Glibertarians.com 2019 Archive

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  • Thursday Afternoon Links

    With all the stomach flu in the house this week, I think we definitely had the shittiest Christmas in family history. My children are about ready to riot. They’ve had one barely functioning parent (or the other) since Friday, and are really tired of being told we can’t go do ____ because their parents are sick and/or exhausted.

    In other news, I have discovered that swapping out vodka for Basil Hayden’s dark rye in a white russian is fantastic. I learned that whiskey, coffee liquer, and cream is called a Sneaky Pete.

    I hope unionization does for the SPLC what it has done for so many other institutions.

    That’s not how I remember it at all.

    China, Russia, and Iran to hold joint “naval” exercises (I’m not sure Russia and Iran qualify as having navies) in Gulf of Oman. Over/under on number of vessels inadvertently sunk?

    What’s more problematic? That someone produced a play of “Mrs. Doubtfire” or that a play about a man “passing” as a woman would be problematic to transpersons?

  • Ink and Infatuation, Part 1

    The events of this story take place within the Tarnished Sterling universe shortly after the events of Shadowrealm, but no deep understanding of that setting should be required to understand it.

    * * *

    Carol Hardtop tried to hide behind her notebook. The fact that no one was paying her any attention made this easier. Her embarrassment stemmed from her hair. After having been told not to dye her hair, she’d gone ahead and tried to do so. The result had been horrible streaks of light and dark that looked just dreadful to Carol. The punishment was having to live with it, at least for a few days. So, she curled up in the corner of the armchair, hiding behind her notebook. It was an old chair, a bit threadbare, but it held great sentimental value. Her earliest memories were of sitting with her father in that chair, learning how to read. So even when they got a new living room set, she’d protested the idea of throwing the old chair out. Now it sat in the sun room, staring out the massive windows at the twisted old tree that had given her nightmares when she was younger. Though no one could actually see her, Carol still hid, and scribbled in her notebook. Mostly, she wrote love stories, trying to give people the happily ever after they deserved.

    The crunch of tires on their gravel driveway perked up her ears, but she did not move. From the repeated attempted to get the driver’s side door to stay shut, she knew it was only her brother. In her unassailable opinion, the rolling scrap heap David called a car should have been junked years ago. Hearing him swear and kick the car door gave Carol a start. David loved that rustbucket. She couldn’t fathom why, but he did, and heaping abuse on the jalopy was not something he normally did. So, despite her unfortunate appearance, Carol peered over her notebook as he opened the sun room door. David had headed out in as best an approximation of well dressed as he could manage, putting on an actual button-down shirt and tie. He’d even gone so far as to make sure his hair was neat. That was no longer the case. Something sticky and amber-hued had been dumped on his head and shoulders, streaking his face and adhering his once-white shirt to his lanky frame.

    The foul scowl on David’s face summed it up.

    “Your date went badly?” Carol asked.

    “It wasn’t a date,” David snapped. “It was a prank. She lured me out there to humiliate me – on camera. The video is probably all over the internet by now.” He stomped off inside, and Carol was not surprised to hear the shower start up shortly thereafter. Before she could bury her face back in her notebook, another set of tires crunched on the driveway. A car door closed. A few moments later, the door to David’s car closed. Shortly after that, the tall form of their father appeared in the still-open sun room door. He had the haggard look of someone who’d been driving far too long. He had one suitcase in his left hand, and several more still waiting in the car. Carol beamed at the sight of him.

    “Hey little one,” he said, exhaustion telling in his voice. “What happened to you hair?”

    Turning beet red, Carol ducked behind her notebook again.

    “Let me guess, your mother said you couldn’t dye your hair, and you went ahead and tried to do so anyway?”

    Carol mumbled something by way of confession.

    “Ah, well, I brought you something anyway.”

    Cautiously, she peered over her notebook where Floyd was fishing something out of his jacket. Despite the wrapping of tissue paper, Carol could guess it was a pen from the size and shape of it. She had started collecting pens even before her father’s job had required him to travel. Now he made a habit of bringing them back from wherever he’d been. Most were highly decorative, and not very good as writing implements. Carol accepted this one and gingerly unrolled the tube of tissue paper around it. The nub had poked through and gotten tangled up in the wrapping, resulting in it almost tumbling to the floor when it should have just easily unrolled. It was a fountain pen with a wooden body. A few scraps of paint remained trapped in the depths of the carving, but for the most part it was worn walnut. The shapes carved into the hard wood looked like they’d been designed by someone with no real knowledge of American Indians, and contained motifs from across the continent. Mostly ravens and coyotes from the looks of it, in multiple artistic styles.

    “It’s a genuine antique,” Floyd Hardtop said. “Nineteenth century, hand-carved fountain pen.”

