I saw God at 1000 feet.

Our month in Guam complete, we headed north to exchange the warm waters of the tropics for the icy waters of a Soviet harbor.

Two days out of Guam, we had fallen right back into our at sea shipboard routine with a mechanical ease.  Though not yet having left the tropical waters behind, I would soon find out that even in the tropics, the water is cold at 1000 feet.

One is never more aware of being surrounded by water than while standing watch in engine room lower level.  It’s the first watch qualified by the newest men aboard, because the awareness it creates certainly helps drive home the importance of being sure of your actions.

Whether standing watch in a t-shirt and dungarees or huddled against a main sea water pump, running in super slow, wearing a foul weather jacket and gloves, the watch stander in engine room lower level was the first to know of changing sea water conditions.

Hot water leak off to the bilge, from the Condensate Pump packing glands, of a submarine surrounded by the frigid waters of a Soviet harbor would fill the space with an eerie, knee high fog.  A fog so dense at times, it was difficult to see ones shoes.

 

While the heat of the Indian Ocean usually made it difficult to peel off a sweat soaked t-shirt at the end of a six-hour watch.

Returning forward, from a walk aft to check shaft lube oil temperatures, to see the sound powered phone white call light flash, I am told to start up the evaporator.

An important part of standing watch in engine room lower level, the evaporator makes fresh water from seawater.  Fresh water for steam plant make up, reactor plant make up, cooking, drinking and most importantly showers!!! 

Running the evaporator is vital to the success of the mission and to the comfort of the crew.  Though it can be a noisemaker and secured for long stretches to avoid giving away our position, any opportunity to keep our tanks filled needed to be taken advantage of.

Receiving the order to start it up I set about lining up seawater and steam.  A vacuum is drawn upon the shell of the machine and as the incoming seawater is heated to boiling, seawater flowing through a condenser cools that steam and turns it to fresh water, where it is sampled and then sent to the various tanks needing to be filled.

The brine left behind by the boiling off seawater is then pumped back overboard using a high-pressure brine pump.  A pump designed to discharge at whatever pressure is necessary, depending upon the depth of the submarine.

A fairly efficient process, which when running at maximum capacity, could produce up to 8000 gallons of fresh water per day.

Seawater and steam lined up, I open the overboard discharge valve of the high-pressure brine pump and step around the corner to the evaporator control panel.  The evaporator was now between the brine pump and me.

Checking seawater pressure and starting the pump, its familiar chugging sound is followed by a BANG!!! Though scary enough on it’s own, the BANG is followed by a LOUD HISSING SOUND!!!

Still around the corner from the source, the hissing sound tells me all I need to know. WATER IS GETTING INTO THE PEOPLE TANK!!! WE’VE GOT FLOODING!!!

Stopping the pump and stepping around the corner, I’m met with a face high blast of incoming seawater.  Yes, it’s salty and even in the tropics, its cold at 1000 feet!!!  My mind racing I as I reach through the spray for the overboard discharge valve, I’m reminded of the gallows humor used to ward off the fear of just such an event. 

Don’t worry about the flooding the fire will put it out!!!

Adrenaline pumping and keenly, yet almost eerily, aware of everything happening around me, I realize that attempting to start the drain pump, our most important piece of de-watering equipment, will probably give me just that, A FIRE!!!

Seawater had sprayed directly into the controller and windings of the drain pump and salt water does not react kindly with energized electrical equipment.  It was now imperative to stop the leak ASAP!!! I have no way of getting the water out!!!

Blindly reaching into the overhead to grab the hand wheel of the overboard discharge valve, while continuing to be showered with incoming seawater, the struggle now was to shut it against sea pressure wanting to force it in the opposite direction.

A combination of adrenaline, youth and maybe some help from the St Elmo meddle around my neck, the valve was closed as the chief reached the bottom of the ladder.  Though happening in what seemed like a slow motion movie sequence, the whole event occurred in less time than it took me to write this account or for you to read it. 

Assessing the damage, a flexible coupling in the pipe between the high-pressure brine pump and the overboard discharge valve had come apart. 

