Painting Signs – another job failure exposed

“This kid has absolutely no talent.”

Job #6 was with Dial Sign Company, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Initially, I started with cleaning and prepping pieces of wood, masonite and aluminum. I learned the difference between latex and oils. I was a hard worker, and it was soon time to take a shot at the big letter world of BILLBOARD painting. The word came down ” You are going to paint billboards today. It is easy, just go with the flow.”

Ray and I went up the ladder to a narrow platform. He chalked out the letters and mixed up the paint colors, while I watched the traffic flow by at a high speed. We were ready to go. He started the letter C and handed me the brush. “Just fill it in.” It seemed easy, but the C quickly became an O…… “Stop, Stop! Let your hands flow. I’ll finish the C, you start the A,” he told me. This wasn’t Dick and Jane letters and I was thinking I might be over my head.

“ARE YOU KIDDING?” My A had started to become an 0 again. “STOP! STOP! THAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE LETTER A…… WHAT THE HELL LETTER IS THAT YOU ARE PAINTING?” (He had obviously never seen the Russian alphabet). “OKAY. You just watch me”. So I spent the next couple of hours watching and waiting for my next big chance. But it never came. The ride back was quiet and I was a little apprehensive about my skill level and chances for promotion.

Back in the shop, I overheard my evaluation. “Geez, that kid has absolutely NO talent. Don’t ever send him on a job with me again.”  I shrugged it off. I thought about pin striping his new truck, but I let it go. Somehow, I knew this wasn’t going to be my calling in life.  I was ready to move on to my next new vocational adventure (especially since Friday was my last day).

Sidebar #1: Hats off to the Paint By Numbers gang, where everybody gets to be a Picasso.

Sidebar #2: If at first you don’t succeed, change jobs as often as you can. There is something out there for you. You will find it.

Good night Allentown. You can’t keep a good man down.

Job Interviews you will never forget

Sure things are not always a sure thing.

I was junior in high school, with thirteen years of school under my belt, going nowhere fast. Mr. Cummings, the guidance guy, called me in for a peek at the future. “Doesn’t look like you will be graduating in this century,” he told me. “So maybe, we should consider some part time work.”  He had arranged a job interview, not to worry, pretty much all arranged ahead of time. “You really can’t miss Mike – all you have to do is show up. ”

The BIG Interview:

I arrived at 11, all cleaned-up, my socks matched, clean underwear, and wearing one of my better, industrial plaid cotton shirts.

“Come right in. Are you a hard worker Jimmy?”, the interviewer asked me (I don’t know about Jimmy but Mikey sure is). Then it happened: His eyes went in different directions (he was severely cross-eyed). Panic set in right away, I didn’t whether to look right, left or center. I tried to follow his eyes by moving my head but it was too hard to listen and answer questions and follow his eyes. I just put my head down and talked.

What Happened Mike?:

“Mike, It was a sure thing – What did you do?”, Mr. Cummings asked me later. “He has hired every student I have sent over there. Did you say something peculiar? You didn’t get the JOB. ” I shrugged and said, ” I was polite. I had clean clothes. I don’t know why.”  I never did well in interviews. My mother got me most of my jobs until I was 23. Interviews can seriously stomp on your self-esteem. I bet the Lone Ranger never had to do a job interview.

Sidebar #1: Interviews remind me of a parole review at Shawshank Prison (movie reference). Nobody is really listening to you, but hey, you got to go through the motions.

Sidebar #2: I have a few friends who have been through dozens of interviews. After a while, they start to withdraw, get born-again, mentally catatonic, and start sending SOS signals out into space. I was just reminded recently, of these failings, when I got rejected from 2 work-for-free volunteer jobs. I can’t even give it away……

Good night, Flint Michigan. Thanks to Michael Moore for always having our back.

Rare coin found at Kool-aid Stand

Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid, 5 cents a glass, if you don’t like it ……..