    Carol gave her father a warm smile. He meant well, even if it was an ugly pen. “Thanks, daddy,” she said.

    “Why did your brother leave his car door open?”

    “You know how it doesn’t like to latch,” Carol said, trying not to get drawn into the particulars of David’s ill-fated ‘date’.

    “All right, you be good, and I’ll talk to your mother about taking you to get your hair… evened out.”

    “Thanks.”

    * * *

    Carol finished combing out her now-mahogany locks. She had wanted lighter, but it was easier to cover up her earlier mistakes with a dark shade. It wasn’t the perfect look to her eyes, but no one would point and laugh. Had she been forced to go back to school with the streaky mess… Carol shuddered at the thought. She could live with mahogany. Setting down the comb on her vanity, she sat down in the rockerless rocking chair by the gable window. The house was old, and her bedroom small, but, save for the old tree, it had a superb view of the New Port Arthur skyline. She could see the glittering lights of the downtown highrises, the blinking beacon atop Mount Kline, and the dull glow of street level. A ridge blocked the view of street level proper, but that didn’t spoil the view. Her window also looked out at the roof of the sun room. She had fond memories of sitting out on that roof and watching the skies. Though the city lights made it hard to see the stars most of the time, there had been that one blackout when the sky was allowed to be brilliant.

    She picked up the pen her father had brought back and turned it over in her hands. On one hand, great care had gone into its craftsmanship, with a beautiful piece of wood as the key element. On the other, the end result was still ugly as sin. She couldn’t figure out how to get it open and get at the ink reservoir. Idly, she ran the tip across the top of the current sheet in her notebook. A line of red ink followed. It flowed smoothly and evenly, drawing out every mark and doodle she set it to. Impressed with the doodling, Carol wrote out, “It was a dark and stormy night.” It was the smoothest writing fountain pen she’d run across. Too bad the ink in it was blood red. Failing again to find a means of getting at the internal inkwell, she set the pen down and dropped her notebook atop it.

    The hallway connecting the rooms on the second floor wrapped around the stairwell. Her parents room was by the top of the stairs, at the official front of the house, though most of the time they used the sun room to come and go. The front door looked out upon the sad, abandoned house across the way. David’s room was next to Carol’s, being the very last door anyone would reach on the hall. The bathroom sat between Carol’s closet and her parents’. As she paid the bathroom a visit, she heard the unmistakable crash of thunder, followed by the strumming of heavy downpour on the roof. Finishing up, Carol headed back towards her room. Through David’s open door, she saw him, backlit by the rain-diffused light of the city, staring at the floor. The lights were off, and the flicker of lightning showed an expression so miserable that Carol’s instinct to tease him over the date died.

    “So what happened with Kassidy?”

    David’s gaze flicked up. Seeing nothing but sympathy in Carol’s eyes, he decided to talk.

    “She never actually broke up with Cameron. She said all those things just to get me to believe she might actually be willing to go on a date with me. When I showed up, Cameron dumped a bucket of syrup one me while she filmed it.” David snorted. “She was laughing so hard she might not have managed to keep her phone pointed in the right direction.”

    “What a bitch,” Carol muttered.

    “I’ll get over it,” David said, his voice lacking conviction.

    “Sitting around in the dark won’t help.”

    “Maybe I want to,” David said, but Carol had already reached over and flicked on the light. David’s room was a mirror image of Carol’s, with a similar gable window looking out over the sun room roof, and a closet towards the front of the house. He had hero posters decorating the walls, depicting mostly girls, with the only guys intruding on group portraits. A few were unofficial pin-up variants, mostly hidden where they would not be frequently spotted by their parents. The posters showed a distinct preference for blondes and redheads. Carol’s gaze passed over the familiar enough decor and halted when she saw her brother clearly.

    The redness about his eyes showed where he’d been driven to tears, though he’d evidently already cried them all. The weight of his melancholy was such that he didn’t even bother to chastise Carol for touching his lights. He just sat there, staring at the floor, miserable. Carol nibbled her lip, biting back the commentary on Kassidy that came to mind. It was supposed to have been his first real date with anybody. She decided she had no words for David and slinked away to her room. The rockerless rocking chair sat rather low, but with a pillow on a step stool, it was a perfectly serviceable lounger. Rain strummed against the window panes in an aggressive, if musical, patter. Scooping up the notebook and pen, she tried to put David’s love life from her thoughts, but the sight of him sitting there in the dark would not leave her mind. The only way she could think of to deal with it was to compose a happier resolution.

    Poking the corner of her mouth with the back end of the pen, Carol contemplated the matter. Kassidy was a blonde, so a proper happily ever after would involve a redhead. And if she were secretly a hero, all the better. Red ink on white paper suggested what her colors might be.

