 2005 16:55:14 GMT

Heroes Return

It was a sunny, warm July day in central North Carolina, low humidity and a cloudless sky. A Boeing 737 crawled toward its parking space on the tarmac. When it stopped, a moving stair was put in position at its port side passenger door. A few people climbed the stair and entered the plane. Those of us watching could not make out who they were. Nothing happened for what seemed a long time. Probably five or ten minutes. Then, one my one, the passengers emerged. When they reach the tarmac, they straggled, then formed into a square block. They were D Company, 51^st Signal Battalion (Airborne), just arrived at Pope Air Force Base from Kuwait. One hundred American heroes, home from deployment with the 2^nd Armored Cavalry Regiment in Iraq.

They were several hundred yards to the front of the crowd of family and friends waiting to greet them on the Green Ramp, a small hanger reserved for this purpose. They were too far away to recognize individual soldiers. They were still dressed in their sand-colored, desert BDUs and they still carried M16 rifles slung over their shoulders, these weapons they had just carried in a hostile, deadly place. They brought home the smells and sand of the faraway desert.

On their way home they had stopped at Keflavik, Iceland. During their layover there, Navy wives provided cookies and drinks for them. Another refueling stop in Bangor, ME, their first step on U.S. soil. At Bangor local citizens met them and provided cell phones to call home.

When they were formed up, an order from the company commander began their slow march to the hangar – and reunion. Their guidon banner carried in the lead, one hundred voices chanting a cadence ritual, a block of American heroes home from the war. Free men and women – volunteers all - who had just continued an American tradition begun by the Minutemen at Concord and Lexington. That may sound trite, but it’s real and accurate. Our son Jeff was among them. He’d been deployed for fifteen anxious months.

Years earlier these same soldiers marched, in different companies, into their barracks areas at training posts around the country looking straight ahead. Not a glance aside. Not a smile to be seen. Serious, intent, disciplined, their first sergeants watching to make sure.

These soldiers, this living block, slowly approaching waiting arms and tears and shouts of pride and joy and thanksgiving. From them not a glance aside, not a smile to be seen. Serious, intent, disciplined, their first sergeant with them, because they are battle trained soldiers. Serious, intent, discipline kept them alive to sing their way into the Green Ramp this glorious day.

Another command from the Captain and they stop. The block now still. No smiles, no searches for family, no smiles. Serious, intent, disciplined. Professionals now. The first sergeant need not watch – he knows. Old Glory is raised. The soldiers and airmen in the welcoming crowd come to attention and a recording of the National Anthem begins slowly. Civilians attend with hands over hearts, hats removed. Everyone sings along. The small hangar resounds with proud, grateful voices – the hymn of our national religion. The music ends. Shouts from the soldiers, nearing release, and the crowd. The Brigade Commander takes a microphone and gives a brief “welcome home”. Words from the Company Commander to the heroes. We can’t hear. But we don’t need to. When he finishes we hear, loud and clear “Dismissed!”

Bedlam. Glorious, happy, tear-filled bedlam. The block crumbles. The battle hardened professionals are now sons and daughters, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, and buddies. Toddlers running to daddies, girlfriends and young wives lifted in a long awaited embrace. Old men, like me, and our women crying with relief and pride.

Jeff finds us in the tumult. He’s taller than I remembered. He’s skinny. One MRE a day for a month took its toll. But he’s happy. Sure, confident, battle tried – and glad to be home.

We all find our way across the road to Ft. Bragg. We were here fifteen months ago to see these airborne warriors off. We wondered, then, who’d not return. They’ve all come back – Killian, Sgt Fritz, Chris, Roger – and Jeff. Save one. God bless Sgt. Crocker.

Hate this war. Despise the men who sent them off. Wonder if we will ever learn that war is pointless. That does not demean these soldiers. They are the best of young America. They are the men and women who answered the most difficult of all calls of their Country – the call to surrender their lives, maybe lose them. We exalt in them.