Adrenaline subsiding, the drain pump controller dried out and the seawater pumped out, our attention now turned to how we could make the evaporator work, without the brine pump.  A little good old American ingenuity, a couple of fire hoses and a few hours later the evaporator was running again, quieter than ever and much simpler to use. 

Makes one wonder why it wasn’t designed like that in the first place.  An ominous start to a dangerous mission, it would be more than 45 days or more before we could drink away its stress.

Thirty-six years later, its memory is still fres

The Dance of the Flaming Asshole!!!

Another I originally wrote several years ago... I hope you enjoy the comparisons... I know I do and maybe some of the adrenaline rushes are the same... Maybe that's why I love comedy???

Passing their final days "at home" in port, prior to their departure for another WesPac, the crew of the nuclear submarine still had no idea what their destination would be. Knowing only that the first half of their mission would last close to a full three months, Steve and his shipmates head out to the submarine bars around town.

[With no idea where this dream will take him, Steve heads out to another open mic, knowing only that having kept the dream capped in a bottle during the first half of his life, had more than once almost cost him his life. The genie was out of the bottle now, uncapped more than 5 years ago... Steve knows the genie will never fit back in the bottle now...]

It was safe in these places, safe to blow off steam, safe to be afraid without having to say you were. Decorated with ship plaques and photos, ship bells, dolphins and other paraphernalia. A klaxon horn would sound from behind the bar announcing another round, as boys just out of high school stood shoulder to shoulder with their salty chiefs. Some would eventually take their turn at the bar as the salty chiefs themselves, hard, drinkin', chain-smokin', men of the sea.

[Open mics were safe places for people new to the stage to face their fear of the stage, without saying they were afraid. Safe places for comedy veterans to try out some new material and impart some wisdom to the new comers they welcome to the stage.]

Heroes to the men they sailed with, they all, new men and veterans, lived in the silence of never being able to talk about the things they did while on patrol. Bonded together in that silence, the crew gave each other the support their families and girlfriends were unable to.

[Bonded together in laughter, they give each other support their families and other friends are unable to. Half their families sick of hearing the same jokes and the other half pissed the jokes are about them, they crave control of the microphone to say whatever the hell is on their minds.]

Though this would not be Steve's first patrol, he remembered his first now, the anxiety of the unknown mixed with the eagerness of his youth then. Was he just as eager now? He asked himself. Now he knew what to expect, the seemingly endless days rigged for ultra quiet, cold meals and no showers, to minimize the need to run the evaporator to make fresh water, since a submariner always feared the detection which would jeopardize the mission and possibly his life.

[Though this would not be Steve’s first time on stage, he remembered his first time now, the anxiety of the unknown mixed with the eagerness of his stage youth. Was he just as eager now??? Now he knew what to expect, the seemingly endless seconds of an audience rigged for ultra quiet, the cold sweat that comes with it and the need for a hot shower. Though never life threatening, “dying on stage” was more than a metaphor.]

Standing watches in a hot, cramped and greasy engine room, detection wasn't the only thing that could ruin his day, while at sea. The chance of a steam leak, a fire and the ever-present possibility of flooding contributed to his stress, while he spent his days unable to see the sun or even to breath fresh air.

[Taking the stage in a hot, cramped, greasy food bar... The lights are kept dim for the same reason the bars on a military base are... So you can’t see what a dump it really is...]

As they enter the Horse & Cow or the "Whinnie & Moo", as the regulars lovingly referred to the place, this evening with a just arrived new crew member, the klaxon sounds the alarm. Ahhhhh....Uuuuugaaa, ahhhh....uuugaaa!

[Entering the “No Laughs & Only Boos” this evening with a new member of the comedy family, a look at the half empty room and the uninterested look on the faces of those that were there, “Gut check!!!” yells the senior comic in the room.]

"Skivvie check!!!" yells the COB, a Master Chief Machinist Mate, he is the senior enlisted person of the crew.

As the crowd roars its approval their newest shipmate is found to still be wearing skivvies. Unceremoniously they are ripped from him, over his head, and he is made to wear them around his neck the remainder of the evening. "Submariners don't wear underwear”, Steve informs him, shortly afterward, as he regales him with a "sea story" from his first patrol.

