Chuck in Belpre

Dammit...my yoga teacher is going to be pissed. I forgot my mantra. Again.

Here is a pic I took looking across the Ohio River into WV from Belpre's Civitan Park. I like the colors.

Reuters - French police have arrested two teenage girls they say stole hundreds of euros from unsuspecting cash machine customers after distracting them by flashing their breasts.

Police bust Paris "booby" trap gang (Reuters)

It looks like cash hungry local governments are getting awfully rapacious these days:

Between her blog and infrequent contributions to ehow.com, over the last few years she says she’s made about $50. To [Marilyn] Bess, her website is a hobby. To the city of Philadelphia, it’s a potential moneymaker, and the city wants its cut.

In May, the city sent Bess a letter demanding that she pay $300, the price of a business privilege license.

“The real kick in the pants is that I don’t even have a full-time job, so for the city to tell me to pony up $300 for a business privilege license, pay wage tax, business privilege tax, net profits tax on a handful of money is outrageous,” Bess says.

It would be one thing if Bess’ website were, well, an actual business, or if the amount of money the city wanted didn’t outpace her earnings six-fold. Sure, the city has its rules; and yes, cash-strapped cities can’t very well ignore potential sources of income. But at the same time, there must be some room for discretion and common sense.

When Bess pressed her case to officials with the city’s now-closed tax amnesty program, she says, “I was told to hire an accountant.”

She’s not alone. After dutifully reporting even the smallest profits on their tax filings this year, a number — though no one knows exactly what that number is — of Philadelphia bloggers were dispatched letters informing them that they owe $300 for a privilege license, plus taxes on any profits they made.

Even if, as with Sean Barry, that profit is $11 over two years.

To say that these kinds of draconian measures are detrimental to the public discourse would be an understatement.

I didn't like the way these pages looked so I re-did them. I trimmed a lot of the misc. stuff that didn't need to be here. I'll try to get some new stuff up soon. Thanks for reading. Feel free to email me with any comments by clicking on my name after each post. Maybe I will post the best ones as well as the hate-mail.

Being self-employed is a wonderful thing. I set my own hours and if I feel like having a slob day and sleep until the crack of noon I can. On the other hand I have a strict set of rules I hold myself to. One of those rules pertains to appointments. If I make an appointment with a client for 10:45 a.m. I am there at that time, or maybe even a few minutes early. Apparently showing up on time and ready to work is something that has gone the way of the steamship. Clients seem to be impressed with punctuality.

I have been feeling my age recently and that just will not do. Oh, I know that after more than five decades of living and abuse the body will start to break down a little. And not giving it the utmost in care doesn't help much either. There was that period that passed in a George Dickel and Black Beauty haze. But it was fortunately short-lived. But, I am carrying more poundage than I should. Think large Chrismas goose. And the Winstons are not exactly contributing to my general well being. Most mornings find me horking up a gelatinous mass in colors of caramel or desert khaki.

So I bit the bullet and made an appointment with my doctor...better known as the Angel of Death.

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. and I showed up at two o'clock on the dot. As I approached the receptionists desk I was once again amazed at how much she resembled Bernadette Peters in The Longest Yard, right down to the beehive hair-do. Well, if Peters was carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. I have had the same doctor for over a decade and yet she can never remember my name. I told her who I was and that I had a 2:10 appointment. She looked at her appointment calendar for way too long and then told me that the doctor was running a little late and I would have to wait. No big deal, that happens sometimes and it's usually not a long wait. But I had to ask how long and she informed me that the doctor was behind on his rounds at the hospital and it would be an hour wait...or possibly longer. I am not easliy excitable and usually keep calm in most situations but I could hear the sound of rushing wind building inside my head as I thought of sitting in the waiting room for an hour or more. I mean how many times can you watch that educational tape that all doctors seem to have on a loop telling you in that condescending voice what cruciferous vegetables are the most healthy or how to lift heavy objects without throwing your lower back into spasms?

I figured if I had that much time I could put it to good use and get some errands done while the doctor made his way across town. I told Bernadette I would be back in about an hour and this is where Rod Serling entered the office.

She told me that if I left I would be charged for a missed appointment and would have to re-schedule. I said, 'But the doctor isn't here.' She said, 'Yes, but you have a 2:10 appointment and if you leave then you will have missed your appointment. That's office policy'. The wind in my head became tornadic.

I said, 'So if I leave while the doctor isn't here and come back when he is here I will still be charged and not get to see him even then? That makes no sense.'

'It's office policy.' she said. 'And you are holding up the line.'