We openly wept with pride as they slowly marched across the tarmac before the Green Ramp. Their singing cadence, growing as they approached, raised goose bumps. I thought of their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers who have acted this ritual. In spirit I was one of them – in the midst of them – proud, confident, hopeful. This living block of young men and women are this Country at its best – free, responsive, unselfish and hopeful.

Taking the Field

ASavoy — Sun, 24 Jul 2005 22:09:31 GMT

This is a personal essay of mine being published on Longstoryshort.com August 7th.

Taking the Field

The principles I have learned about life and the pursuit of writing, I have also learned from the good old game of baseball and its players. You never give up, you try and try again, you don’t over think things or you’ll jam yourself; these are things that help any person in life not just in baseball. Courage is the only way to achieve in the game of baseball; and so it goes for any area of life. I had to put that ideal to the test recently and ironically it took place on a baseball field.

I had been writing a weekly column for a Phillies baseball website for a year, when I was asked to cover media day for the double A Phillies team. I had never done anything like that before, yet I knew I wanted the assignment. I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable of doing something totally out of my realm of experience.

I arrived at First Energy Stadium in Reading, Pennsylvania known as “Baseball town USA.” The sun was awfully warm and bright that day, igniting me with some much needed energy. I gazed at the gorgeous, but intimidating field below. A minor league baseball field always has a casual vibe to it, but I knew I would have to be a big leaguer to get through that day. After all that was where Phillies greats like Mike Schmidt and Larry Bowa had once played, starting their careers in the Phillies farm system. And here I was, in A ball stage of writing.

I had never interviewed professional baseball players before. What was I going to do? Was I going to just step up to the plate with no plan? Former Major League player Lenny Dykstra always said, “It’s better to get up there and have an idea of what you’re going to do, instead of just hacking away.” I could not hack away. I had to be prepared, just like the great baseball players I loved.

The players slowly wandered in the dugout and sat down, waiting for us to interview them. All the other writers confidently headed to the field. As I followed like a new born puppy behind them, I was having a running, frantic dialogue in my mind. “What am I going to do? What am I doing?” I had stock questions prepared, but nothing great. I was going to strike out. I had to get a hit. I was going to hack away.

Then another voice got into the mix. The one of so many baseball players I’d heard talk before; the one that said “Don’t over think it.” If you over think what you are trying to do at the plate, they say, it will freeze you. I had to stop thinking about it and just do it.

I opened the gate, took the field and walked “to the plate.” With my bat (pen) in hand and my best poker face, I faced the challenge and took a swing. Though it was not the greatest work of my life, I accomplished something that fine day.

It may have been a soft tap, but at least I got on base.

BOGUS

voilet_heart — Tue, 02 Aug 2005 21:16:37 GMT

Consider a spot of ink and another spot of water on your shirt, the ink will be hard to erase, form a stain and you’ll probably discard the shirt, but the spot of water will simply evaporate and you’ll be able to put on the shirt again. Similarly, in life you (shirt) get struck with certain difficulties (ink/water) that aim at putting your spirits down, making you incapable of viewing the positive facet of every hardship.
This story took place and is still taking, it is comparable to an inner battle within each one and it appears to have no limit.

The story starts with being full of God’s gifts, but then one day God decides to examine you. We are expected to be thankful for every single thing that we receive from his Almighty, for the reason that anything he sends even if it seems to be a hardship will flourish into something good.
This concept is universal wherever you come from and whatever is your background of beliefs.
However, those who are taking a nap don’t realize or appreciate this concept, these are what we call the negative influence and, are always trying to keep those tested down.
These negative ones are the ones being respected and looked up to.
They, themselves, think they’re superior and if they saw those tested making any progress will try whatever it takes to hold them back, because they’re concerned that they will outstand them.
They run the tested ones’ lives in every aspect, but when it comes to interacting with them, all they’ll do is look down at them as being worthless or low creatures. They aim at withdrawing others’ self-esteem and soul. What they don’t realize is the fact that souls may wilt but spirits are still there to make the grand return.

