I've Reached The Point...

...where about 95% of the media personalities make me want to puke. They're pinch-faced, condescending, self-important, pinheads, with makeup and the personality of a snake. How it's reached this point is beyond my comprehension. Their world is as unreal as Wonderland.

An Encounter With the Media

I was in my early twenties, full of it and in charge of a seven person crew repairing the highway. We were the day shift of a twenty four hour operation and we had plenty to do.

The delartment of transportation dictated there was a four hour stretch when rush hour traffic didn't allow lane closures. Since we were on the side where it was the evening rush that was critical, the hours between four and eight in the evening were the hours we stayed off the highway. This meant that at 8:00 pm, a crew would start tearing out the sawed concrete and prepare it for the morning crew to pour. After that, the same morning crew would saw the next sections, tie the rebar and otherwise prepare the project for the night crew.

I was, for lack of a better phrase, screwed by the arrangement. Since the night crew didn't have access to supplies during the day, I was left with securing any materials and repairing equipment, besides the rest of my responsibilites. As time went on, and the hard used equipment had more repairs, I found I was on the project from 4:00 am to after 6:00 pm every day. There was always something else and I was becoming punch drunk from fatigue.

To add to the hard work, we were having a particularly hot summer. The bank clock on the side of the service road constantly reminded us it was 105 degrees in the shade each afternoon. This heat was almost unbearable and could kill within minutes.

The local media, always looking for a story, sent a crew to our site for an interview to add to their story about working in the heat. I saw them coming, which was the beginning of my encounter with the media.

At the start of the project, we contacted all of the media to alert them of slow traffic and congestion. Out of all those we contacted, only one A.M. station responded and broadcast the fact each morning. They had my admiration, the rest, as far as I was concerned, could kiss my ass. They had no idea how frustrating it is to deal with the motoring public and the dumbasses that manage to get behind the wheel.

The television crew's van pulled to the shoulder on the opposite lane from which we were repairing. Otherwise, they'd committed a mortal sin when it comes to traffic control. You never force drivers to choose between the dangerous collision of a motor vehicle and the seemingly open area of what appears as an almost unrestricted lane on the opposite side. That unrestricted lane has people working that have nothing between the bumper of a car and their body, except a shirt and a pair of pants.

I was pissed. We were trying to finish concrete that was setting extra fast due to the heat and extra amount of cement to decrease the set time. We only had a few hours before we needed to be off the highway and the concrete needed to be set before we left. Now, this crew was adding another source of stress.

I had no idea at the time why the crew was visiting our site, so I was thinking: "I bet they're here for a story on the dangers of working on the highway and how important it is to keep the public informed." Since I was the only one who appeared in charge, the young lady - with her entourage of technical dweebs - approached and asked the question: "How does it feel to work in this heat?"

I lost it. The last brain cell grasping sanity lost its grip and tumbled to the bottom. I unleashed a diatribe about disgust, betrayal and my disrespect for the media. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it included my disgust of how they made no effort to alert the public of the dangerous traffic and how inconsequential their silly news story was in relation to the amount of wrecks and mayhem I'd observed since the start of the project. When I finished, and the young reporter managed to close her mouth, she instantly regained her composure and asked one of the concrete finishers: "How does it feel to work in this heat?" Never breaking his stride, he answered: "I work better when I'm not talking."

The reporters stared, I glared. Realizing there was no story, they tucked their tails and left. I fumed for the next few minutes to God and anyone else that would listen. I was still fuming when I left that evening after repairing the damned equipment and making sure everbody had every damned thing they needed - those worthless bastards.

We didn't make the news that night, although they did find some workers more than willing to be on television. It was a cute story that pissed me off. I haven't thought much of the media since that day.

Some Things are Beyond Explanation

Such as the humidity today. It rained yesterday evening, so the evaporating water adds so much humidity to the air, I can only touch on the effects.

There's a haze that causes distant objects to fade into a blue blur.
Walking into the outside from air conditioning makes you realize even breathing is a strenous exertion.
Breathing causes you to sweat profusely.
After a few minutes outside, you're clothes are soaked.
The tiniest bit of physical exertion leads to so much sweat, you can wring sweat from your socks.
The National Weather Service issues a heat advisory for a heat index that can reach 110.

For those of you that think of the South as a place to escape cold winters, think again. The heat is just as miserable and the ultimate effect of not paying attention can be just as deadly.

For those of you sharing the experience, I recommend going back inside and forgetting about doing anything outside.

The Day I Didn't Run Over the Dog

When I was a kid, you could save some money and buy a handy slingshot called a 'Wrist Rocket'. Made of aluminum, surgical tubing and designed to lock on your wrist, it was a a powerful tool for character building.

We all had a 'Wrist Rocket'. We'd spend hours wandering the neighborhood testing our skill by shooting at cicadas in the trees. Over time, our skills developed and we became marksmen. Since we all had one, squabbles became almost non-existent. You just don't let it get to that point when you know escalation could lead to really bad things.

I was tooling around in the backyard one afternoon, when I had a brilliant idea: If I took a firecracker, placed it in the slingshot, lit it and launched it, would it be similar to a bottle rocket? I had to try.

It worked, although I just couldn't get the altitude I wanted. I was thinking of fashioning an apparatus with some weight to attach to the firecracker, when my brother walked out the side door. It was one of those golden moments when everything fell in place. I had a fresh firecracker loaded, the fuse was seconds away from being lit, and my mind went to another plane.

"Hey!"

When he turned, I fine tuned my pull and launched the firecracker in his direction. It was perfect. The location of the explosion was 5 feet in front of him at eye level; just far enough to keep from putting an eye out.

"YOU COULD HAVE PUT MY EYE OUT!"

Uh oh. I had the slingshot reloaded with more substantial ammunition in seconds. He had that look on his face like he wanted to whip my ass. Maybe so, but  I would get off at least one shot before he did.

We stood staring at each other for a few moments. Me ready and him fuming. He stomped away, jumped into the car and ran over the dog.

I heard the howling and ran to the front yard. There was the miniature dachshund in pain, me freaking out and my brother yelling at me: "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE1"

Damn. I didn't mean to. Hey, wait a minute: "I didn't do anything, You ran over the dog."

I was trying to comfort the dog, when my mother ran to the front, asked a quick question and summarized the situation. Within seconds, she and my brother were off to the vet. I stood in the front yard feeling lower than whale shit and worrying about the dog.

They were back within an hour. The dog, which obviously was made of titanium - like most dachshunds - had a sprain and the vet told us to keep him quiet for a few days. He survived, and lived  for a long time after; constantly reminding me of that afternoon with his "Go to Hell" look.

Up to the day he died, my brother blamed me for what happened. Maybe it was my fault, but I didn't run over the dog.

The Olympics

It's time for the Summer Olympics once again. All of the world participates and cheers their athletes to victory and honor. It's a grand time, with hundreds of thousands living and breathing the event.

Personally, I'm not interested. Never have been and probably never will be.