My first business was a Kool-Aid stand, age 5, incredibly successful. Mom made me a sign in pencil, I combed my hair, put on clean underwear and got ready to climb the ladder of success.

Kool-Aid at time was selling for 3 packets for 5 cents (unsweetened). My mother was always a little cash poor, being a single mother of 3. So my cherry Kool-aid, didn’t have any sugar in it. I tasted it and went “Yuck! Ma – this tastes like crap!”. “You are a kid, they won’t care how it tastes,” she replied.

Location, Location, Location:

I set up the stand where the bus stopped and SHAZAM  I had my first customer. A younger guy stepped off the bus and looked at my sign. He asked “How much is the Kool-aid?” Since I couldn’t read, I just pointed to the pencil sign with the mystery letters. “I think it is five cents Mister”, I told him. Game on! He took a cup (used but wiped clean) and paid me a NICKEL. One sip and then I heard “YUCK!!”  He tossed it at the wall behind me and dropped the cup. You can’t please everyone, so I retrieved the cup and waited for my next victim (customer).

Then it happened, an older, well dressed gentleman got off the bus and smiled at me. “You are kind of young to be in business aren’t you?”, he asked.

I smiled smugly and said “Yep”. I guess he saw the Kool-aid stain on the wall behind me. He produced the largest coin I’ve ever seen. “This will help you stay in business a little longer”, he told me before he walked away.

No Kool-aid? Just cash?? I love this business. Then I got to thinking – what do I do with this giant coin? This was a rough neighborhood I lived in – lots of mean kids. So I closed up the business and retired for many years.

I showed Elsie (Mom) the giant coin and asked “Are we rich now?”.  “That is a dollar”, she said. “You better let me hold that for you”. You know the rest of this story, I never saw the giant coin again. It probably went for cigarettes and wonder bread. In later years, I looked for the stocks and bonds, she might have invested in, but i couldn’t find those either.

Sidebar # 1: if you want to know the rest of Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid rhyme, you need to request it. It is PG-13.

Good night Providence, Rhode Island. Don’t let the speed traps get you.

Our Dog Froze to Death (I think)

ASPCA probably won’t investigate this cold case.

Duke, was a 45lb black lab mix, gentle and fun-loving. He came with our new STEP-FATHER, lived outside and was almost always chained to the dog-house. He was the first dog we ever had and we didn’t know much about them. He didn’t bite, gave lots of kisses, and was only  fed 2-3 times a week (what were they thinking??). Actually, Duke’s real name was Penelope. However, my brother John didn’t want a girl dog, so he re-named her Duke.

If you took him on a walk, he almost always slipped out of the heavy chain. He would run around the neighborhood until he was caught. Punishment was severe for both the dog, and the kid who had taken him on the walk. He ate his own poop, and anything else he could find (I know why now). Nobody in the family really took responsibility for feeding him. He got leftovers once in a while. But usually it was just crumbled up white-bread and whatever was about to be tossed from the refrigerator. He was always happy to see us, but I have no idea why.

My job was to give him water when his dish froze over. Sometimes, I would sneak him scraps. Sometime in January, my mother told me to go out and give him some fresh water. He was laying motionless on the ground, eyes glazed over, frozen like a block of ice.

“Ma, I think Duke is dead,” I said. I was only 12, and didn’t really know about such things. “He is not dead”, she told me. “Smack him on the butt. He is probably just sleeping.  “No Ma”, I replied. “I think he is dead.”  My stepfather got up and went outside to see for himself. “Yup”, he confirmed. “He is dead-  we’ll get another one. Mike – bury him near close to his doghouse, I don’t want the foxes to be eating at him.”

I didn’t know any dog prayers at the time. So I just dug a deep hole and put him in it.

Sidebar #1: Life was a little harsh in New England in the 50’s. Dogs had no protection. Most lived outside. Vet care was unheard of.