The test possibly will take long, but it will certainly end and God will always be there through it, guiding and giving hints, and its up to us to grasp these hints and reach the light at the end of the tunnel to observe the beauty of life. Some will choose to be put down by these bogus and so-called “superiors” and run by the train passing through the tunnel. (Be careful accidents could happen)[:)]

Clayton Road

hrystya — Tue, 14 Jun 2005 14:45:22 GMT

This article was published on mdausa.org in June 2005
http://www.mdausa.org/clinics/camp/testimonials.cfm

We’ve been driving for hours. It’s hot, I’m thirsty, and my brother is getting on my last nerves. Every ten minutes it’s, “Are we there yet?” or “When are we gonna get there?” or “I’m never doing this again!” The only thing that keeps me from yelling at him is the fact that in less then an hour, I would be at camp and will say bye to him for a week. As everyone is about to lose their patience, we see a road sign that says “Clayton Road.” According to the atlas, this is where we turn off the long, monotonous highway, onto a narrow, one lane, gravel road. My parents, tired from the four hour trip are overjoyed, and me, well I’m just excited that there is such a road as Clayton Road! As we turn off the highway, the smooth, almost gliding feeling of the freeway, turns into a jerky ride that makes you feel as if your insides are shaking. No other cars are to be seen in front or behind us, so we can go fast. This is a mistake, because not knowing that the road was so dusty, we create a cloud composed of dirt and sand. Franticly, we roll up all of the windows before the suffocating mist gets into our van. My dad slows down, seeing the commotion his speeding has caused. The gigantic cloud is left as a barrier for others to cross.

Now that we are going slower, we are able to notice some of the scenery. As on any Nebraska road that is outside of a city, all we can see are fields; corn fields mostly. Large patches of green cover the dried up brown soil. They stand up like armies, all in neat individual rows and columns. In the patches of fields where there is no corn, but only grass, we see some cows lazily eating. I can imagine how hot they must be as the late summer sun beats down on them. After going down this road for a while, we notice that it is starting to get very steep. As we get higher and higher, this gravel road turns onto a brown, dried up hill. Suddenly, I remember something I had read about the camp. It is the highest point in the state of Nebraska. There are no trees on this barren hill, and it lays exposed and unprotected to the ever burning summer sun. As we reach the top, all around us we see identical hills.

When the road stops rising, it automatically starts to sink into a valley and the becomes flat again. Trees start to appear, then houses and then what I have been waiting for, for a long time, a big wooden sign that reads “CAMP COMECA.” We travel for a few minutes through forested land until an opening appears. The scene reminds me of a Wild West movie with a wide, gravel covered space, surrounded by plain looking buildings. Vans with handicapped stickers on their bumpers are everywhere. Moms and Dads carry suitcases and other necessities, while kids and young adults zoom around in their wheelchairs or talk to friends from previous years. My dad, anxious to get out of our steaming van, drives up to a young woman in a green shirt that says “STAFF.” “Excuse me, do you know where registration is?” he asks as rivers of sweat run down his face.

The young girl points to a large building with three patios. “MDA registration is over there.” She says. We drive up to the building and get out of the van, all of us happy to be breathing fresh air again. As we walk closer to the registration building, I begin to see familiar faces and some not so familiar. We reach the door to the building and step into a refreshing, air conditioned room. It is large with gigantic ceiling fans hanging overhead.

A short Hispanic girl rushes to meet us. “You must be Khrystyna!” she says with a smile “I’m Tia, I’ll be your counselor this week.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I say. After registration, Tia takes my mom and me to my cabin. The cabin is a small, white-washed, brick building with a sign that says, “Hilton” on it. The name strikes me funny, because as I go in, I’m surprised by the smallness of it. Two bunk beds stand on either side of the door, with two tiny separate rooms on both sides and a second wing for the younger girls. My dad is already there with all of my bags. My old sheets from when I was my brother’s age are already on the bed that was assigned to me. I’m shocked to find out that there is a separate building for the bathroom, telling me it will call for some cold morning walks. After we get unpacked, we walk my family back to our van. The Wild West scene has turned into a lush garden, with a wide arrangement of flowers and trees, concrete paths and well kept lawns. As we reach the parking lot, we notice something that we haven’t seen yet, a beautiful lake that seems to go on forever, and glitters in late afternoon sunlight. As I give my parents one more hug, I know that I will have a wonderful week at this beautiful camp.