I turned around and tried not to flinch but I think I made a noise like someone had stepped on a baby chick. Standing there was the largest human being I had ever seen. It was if someone had stretched a t-shirt down over a small haystack. I had no idea you could get Billy Idol shirts in that size. It had a mop of greasy hair and a beard that would have made Jerry Garcia weep. And it was wearing red sweat pants and flip-flops made from recycled tires. It spoke. 'I have a 2:15.'

I told him the doctor wasn't here and he said that was ok with him. 'I seen a new People magazine over there I haven't read yet.'

I guess there are plenty of pictures in People. I would have bet anything that he moved his lips as he read.

So I sighed heavily and did what any red blooded tough guy would do. I sat down and waited.

Remember...bend your knees and eat your Brussels sprouts.

What is it with NASA and ice? A couple weeks ago NASA found ice on the Moon. I saw an article today on Space.com that says NASA is testing drills to cut ice on Mars. They even gave the project a cool name, Icebite. Man, them NASA kids are some creative individuals. Ice! Goddam! We found ICE!

I have a fifteen year old Kelvinator that kicks out a bucket of ice every couple of hours. People in Fargo and St. Petersburg are up to their asses in ice 7 months out of 12. I’ve driven through Texas in August and could get ice at any Go-Mart. Hey, NASA, I will let you have all the ice you want in exchange for one of those neat caps the astronauts wear. Pre-roll the bill, please.

I’ve seen pictures and there isn’t much else on Mars really. Its not exactly a tourist magnet. Well, there are rocks. That’s about it. It’s kind of like Afghanistan without the shrapnel and furnished caves but I bet bin Laden has a Coleman full of ice.

Despite what Richard Hoagland might say there is no face on Mars or any deserted cities. Nothing…no odd race of Mars folk. You can check Wikipedia but I’m pretty sure Ray Bradbury was making all that shit up.

Sure, I know the theory. Gather up the ice and use electrolysis to derive hydrogen from the melted ice to use as fuel to return our intrepid astronauts to Earth. I bet Honda or Toyota are probably all over that contract already. I mean, shit, I can barely afford to keep gas in my aging Concorde and you guys are cracking water on Mars.

But, what if it isn’t your standard ice, the kind you can derive hydrogen from? That’s a cluster just waiting to happen. I can just hear it now:

Two astronauts eager to get home and get a decent shower and a hot meal.

“The fuck you mean it’s dry ice?”

So, come on, NASA. We have much more important stuff here on this old planet to worry about. I mean…Oprah is calling it quits. Nicolas Cage is broke. Global warming is driving otherwise moral women to prostitution. I mean…WTF?

Sheesh…ice.

I’ve never been one to analyze my dreams. I just don’t believe they mean anything. If you browse your local bookstore or library you will find that reams have been written on the analysis of dreams. Researchers will tell you that dreams are a way of our minds coping with stress, working out the day’s problems or dealing with little frustrations.

But it’s all New Age bullshit as far as I am concerned, like crystals, Scientology, liberals or vegetarianism.

Doctors will also tell you that what you eat before you go to sleep will not affect your dreams. I think we all know that there is nothing like a couple spicy burritos, a chili meal or a large extra-pepperoni-extra cheese pizza to trigger your own personal Sundance Film Festival. Several ounces of sodium-laced nitrates and nitrites have to seriously screw with your brain chemistry, right?

Like most people I don’t remember my dreams. When I wake up they are gone like a flushed guppy. I can only remember the general tone. My dreams seem to fall into a few major categories or genres if you will.

I have my Pixar meets Seinfeld type dream. Those are just kind of fun and goofy and I sometimes actually wake up giggling.

Further up the weirdness scale are the ones where Law and Order teams up with Stephen King and they can be grim and sinister. I’m often running in place in these.

Along the same lines are the Animal Planet-When Animals Attack dreams. I don’t often have those but they can be eye openers.

But the kings of all cerebral cinematics have to be the Quentin Tarantino/Clive Barker collaborations. These are seriously twisted nightmares. These are the dreams that I wake up from sitting straight up in bed hoovering all the oxygen from the room and my heart hammering like a dozen undocumented workers laying down a new roof.

On any given night you can mix and match the above players to form any kind of dream. They can be funny, sad, beautiful and horrifying all at the same time.

And from time to time it is quite apparent that Larry Flynt has been called in to punch-up the script a bit. I don’t have to tell you how these dreams end. Let’s just say that tissues and/or moist towelletes are involved and leave it at that.

But, to me, they don’t mean shit.

So, what do you think? Are you of the opinion that dreams are important and should be picked apart like leftover turkey…searching for that hidden meaning?