[As the crowd roars its approval, some of the newest comics take the stage amidst the abuse of the rowdy crowd. Taking the new guys aside as each leaves the stage, they are regaled with a “road story” and some wisdom of many years on the stage.]

Mooring along side the repair ship following sea trials, the Officer of the Deck aboard the tender, took it upon himself to conduct a sock check, as they reported to the boat the next morning. Seems he felt that they should be wearing socks even in civilian clothes.

"Are you wearing socks?" he had asked, as three of them asked permission to come aboard and cross to their submarine.

"Yes Sir!" was their respectful, albeit slightly scornful reply.

"Let me see them" was a demand he would soon regret.

"Yes Sir!" they had replied as they stood upon the quarterdeck of the tender with their pants at their ankles, the tops of the socks showing proudly on their calves above the waist bands of their pants.

It earned them a laughing rebuke from the Captain and plenty of free drinks that night. The request to see their socks never came again.

As the drinks continue to flow at the "Whinnie & Moo" this evening, a salty chief jumps atop the bar, the klaxon sounds again as he drops his pants and shows off the twin screws tattooed on his ass, the legend being they insure a safe and speedy passage.

[As the drinks continue to flow at the “No Laughs & Only Boos”, Steve says a prayer of thanks no one in the audience asked to see his socks and the bar is too high for the senior comic in the bar to climb atop it. He doesn’t want to know what’s tattooed on his ass.}

Soon someone emerges from the "head", a long piece of toilet paper planted between their cheeks and set afire, they race smoky circles around the bar. Still wide eyed, though now drunk, the newest crew member stares in disbelief at the scene before him. The klaxon sounds again and Steve explains, "It's the Dance of the Flaming Asshole."

[Steve still shakes his head in disbelief at the flaming assholes in the audience who come to see a show, then don’t shut up long enough to hear it.]

As their fears flow away this evening, masked in the camaraderie of their shipmates and the blare of the klaxon from behind the bar, it's only a few short hours before it sounds again. Then the reality of their situation, should anything happen, comes back to them again… They can't escape and there won't be any rescue.

[As fears of the stage flow away through the years of experience upon it, it’s the camaraderie of the comics and the blare of laughter from the audience that keeps them coming back for more. They can’t escape and there won’t be any rescue!!!]

This time it's for real, Aaaahhh...Uuuuugaa, Aaaahhh...Uuuugaa, Dive!!! Dive!!!

[Tonight is not an open mic… This time it’s for real!!!]


Thanks for reading. 

Welcome Aboard!!!!!!!

Reminded of this column a few days ago... I've decided to re-post it and some related columns... Enjoy... 

My thoughts often drift back to my years in the US NAVY and serving aboard fast attack submarines.

I am repeatedly asked to describe the life aboard a submarine. Since there were no embedded reporters, "Losing their tan, off the coast of Iran", I thought I'd write this column. As a tribute to those who shared this experience with me and to those who have followed. I hope that as they read this they can chuckle along with me as the memories come flooding back. (Maybe flooding isn't the word I want to use in a submarine story).

Many who have experienced submarine life would say (and there are times I'd have to agree) that it's not a life. Others might say that it's extreme boredom punctuated by moments of shear terror. It's during this time that you watch the "This is Your Life" video pass before your eyes in fast forward. These are the times that with almost no thought, but as a result of repeated practice and drill you react to the situation at hand. Albeit fire, flooding (there's that word again) or a power plant casualty. Only after the adrenalin begins to wear off, do you realize that you almost died. These stressful moments become the source of some quality "gallows humor" as a means to deal with the stress and boredom.

I don't want you, the reader, to think it was all bad and I don't want to write this as an embedded reporter. I wish to write this, so that you, the reader can experience a taste of this salty adventure as a new crew member. So come aboard with me shipmates, and let me be the first to say, "Welcome Aboard"!

As we cross from the pier to the boat let me take this opportunity to explain that a ship is a ship, but a submarine is a boat. This being a hold over from the German U-boat terminology.