    * * *

    The rain subsided by morning, leaving everything damp, with a fresh scent upon the air. A big diesel engine was not a common noise on their street, and the white panel van that stopped across from the Hardtop residence looked decidedly like a moving van. By the time Carol had rubbed the sleep from her eyes and gone through her morning routine, the truck was parked, the rear door rolled up and the ramp fixed in place. Someone was actually moving into the old, abandoned house across the way. She had a sense of deja vu, though no one had ever lived in that house for as long as Carol could remember. David stared out the front door at the aberrant moving truck.

    “Who on Earth?” He left the question unfinished, as at that moment, the person in question appeared. She had loaded a stack of boxes on a hand truck and was rolling it down the ramp. She had a fit, athletic build, and an open, honest face. Her tight jeans and t-shirt accented her curves, while the heavy work boots contrasted sharply. Her complexion was almost cream, tending towards peach at its reddest. Bright green eyes looked out from above the faintest dusting of pale freckles. Her shock of bright red hair was tied back with an emerald ribbon, flaring out in a large poof of hair behind her head. Having gotten the two-wheeled hand cart off the ramp, she pulled it up the driveway and started up the stairs. A look of consternation creased her features as the wheels snagged on the lip of the second stair. One wheel rolled free, while the other remained snagged, twisting the cart about the handle. She blurted out a noise of annoyance as the stack of boxes tumbled from the truck and down the porch steps. Suddenly relieved of her burden, she stumbled back and fell on her rump. David rushed out the door and across the street.

    “Are you all right?”

    “I’m fine, just… annoyed.” Her voice was gentle, soothing.

    Picking up a split box, David found it heavier than expected. Through the damaged cardboard, he saw a stack of parquet floor panels. The sight raised an eyebrow.

    “Flooring?”

    “Well, the floorboards in some of the back rooms are not so great, so I’m going to have to pull them out. The plywood was put on the truck too early and I need to get it emptied a bit to get at it.” She stood up and dusted off the seat of her pants.

    “You’re going to refurbish this house?”

    “Well, I did buy it. It’s my first place of my own.” She smiled a warm, proud grin.

    “Anyone going to help you?”

    “I can’t afford to hire contractors, if that’s what you mean. But nobody’s volunteered so far.”

    Carol had wandered across the street at this point, still nagged by the sense of deja vu. The newcomer looked too young to have a place of her own, let alone be interested in refurbishing a run-down old house all by her lonesome. But the smile she gave David had him almost to the point of blushing.

    “I’m not all that handy,” David said, almost embarrassed, “But… I’d be willing to lend a hand when I don’t have work.”

    “Oh, what do you do?” the newcomer asked.

    David glanced away and sheepishly confessed, “I bus tables at a Pancake House.”

    “I bet you get sick of the smell of pancakes then.”

    “A little.”

    “Well, since you’ve already picked up one of my boxes, why don’t you put it in the corner of the front room?”

    “All right,” David said.

    “My name’s Erin, by the way.”

    A spark of realization struck Carol and she rushed back inside her house.

    * * *

    Travis grumbled at the sound of his phone. Turning off the shower, he dried off his hand before answering the phone. From the ringtone, he already knew what was coming next.

    “Voiceprint Identify,” Shiva said.

    “Identify Shadowdemon,” Travis said.

    “Confirmed.” Shiva was the artificial intelligence running the Community Fund’s headquarters, and any phone call from one of his numbers was bound to be official business. “Category three security alert. On-call member needed to investigate.”

    “All right, Shiva. It will be a few minutes. Category Three is ‘no imminent danger’, right?”

    “Correct.”

    “I’ll call you back when I get dressed.” Travis turned the shower back on long enough to rinse off, then dried off. Instead of donning civilian garb, he acquired Fund-issue undergarments and pulled on his charcoal and gray hero suit. The way the suit hugged the skin was awkward enough without the inopportune problems regular undergarments presented. Travis didn’t like the fit, even though he had the lean, muscular build best suited to it. Donning an oversized domino mask, he carried the rest of his kit to the base command center. A curved room running along part of the perimeter of an underground dome, the command center was dominated by three massive display screens and a holograph table. Setting his gear on the holograph table, Travis found a seat and dialed Shiva.

    “All right, Shiva, what’s going on?”

    “As the on-call member-”

    “I know, I meant ‘what is the alert’?”

    “An internal data integrity audit uncovered an inconsistency.”

    “That sounds like an issue for IT.”

    “The alert originated there.”

    “All right, give me details.”