I smile as I watch my parents drive off. Yes, I will miss them, but from that moment on, I am free. Free to have fun, free to stay up past midnight, free to act crazy, and most of all, free to be myself without worrying about being different. I have waited for this week all year. “Dinner is in five minutes. Are you ready to go?” Tia asks, the nervousness of being a first year counselor still evident in her voice. I know she’ll be okay though. They always are.

“Of course!” I say happily. The best week of the year has begun.

An Argument for Apathy

LeStudd — Fri, 12 Aug 2005 15:53:27 GMT

(I'm looking for holes in my logic, ty)

An Argument for Apathy
First, I’d have to care. Assuming I cared, I would then have to identify and understand the problem, followed closely by finding a reason to continue to care. Let’s say for the sake of this discussion that I have somehow found within myself sufficient motivation to stay interested. Now, there must be some point, some foreseeable outcome or conclusion that will justify my emotional commitment. What if, after I have made the commitment, and after I have taken all of the prerequisite steps, what if it were all for naught? Would it not have been a colossal waste of time and effort? Welcome to the world of apathy.
Apathy, by strict definition, means a lack of feeling or emotion, or a lack of interest or concern. This definition doesn’t attribute any reasoning for the existence of the apathy, but most people willingly assume that the only possible motivation for apathy has to be an irresponsibly gross lack of compassion. A person must have found the capacity to reason out an issue, and must have chosen to rise above it, before that person will be capable of understanding how the apathetic can be a caring, responsible member of society, and yet remain apathetic.
The apathetic are often accused of pacifism, which by definition is impossible. A pacifist is one who opposes war, which means he has chosen a side in the issue. The apathetic person probably has weighed the issue, and elected to not choose one side over another. There are those who would argue that by not taking a side on the issue, that the person has taken a side, but this is not true either. The truly apathetic person believes that the existence of the war is immaterial, and by extension that his own survival of the conflict, is also of little consequence.
Would this person not run from the sound of gunfire? Yes, of course he would. Would this person not grieve at the loss of his loved ones? We would hope so, for to do otherwise in either of these instances would be unnatural. Would the apathetic person rush to the aid of some helpless person who is being victimized or abducted? Probably. Preservation of life, both his own and the lives of those he loves, is a fundamental instinct, and defending the defenseless, is a fundamental responsibility of society.
Conscientious apathy frees a person from energy draining and time consuming involvement in the superficial conflicts of society, allowing the person to focus on the things in life that are truly worthwhile; family, friends, and the enjoyment of life. As a stark contrast to social and political apathy, the conscientiously apathetic person can still recognize and embrace personal duty. The conscientiously apathetic person is often capable of granting loved ones the freedom they need in which to grow, while also being capable of restricting those things that would prove more harmful than beneficial. This is particularly true anywhere the conscientiously apathetic person has a personal responsibility to guide and nurture. Even in this the attitude of the conscientiously apathetic person can have an impact, because it is sometimes needful to be able to allow nature to take its course, in order for certain lessons to be learned.
The conscientiously apathetic are not lazy. Okay, maybe some of them are, but my point is that apathy isn’t necessarily about laziness. Before one can be apathetic, one must at the very least be informed of the problem; otherwise they would simply be ignorant. If the person had no knowledge of the problem, then there would be no subject over which to be apathetic.
Knowledge of the existence of any given problem doesn’t necessarily give the conscientiously apathetic person sufficient motivation to weigh the respective sides either. In the 2004 American Presidential elections, virtually every person in America over the age of eighteen knew that the only realistic choices were Bush, and Kerry. The common man, with no particular crusade to either promote or defend, was given no reason to care who won. As luck would have it, the self-promoting guy who was willing to say anything to get elected, defeated the self-promoting guy who was willing to say anything to get elected.
Since one must be informed, one must have, at some point, been motivated to come to an understanding of the problem. Once having gained sufficient understanding, one must have ruminated sufficiently, at least to the persons’ own satisfaction, to be able to conclude that apathy was in fact the proper stance for them to take on that issue.