We're standing topside now staring down the main hatch and at the ladder bolted to the wall below the hatch. Before you begin to descend fill your lungs completely with a deep breath of fresh air and look straight up. This is your last breath of completely fresh air and your last look at the sky for the next sixty days.

As we reach the bottom of the ladder and proceed forward you begin to become aware of your new surroundings. The first is the ever present and distinct odor that permeates everything and everyone on board. It's a mixture of diesel exhaust, lube oil, food, sweat, cigarette smoke, grease, salt water and trash. Yes, a regular "eau de toilet water" kind of smell. (I think submarine air comes from France).

Remember that description and you'll understand why people are looking at you funny when we get to our first liberty port.

We continue to go forward, down another deck and through a water tight door, we are now in the bow compartment of the boat. Here we'll assign you your rack (this is your bed). It's approximately six feet long, three feet wide and three feet high, with a reading light, an air conditioning vent and a curtain for privacy. That sea bag you're carrying with all your worldly possessions in it, gets unpacked and stowed in the three inch deep bed pan that is the length and width of your rack. And since you're new on board, you get to share these luxury accommodations with one, maybe two other people.

The good news is that you'll probably rarely get to sleep anyway until your qualification cards are completed. These earn you the right to proudly wear your silver dolphins pin(the symbol of the submarine service) with your uniform. It also earns you a seat at the evening movie, until then though you're on the "dink" (delinquent) list.

Well, before you get to work let us go to the mess decks for the evening meal. Of course we'll have to stand in line for these culinary delights. I hear they're serving fried chicken that tastes like shrimp, because they never change the grease in the deep fat fryer. We get to wash it all down with "bug juice", the navy's brand of high potency kool-aid. It's so full of ascorbic acid that it's also used to clean the grill and the toilets. Bon appetite, shipmate!

As an added bonus the "doc" is waiting at the head of the line to make sure we're all up to date on our shots. I haven't decided yet if it's because we're going overseas or to protect us from the food.

We'll skip ahead now on this adventure story. We've left port, we're underway now and you've poured coffee all over yourself upon hearing the diving alarm for the first time. (2 blasts on the loudest "uh-ga" horn you've ever heard, followed by the announcement of "dive, dive"). Now you experience the same anxiety felt by every new crew member the first time you realize that this is what submarine life is all about. You're underway, hundreds of feet below the surface and if something happens, you can't escape and there is no rescue.

Your crusty old chief has sensed your tension and shared the "two key secrets of a successful submariner". The first is so profound that you're amazed at its wisdom.

"Son", say the chief, "We want to keep the water out of the people tank". You're speechless at the wisdom of that statement and at the fact that the chief seems to love being asea. "Maybe he's just confused", you think, after all you certainly are. You're wondering, "What the hell am I doing here?" As he continues to try to ease your fears, he shares the second secret of submarine life. It may take some higher math skills to understand this, but thank God for our public school system. "The second secret", says the chief, "is to make sure the number of dives equals the number of surfaces" You thank the chief for sharing those with you and silently vow to get the hell out of the navy before you end up like him.

We've been out at sea now for a few weeks and the closeness of the quarters is beginning to wear on you. There are few places on board where you can stretch your arms straight out and not touch something in a 360degree circle. When you find one, you're reminded of your surroundings by the fact that something is in the overhead just inches from your head.

You're standing your watches in the engine room, the hottest, sweatiest, oiliest place on the boat. Six hours on watch, twelve hours off during which time maintenance, cleaning and training, etc. get done. Notice that sleeping is not on that list.

The evaporator, which is used to make fresh water from seawater has been secured for weeks now because it makes too much noise. The trash compactor and overboard trash disposal unit is also secured and all trash is bagged and stored in the engine room, your watch station. (Stealth is important in this business).

Unfortunately, when the evaporator is secured so are the showers. This is not good when you have to share a rack with someone. At least everyone smells the same, but twice already in the few moments you've been able to sleep, you've woken up wondering "What the hell stinks?" only to realize it's you!

You're developing a taste for navy chow and continue to be amazed at the creativity of the boats cooks. You've even won some awards for correctly identifying the "mystery meat of the day".

You've settled into the routine of the days, even though you don't know what day it really is. You've stopped wondering what the weather is like back home, but hope that there is some mail waiting for you at the first liberty port.