Sidebar #2: I’ve since become wiser and more aware of animal rights and treatment.  My younger daughter, Meghan, has dedicated her life to protecting dogs. It took her a while to get me straight.

Sidebar #3: I’m presently living with a black dog again. Mr. Train gets two meals a day, plus snacks (don’t tell his mother) and sleeps with me (when he want to). He gets 5 walks a day and I’m hoping he never learns about Old Duke.

Good night New York City.

Henry Bergh our canine friends are forever in your debt.

Mystery Irish Gentleman Comes To Dinner

No soda bread, corned beef or Guinness is served.

The most mysterious guy in Portland came to dinner last night, a friend of my daughter. They say he is a “high-tech easy rider”, beer aficionado, with a Cool Hand Luke Personality.

Not much is really know about him, he’s got more mystic than the Dalai Lama. He kinds of reminds me of one of the character’s from Tim Kreider’s latest book (although I’m not sure which one).

Anyway, I went to the Shanty Irish Market to buy some Irish vittles: beer, beer, soda bread, beer, corned beef and beer. I was the chatting up the owner, who seemed to be familiar with Irish eating habits (his Gaelic brougue had an interesting Eastern European twang).

“DEFINITELY SPAGHETTI” he said. “All Irish people love spaghetti. “(Be gosh and be gorah, I didn’t know that).

Menu:

After chasing the pigs out the parlor, we settled on the following:

Hummus & Crackers                     Mixed Salad

Navy Bean Soup                           Spaghetti & Red Sauce

Irish Italian Bread                           Apple Raisin Cobbler (Ukranian Style)

He brought his own special brew, Full Sail Top Sail ( Bourbon Barrel aged, 2010). So i just kept my 1959 bottle of Night Train for another occasion. To my surprise, he had a great appetite and actually took some left-overs home. When he left, I checked the silverware drawer but nothing was missing…..

The mysterious Irish Gentleman is still a mystery. Details of the conversation at this meal are on a need to know basis.

Sidebar # 1: Full Sail Top Sail was consumed in its entirety – unfortunately not available to the general public at this time.

Sidebar # 2: The names of the participants in this Irish Last Supper have been changed to protect the innocent.

Good night Kilkenny.

Hi, I’m your Dad and this is your half-sister Pam.

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks, it’s probably…. my biological father.

Of course, my heart was pounding. My hands were shaking like a tambourine soloist, but there he was. I definitely looked like a younger version of the man I was to call……  He was thin, had a large wooden cross around his neck, and had my nose and hand gestures at near cloning levels. I couldn’t see any bullet holes or train track marks on his suit.

“Hi, Have we ever met before I asked. He replied “Oh I held you in my arms a few times, dropped you on your head one or two times, before Elsie through me out. (Oh God – the same sarcastic sense of humor!). “This is your half sister Pam”, he said.

I noticed my sister looked quite a bit like me also. She put out her hand to greet me and then flashed the big McWeeney smile. We sat on the stone benches from almost two hours, talked, and then I had to go to class. We said we would stay in touch.

Back home, Elsie greeted me at the door, with a worried look on her face. I’d been consorting with the enemy, my biological father. I knew she had hated this guy all of her life (and he still wasn’t dead yet). “What was he like?”, I was asked. “Did he give you any money?…We don’t want any of his money”.

“Ma, he was some old, goofy looking guy, wearing a two foot wooden cross around his neck.”

She asked, “You are not going to see him again, are you?”

“No Ma, but my Sister Pam seemed real nice!!”

“She is NOT YOUR REAL SISTER……”, she replied.

“I know Ma, half and half, like the stuff the put in coffee.”

“Don’t be a smartass, you don’t know as much as your mother yet. ”

“We having mashed potatoes tonight, Ma?”

Sidebar #1: We met a few more times and I kept it a secret. He was a little more than goofy, talked about God a lot, and how tough life had been on him.