Now if you will excuse me I have to run to the dollar store. My nightlight burned out last night.

I enjoy smoking. There, I said it. I enjoy that first hit of nicotine in the morning, that rush of well being that greets me as I pour the days first cup of coffee. And after a good meal there is nothing that can compare to leaning back in satisfaction and lighting up. The smell of fine Turkish tobacco lit with a wooden match is like the finest perfume. A cigarette held lightly between the fingers looks somehow cool and elegant. The slow curl of smoke under the bedside lamp is a dramatic way to end the day, the cares and worries of the day blown away in a fragrant, gauzy cloud. Yes, I enjoy it.

Oh, I know that my lungs probably look like the inside of a truck tire. I look at it as a toughening process. I am able to stroll through forest fires and Indian restaurants without so much as a choke or wheeze. Weekend BBQ or brisket smoking contest? Let me in there, a little dense mesquite smoke is nothing to me.

Smoking was once a socially acceptable form of slow motion suicide. Now those of us who still maintain the habit have been branded as social lepers and the Health Nazis are closing in on us. It's only a matter of time before they finally get us. I can only imagine that smokers will find themselves meeting outside of towns across America under cover of darkness to share in the joys of our evil habit, trading brands as if they were collectibles. It will be a dark time and I fear it's not far off.

First it was only dire warnings on cigarette packs and snotty looks. Then they lobbied to ban smoking in public places and the politicians went blindly along. From there it was a small step to ban smoking in the workplace. Then it was restaurants and finally bars. We were herded outside to huddle together in all sorts of weather and made to suffer the stares and jeers of non-smokers. I maintain that the collapse of the economy is due, at least in part, to the actions of these health nuts. Productivity dropped as more and more workers were forced away from their desks and work stations to grab a quick smoke.

Never mind that these same Health Nazis allow their own children to gorge themselves on fast-food, deep fried pastries and sugar laden colas. Oh, some of these health nuts insist on eating things like tofu and sprouts but, by and large, vegans are still looked upon as strange and sinister so meat-eaters are safe. For now. But, don't get smug. Make no mistake you are next. Be afraid, be very afraid.

So, there you have it. If, like me, you still enjoy a good smoke then be warned. Our time is short so enjoy that smoke while you can. I know I will. In fact, I have a Winston burning in the tray even as I write this. It smells wonderful...like Freedom on a warm Spring morning.

I see you out there in the driveway next door. I see you have the hood up on that piece of shit Cavalier you bought last Spring from your brother-in-law. It has one blue door even though the rest of the car is red. That front driver's side tire looks kind of low. I wonder if you know that? I notice that you have to prop the hood open with your snow shovel. Is that the same one you don't use to shovel your sidewalk?

I see you have your Super Pro 100 piece tool-kit. The one you bought at Wal-Mart for about $15. It has a nice plastic case and everything. The tools look nice and shiny like they have never been used. Ratchets and sockets in all sizes both metric and standard, each in its own fitted compartment. Pretty. But, I know you have no idea what you are looking at under that hood. And you know I know.

So, I take it that the car won't start. Again. Could that have anything to do with the fact that it was close to zero last night with a light snow? Or the fact that the battery that came with the car was pretty much dead when you bought it? Probably.

Ah! You turn to look toward my house...just like I knew you would. You see me standing here in the kitchen window looking out. You wave. I don't wave back. I can't fucking stand you. What you can't see is that I already have my battery charger in my hand. But I'm not coming out to help you until you walk up here and knock on the door. Then I will make you wait out there in the freezing cold another five minutes before I answer the door, that greasy mullet of yours blowing in the cold wind.

You also can't see what's tucked into the waistband of my pants at the small of my back.

So, we go out into the cold and I give you the battery charger and you hook it up to the battery and plug it into the outlet on the side of your single-wide with a long orange extension cord. I tell you to get in and try it, but, of course it won't start yet. I walk around to your window and look down into your stupid eyes and watch them go wide as you see what I'm holding.

The sound of the shot echoes across the flat fields and I'm glad I bought this farm way out in the middle of nowhere. The closest neighbor is over two miles away and I know no one is home this time of day to hear the sound. I have just the spot for you and your rattle-trap Chevy, out in the middle of the apple orchard. Every time I eat an apple next Fall I will think of you. Down there among the roots and the grubs. Good riddance.

I look up at your bedroom window and see your wife's eyes and that shy smile she is so quick with. The one that makes most men go all watery in the knees. And before you are even frozen stiff I'll have her bent over the arm of your favorite recliner. It's not like I haven't done it before.