As the boredom builds the tension does also. You're starved for entertainment and read Louis LaMour novels as fast as possible. All the time imagining yourself in the story and the wide, open spaces of the American West. The days slowly go by as you begin to think about how good an ice, cold beer and some real food will taste.

Then one day you hear, "surface, surface, surface"!!! A short time later you're out in town, and yes the locals think you smell. Hey, you do smell! But the beer is cold and God bless McDonalds there's real food almost everywhere in the world.

The tension that was building slowly goes away and before you know it, it's the next day and you're trying to explain why you and some of your shipmates got into trouble out in town. A couple of more days like that and you'll be glad to be back to sea, you'll need the rest!

A week or so later you're out to sea again. But, now you're not the new man on board since some new crew members reported during the port call. The cycle continues until six months later you finally return home. It's great to be home, but you feel like Rip Van Winkle. The world continued without you, the whole time you were gone. There are new songs on the radio, new shows on TV, it was summer when you left, its Christmas time now. The car you left parked on base has become a seagull roost and the paint job is ruined.

The next day you take the motorcycle out and ride, ride, ride, up over the mountains and east into the desert. Ride with the wind in your face and no one around. Ride until the closed in feeling is gone and you feel like being around other people again. As time goes on, these trips will get longer and longer, sometimes even requiring a night of camping alone in the southern California desert.

Then comes the day, the day it's all over. The day you walk off that base for the last time knowing you never have to go back, you experience a feeling like none other. Then you're left with the memories that mellow with time…

Memories of maybe "the worst of times" and certainly of the "best of times". Memories of youth and of friends now scattered across the country. Then you hope they see this story and they remember also, as you raise your glass and say "this ones for you, shipmate"!

Ming-ya!!! Were you sleepin'???

Unable to secure a job prior to his discharge from the US Navy, Stefano Ming-ya reluctantly returned to his hometown. As miserable as his 9yrs in the service had been at times, he always consoled himself with the fact that he wasn't living THERE anymore. Though he had left home at 18yrs old, it wasn't until he joined the Navy some three years later, that he finally felt free of the oppression of Momma Ming-ya. Now he was going back.

Finding an apartment ASAP, to minimize his contact with Momma Ming-ya, Stefano Ming-ya continued to look for work, hoping for the best possible scenario of a job out west, 2000 miles away.  His fate did not have a job for him out west, though and he soon started with the local utility company. Working hard and with many ex-navy veterans, Stefano did well and prospered.  The only draw-back, if you will, being the need to work rotating shift work.  Being much younger than he is now, it was much easier then, provided he got enough sleep.

Of course despite prospering at his job, there was always the distractions of family dysFUNction caused by Momma Ming-ya. Truth be told, she resents the success of her children, it limited her control of them. Why should anything be discussed at a family gathering, other than her latest illness or what her hair brained astrologer told her was going to happen to her kids. Needless to say nothing good was ever predicted, at least to hear her relate the stories. She really believes no one can do anything without her help and then they could do only as much as she decided they were capable of. Yes, she is also a Democrat.  

Always looking for a way to make everything and everyone revolve around her (that must be why she's as big as the sun, so everyone can orbit her), the phone became her favorite tool for dispensing dysFUNction. Constantly unaware of Stefano Ming-ya's rotating work and sleep schedule and ignoring his repeated requests NOT to call, she called. She wanted attention and by god (her god is a little-g, since her god is herself) she was going to get some and Stefano was going to give it to her!!!  How dare he tell HER when she can call and when she cannot!!!

Needless to say this day, Stefano Ming-ya was sleeping. Sleeping during the day because he was WORKING, while the rest of the world was tucked comfortably into their beds sound asleep. Groggily answering the phone, he wasn't greeted with a polite hello. No, he was greeted with a tirade and waterfall of words, complaints about her health, complaints about other family members who wouldn't give Momma Ming-ya the attention she demanded and complaints about him not calling often enough. As the trade continued unabated, Stefano Ming-ya attempted to interject that he had been sleeping, since he was on the Mid-night shift. Ignoring his interjections, Momma Ming-ya continued the waterfall of words. Realizing she wasn't listening, only talking (as usual) and that he would not be able to stop her, he hung up the phone then reached down and unplugged it. 