Sidebar #2: He was my biological father, not my dad. I followed in his footsteps,  I have a 28 year old son that I haven’t seen since he was a baby. To quote Miss T “If a man doesn’t keep pace with his companions, let him step to the music however measured.”

Sidebar #3: Crazy Bud, Nuttier than a Brazilian Fruitcake, the Stepfather from Hell but I’m glad I got to know him.

Good night, Boys town.

Who’s your daddy?…. Why are you asking me?

Finding Dad at age 26.

In the Roger Williams housing projects (Providence, Rhode Island), none of my friends had fathers. We had lots of brothers, sisters,  temporary uncles and great mothers. Actually, one kid, Paul Lavassa had a mother and a father. They had the fanciest apartment in the projects but they were a little different. He had a brother and sister who were seen as kind of scary (I later found out they were mentally handicapped).

Where’s my Daddy?:

“Mom, How come I don’t have a Dad…..” Reply: “He was killed in a train accident years before were born.”

6 months later: “Where’s my Dad?” Reply: “He was shot, robbing a grocery store. Don’t be asking me these questions all the time.”

3 years later: “How come we don’t have a father…..” Reply: “He is in prison, for shooting his mouth off, just like you are doing.”

Age 12, on form from school, Father’s last name and place of employment. “What do I put down here Mom?”  Reply: “He ran away with the circus, head clown, crushed by an elephant years ago” (To which I replied, “Wait till the guys hear this!”)

Finally at age 13, my mother married one of my many “uncles” and I learned what the expression “Hell on Earth” really meant (see later posts).

At age 26, I met my classmates at FAU. One said “Hey, your Dad and your sister Pam, were here looking for you yesterday.”

“Not me”, I said. “My Dad died years ago, and I only have one sister, whose name is Kathleen.”

“Well he looked just like you”, they said. I checked my Timex, it was not April 1st, it is not Tuesday, and it sure isn’t Belgium (Note: the watch hadn’t worked for years – it is just a chick magnet).

Tomorrow: “I am your Father and this is your half-sister Pam”

Sidebar #1: Lights went out, Fact check not available. Mom, is there something we should be talking about? This guy who said he is my Father showed up at school today.

Sidebar #2: What is a half-sister? Half-what? Is it my sister or not?  “Shut up and Do your homework”.

Good night Boca Raton. Thanks FAU. 

“You are not dumb, You just don’t know anything”

Flood of childhood memories almost drown the old guy.  (Note: This is a response to a wonderful blog post I read)

To: Linda Petersen (5kidswdisabilities)

From: Little Mikey

Re: your lost child?

I’m wondering if I might be one of your lost children (switched at birth… stolen by gypsies). You sure stirred a “kettle of fish” when I read your post.

I remember, “Fun with Dick and Jane”, and it wasn’t much fun. The words jumped all over the page, appeared backwards, and were somewhat unrecognizable. I couldn’t tell O from Q, small b from small d. I’m still suspicious of the 62 letter alphabet (dyslexic humor).

I failed the fifth grade, seventh grade was worse, and graduated from high school on a technicality. I remember my mother saying “Boy, you are not dumb, you just don’t know anything.” She also said “You need to eat a bushel of dirt before you’ll be as smart as your mother” (still not sure what she meant by that to this day).

Dumb luck and/or an act of God got me into a Florida college. The admissions “guy behind the curtain” said “Son, you probably don’t belong here…. but this letter of recommendation from your Mamma is pretty impressive. However I don’t have any authorization to make sure you wear clean underwear or eat your greens”.

Anyway, I made it through the Florida educational system, snatched some teaching credentials. and sought out my little brethren (children of the lesser God). I gravitated towards kids with disabilities (SLD, EH, EMH etc). My colleagues unfortunately called these the “mean and slow ones”. Since the kids and I both spoke in tongues…. LOVEYA – BACKATYOU2X, we never had problems communicating.

25 years later, after having fun everyday, AND GETTING PAID FOR IT, I moved on with my life.