Normally, whenever a person decides what his position is on a particular point, his position dictates what further action his belief will require. If the person is in favor of something, the person is required in good conscience to promote it. If the person is against something, then the person is morally compelled to fight it. Throughout history men have lived rich lives, and died happy, having found an issues to be for, or against, and never again concerning themselves with issues beyond their chosen cause.
The conscientiously apathetic are not afforded this luxury. Having no designated cause, they soon find that some new issue has reared its ugly head seeking to disrupt their peaceful lives. More often than not, it is brought to the apathetic person’s attention by some crusading zealot, who is upset that the apathetic person is not upset by whatever circumstances that the zealot feels compelled to be upset about. Rare is the zealot crusader who doesn’t feel that it’s his duty to enlighten, and to recruit, what the zealot sees as the obviously uninformed bystander.
As with any journey, a crusade must start somewhere, and since the majority of crusades involve some aspect of society, one must start with the chief cornerstone of society, the individual. If the individual correctly assesses how they themselves feel about an issue, as well as why they feel compelled to become engaged in any given conflict, they may find, as the conscientiously apathetic usually find, that the issue may not require their involvement after all. The Christian Bible says, “Either how canst thou say to thy brother, Brother, let me pull out the mote that is in thine eye, when thou thyself beholdest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, cast out first the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother's eye.” We cannot correctly judge that which is without, until we first correctly judge that which is within. Having addressed and reconciled issues within, we invariably find that there are fewer issues needing to be addressed without.
The transcendence to conscientious apathy isn’t a new concept either. Judith A Berling, in her article entitled “Taoism, or the Way,” says, “Throughout Chinese history, people weary of social activism and aware of the fragility of human achievements would retire from the world and turn to nature.” The first law of nature is to follow the path of least resistance, and foolish is the man who rallies against the torrent and rails against the storm.
Crusaders must perpetuate the cause they fight for, in order to continue justifying their existence. Yasser Arafat, after years of terrorism, was finally brought to the bargaining table. He was offered a settlement guaranteeing him virtually everything he had been fighting for, yet he failed to accept it. To accept the settlement would have ended his crusade, and since his crusade was his life, it would have ended his reason for living. For his own survival, he continued his terrorist ways until his death. Unlike Yasser Arafat, the conscientiously apathetic person’s life isn’t defined by some vain attempt to change the world.
The true crusader should not only understand the effective realm of a persons influence, but should also understand the most profitable way to impact that realm. Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist Monk, said, “Smiling is very important. If we are not able to smile, then the world will not have peace. It is not by going out for a demonstration against nuclear missiles that we can bring about peace. It is with our capacity of smiling, breathing, and being peace that we can make peace.” The conscientiously apathetic person understands the futility of symbolic gestures, and find’s better things to do.
Reflecting back on the mistakes in my life, I see some of the many lessons I’ve learned. My memory fails when I try to number the times I thought to myself “Next time that happens I’ll know what to do.” Yet those things that I have conquered within myself, never again invaded my life.
There have been times in my life when the passion of another has caused the passion within me to ignite and to erupt into a full-blown conflict, thereby dragging me down into the fiery pit of contention. There have also been times when I’ve kept my peace within, and the conflict without has died an isolated death. The passion of the zealous crusader must find fertile ground in which to sow it’s seeds of passion, or the passion will die. The passion of the apathetic is in the strength of their inner peace, and this peace needs simply to be peace, in order to spread peace.
A war will end when none are left to kill, or to be killed, either through attrition, or because peace has come to the surviving warriors. A war begins when one wants this, and another wants that. In the natural order, things are what they are, and neither wanting, nor not wanting, matters. The apathetic person understands this natural balance, and tries not to interfere. In accepting what is, a person finds peace, and if all men find their natural peace, then there will be no more crusades, no more conflicts, and no more war.