Returning to sleep, Stefano hatched a plan upon arising that evening. Arriving at work approximately 1115pm, he attended shift turnover, made his tours of the power plant and carried out his other duties required that evening. Taking a break about 215am, he returned to the office. Walking briskly past a co-worker to a phone on a desk. Tapping in the number, his co-worker was intrigued, too many numbers not to be an outside call. Who would he be calling at this hour?

Patiently, Stefano Ming-ya waited as the phone on the other end began to ring and ring and ring and ring. Losing count somewhere around twenty, Stefano continued to wait, until finally he heard the familiar and despised voice of Momma Ming-ya at the other end. “Hello, hello!” 

“MING-YA!!! Were you sleeping??? SO WAS I!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  Stefano screamed into the phone before slamming back into its cradle. Calmly turning now to his other tasks, his co-worker looked up and asked, “Who'd you call???” 

“The woman formerly known as my mother.” Stefano replied with a smile. “Maybe now she'll get the message!!!” 

“Don't call me and I won't call you!!!”

Ming-ya... Another Mother's Day Post

da Ming-yas

They can't sing soprano, but they're da Ming-ya la familia that puts the FUN back into dys-FUN-ctional

Some of The Characters

Momma Ming-ya - the matriarch of this dysfunctional cast of characters and the chief source of the dysFUNctions they endure.  Momma Ming-ya thinks God has a special piece of heaven just for her, only if she makes the lives of her Ming-ya la familia members a big enough hell, while she's still alive.  Yet despite her stated self, assurance on that promised piece of heaven, she's terrified of her own mortality.

Momma Ming-ya has spent her entire adult life passing as many phobias and neurosis’s as possible down to her kids and other members of da Ming-ya la familia.  Always resorting to the almost never fail method of injecting just enough guilt into any situation necessary, to control the thinking and actions of da Ming-ya la familia.  After all, it's how she ensures they all "love" her. 

The fact that best way for her to show "love" to the rest of da Ming-ya la familia, would be to let them learn to make their own decisions, does not enter into her thinking.  Since giving them the freedom to do that would mean taking the chance they'd choose not to be around her any more.

You're killing me!!!!  Being the most effective way of casting fear into the members of da Ming-ya la familia, who having intimate knowledge of all of her latest maladies, don't want to be the one or ones responsible for sending her to her self assured reward.

During the few times she has been challenged, she's resorted to injecting her own brand of guilt into da Ming-ya la famila grieving process.

“I hope you break an ankle dancing on my grave!!!!!!”

Of course never assuming that someone might trip over a rock as they dig her up attempting to drive a stake through her heart!!!!

Thanks Mom...

Well... Tomorrow being Mother's Day... I thought I would re-post something I wrote following the death of Robin Williams... 

Thanks Mom…

It’s been a few days now and many things have been written and said about the tragic passing of Robin Williams… I have provided links to several articles and quotes from each… I found them all to be very interesting, introspective and sadly relatable… I urge everyone to read them and not to skip ahead to something I wrote many years ago about an incident in my own life… An incident almost forgotten, but remembered with pride upon reading these articles…

http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/culturebox/features/2014/the_humor_code/are_comedians_really_depressed_or_is_sadness_just_funny.html#comments

Sure enough, according to their book Pretend the World Is Funny and Forever, the analyses revealed that most of the comedians grew up in chaotic households with critical, indifferent mothers, leading them to become obsessed with notions of good and evil, angels and demons. As the Fishers note in their book, “We would propose that a major motive of comedians in conjuring up funniness is to prove that they’re not bad or repugnant. They are obsessed with defending their basic goodness.”

“I'm not saying anything science doesn't already know, by the way. Find a comedian, and you'll usually find somebody who had a shitty childhood.”