Sidebar #1: To 5kidswdisabilities, I’m sending you a DNA sample just in case you think I might be one of yours.

Sidebar #2: To Elsie (Mom), I always knew you loved me best…. even though you told the neighbors you didn’t have any kids.

Good night, Gilford, Connecticut. I miss you Mom.

Hats off to Portland’s Cheap Red Wine

Dionysus rolls over in his grave.

I thought Florida had it all – hoochie mama Burgandy for $3.99/gallon and a scrumptious array of petroleum-based wine products. When I left on vacation in December, I took several of our more sensuous boxes of vino. I thought for sure that over-priced Portland would have none of these offerings.

WOW – Am i embarrassed! I have found an abundance of $2.99 Burgandy, $2.49 Chardonnay and an antique shop that still has cases of Night Train Express. If you are not familiar with Night Train Express, the description below will tell you everything you need to know:

Don’t let the 0.5% less alcohol by volume fool you, the Night Train is all business when it pulls into the station.  All aboard to nowhere – woo wooo!  The night train runs only one route: sober to stupid with no roundtrip tickets available, and a strong likelihood of a train wreck along the way.  – BumWine.com

In Florida, We have the $1.99 Port Wine which is even cheaper if you are willing to buy the dented cans. In Portland, they call it Porto and get $15-$20 a bottle. So, of course, this is not on my shopping list here. But the gang at Dockside Saloon swear by it and its medicinal properties.

So where I am going with this post? Well first, let me refill my 26oz glass……

Sidebar #1: For the wine aficionados, Florida makes a fine array of wines with grapefruit, oranges and assorted methane gases.

Sidebar #2: Shout out to Morris Ouimet, who introduced me to my first port wine. It was 50 cents a pint. He swiped it from his father’s grocery store and we both knew it was a venial sin.

Good night, Willamette Valley. Night Train has nothing on you.

DUCATI, BISCOTTI AND TAGLIONI

Put some class under you ass.

What has four wheels and flies, 1950’s joke, a garbage truck? But in Portland it could be a Lamborghini, or a pair of Ducati motorcycles (his and hers). If you like cappuccino, Prosecco, Campari, and all things Italian, you will enjoy these bikes.

If you taste flirts with upper management, Prada Handbags, and owning your own Italian bakery, you are probably going to run with the M1100.

The Holy Grail: Panigale 1199 R. If you run with the BIG dogs, had a recent lunch with Pope Benedict XVI, and sneaked a wet kiss on Michelangelo’s  Pietà, you have a shot at the afterlife. You might need a concealed weapon’s permit and a passport, if this Italian Stallion gets the best of you.  Where is this wanna be gearhead going with this post you might ask?

Bellissimo! 

Motocorsa on NW Wilson has a Museo Ducati exhibit through the end of the January. Upon entering and cruising around, I noticed it was similar to a high end Italian Bistro (with no free samples). Everything was hot, sensual, vibrant and shiny (brought back my lost weekend with Gisele Bündchen).

Since money is no object, I set my aspirations on a pair of Panigale 1199R’s . I chatted up Arun Sharma, direttore generale of Motocorsa, who looked quite savvy, and I thought I could negotiate a cash and dash price. When he told me he didn’t accept rubles, I knew the deal was skidding out of control.  The $37.40 in my checkbook however was still in play….

Sidebar #1: Motocorsa, classy, friendly, and a great place to shop. Heads up – they don’t take rubles.

Sidebar #2: The Ducati engineers, current and future Ducati owners went to Dockside Saloon to hammer out the the meaning of life. Ask about the giant nacho bowl and the homemade cookies.

Sidebar #3: To Michael in SW Portland, I asked about the modified Irish-Maid-M1900, it is called a McDucati but is only available in Chop Shops in Dingle. To Irish Pat, who I now owe drinks and a dinner to, Thanks but I’ll beat you with my mother’s shillelagh if you beat me to the check again.

Good night, Bologna. Ciao.