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/quick-fixes/robin-williams-why-funny-people-kill-themselves/#ixzz3AUrCKBDg

https://www.facebook.com/notes/jonas-barnes/why-the-death-of-robin-williams-is-devastating-and-should-set-off-alarms/10152398985417880

“Comedy is a strange beast in that sense. Our job is joy. We make people laugh. For a brief time, we allow the audience to escape from their lives through laughter. We are jesters to the kingdom of life. Yet, so many times, that joy that we provide is masked in tragedy and comes with a price. The stereotype is that comics are fucked up in the head. We're crazy. We're nuts. We're full of tragedy. Our lives must have been fucked up. And I'll be damned if that stereotype doesn't ring true a lot of the time. We're the sad clowns of the world. All of the greats that you have seen come and go were fucked up. Drug addictions, alcoholism, destructive behavior...why? Because we are destructive. We thrive on adrenaline rushes and chaos. And we do it because we have something inside us that needs it. Was it a shitty upbringing? Did we get our asses kicked as kids? Did we get bullied? Have we been fucked by the world around us? Whatever the tragedy is, we find it and make all of you laugh at it. We bottle it down and turn it into humor. It is a coping mechanism that affectively bottles the emotions away at the same time. It is a vicious cycle that, often times, ends in an ultimate tragedy.”

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10152560531007649&set=a.10151611049592649.1073741824.742412648&type=1

“Comics are fucked up people. That's just a fact. We ball up our "mess," write jokes about it, and we get on stage with it seeking love, acceptance, and connection from total strangers. There is nothing normal or sane about who we are or what we do. We comics, just like everyone else, deal with our lives and our shit in different ways, as best we can...”

Ming-ya!!! Were You Sleepin’???  

https://www.facebook.com/notes/10150106213343225/

It’s been many years now since we’ve spoken… And though that isn’t going to change… I’d like to say here… Thanks, mom…

I don’t wish you dead… Every day you’re alive is another day you suffer the inglorious truth that your now adult children don’t speak to you and honestly hate you… Death doesn’t scare those who have lived a good life… The fact that’ll you will die someday scares the hell out of you…

The fact that you die without six friends to carry your box means they’ll have to bounce it down the church steps… You’re in for a bumpy ride to hell…   

I’ve got a bottle of laxative just waiting for the day I shit on your grave… I want it really liquid, so it soaks right down to your box…

The harm you meant to cause is going to make me famous… Didn’t plan on that did you??? 

Captain's Log Star Date Friday 4/22/16

With a nod to the fact that, yes I need to sit and write regularly again... Each day... By hand and electronically... I sit this Friday morning following coffee and chores... Outside with the boys... Jay finishing his breakfast outside as is his preference... As I do my reading and writing while listening to the too close noise of life in the "city"... Preferring instead to be sitting outside amid nature this will have to suffice for now... 

At least the air is fresh, the breeze light and cool... No one nearby to interrupt with incessant talking... 

Work continues on the RV... Most of that in my ability to complete being done, it will soon need to be removed somewhere for additional work/repair... Hopefully at limited expense and be ready again for life on the road... 

Sadly, no that's not the word... For I am thankful that while repairs to it and my finances are underway I have shelter and a home for myself and the boys... 

So that while we repair, it will be prior to next winter before we go... Lest we experience a windfall to facilitate an earlier departure... 

The extent of my ability to facilitate repairs limited by experience and tools is shown in the astetics(sp???) of the job... Which is outweighed by the functionality of my work... The water leaks are stopped... The inside is and will stay dry... While looking disordered... It works... To stop the rain and my compulsory disorder... We (the boys and I) are happy with it...  

Looking upon it as a metaphor of our life... Patched... But still working, surviving, even thriving in our new reality... The freedom from stuff unnecessary to our happiness... Happy to be free of the need for "stuff" and with the point to remember... Don't fill the apartment with stuff we don't need or can't fit into the RV... 

We are abundant in our necessities for life... And grateful for them... Food... Shelter... Each other... Time... Appreciation of life... Sunrises... Sunsets... Breezes... Peace... Quiet... Un-rushed walks... Books... Friendships and family that count... While abundance of these latter two may mean something to some... We choose the ones that truly count as abundance... 

Life is good this morning and every morning... So to avoid the risk of repeating myself... I will put down my pen...  

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood and time for another walk...