    “The short version is, there is a record in our database that was not there yesterday. There is no transaction for it to have been added, and all of its history backdated to imitate a valid record several years old. Comparison against previous days’ backups has shown that the record does not exist in those iterations of the database.”

    “Someone broke in and added… what? What type of record are we talking about?”

    “A member.”

    “What?”

    “They have added a complete record for a Community Fund member including details going back as far as their initial application to be a sidekick. The Fund Board authorized decryption of the record and release to the on-call member for investigation.”

    “So…”

    “The technical teams will continue to search for how the intruder was able to go undetected and insert additional information into our database. You have been tasked with running down the information in the record, and see if it points to an actual source.”

    “It could be a trap of some sort.”

    “That possibility does exist.”

    “All right, lets see the phony record.”

    The middle display lit up. Travis’ eye was drawn to the portrait. It showed a girl with bright red hair and a red and white mask running from hairline to upper lip. The codename was listed as ‘Skyline’; the real name, ‘Erin O’Shea’; the birthdate was eighteen years ago yesterday; and the address was a street Travis had never heard of in Wellerby, a suburb just north of the city.

    “Skyline?”

    “Is that a query?” Shiva asked.

    “Well, on one hand the record’s fabricated. On the other, the name is so awful, I can almost believe it. Unique code names being so difficult to come up with these days.”

    “A public records search was conducted, and it verified all of the details,” Shiva said. “However, an intruder skilled enough to have inserted a properly crafted record into our systems could have easily done the same across the other systems.”

    “Easily?”

    “More easily than getting past me,” Shiva said.

    “You sound almost annoyed that they got through.”

    “This is not an area in which I am accustomed to being outperformed.”

    “All right, Shiva. I’ll head on up to Wellerby and see if there is a Skyline at that address.”

    “That is the entirety of your plan?”

    “You and your friends have the technical side covered. The only reason the board would activate the on-call would be to see if there is a physical person to go with the fake record. Since the only address we’ve got is the one in the record, I’m going to see what’s there.”

    * * *

    Continued in Part 2…

  • Boxing Day Links

    Dude, quit humping me so I can go score a goal!

    Thanks, Limeys. You make this day a lot of fun with the marathon of soccer matches.  I’ll be tuned in all day and will be able to switch over to football immediately after its done.  Nothing happened yesterday sports-wise. That NBA thing on Christmas is stupid.

    Long live piracy!

    Which brings us to birthdays.  Famous pirate Calico Jack Rackham was born on this day. As were calculating machine inventor Charles Babbage, famous admiral George Dewey, outstanding author Henry Miller, sociopathic ChiCom murderer Mao Tse-Tung, the hilarious Steve Allen, substance abuser Kitty Dukakis, music mogul Phil Spector, “The Wizard Of Oz” Ozzie Smith, genius drummer Lars Ulrich, underrated actor Jared Leto, and another actor Kit Harrington.

    That’s a pretty good list of heavyweights in their field. Nice! Let’s see if we can equal it with…the links!

    Get a load of this bullshit. I guess all of human development, from the age of dinosaurs to the middle warming period never happened.

    Ooh! Clistmas rorripop!

    Rocket Man Reneges on Christmas Gift. Damn him. I was so looking forward to California being gone this morning.

    Thanks a lot, Chicago. And thanks a lot, fuzzy new math used to come up with this statistic. Either way, the numbers are still astronomically low once you take bodily autonomy out of the equation.

    This is a story as old as the concept of the “sugar daddy” himself. If this surprises you, you’ve been living under a rock.

    How dare they leave the plantation! Get used to it, big taxers. Once marginalized people gain acceptance, expect them to abandon alliances that steal more and more of their money.

    You know this will somehow be blamed on Uber. When anybody with a brain knows its the fault of the evil money-grab scheme by the municipalities.

    Look at all that green!
    -the taxman

    I hope this doesn’t give anybody bright ideas about liquor. Seriously, these fucks need to look at ways to lower taxes, not raise them.

    I love this song. And the overall greatness of the video can’t be disputed. Shit, I realized they cut off part of that. Here’s the “official” video with the whole song, but not as 80s as the other one.

    Now go have a great (Boxing) day, friends!

  • Christmas Night Open Post

    TPTB are all either: a) exhausted; b) drunk; or c) lazy.

    So you get to enjoy an Open Post tonight. Or, you don’t have to.

     

     

     

  • Quiet Christmas Afternoon Links

     

    So, another quiet Christmas at our place. I’m about to put together a lasagna that’s way too big for two people (and a Wonder Dog), but hey,  it’s silly to go to the trouble and then not have leftover lasagna for the freezer.

    OMWC gave me an 8 qt multicooker for Christmas. We have a tradition of giving each other cooking-related gifts for all gift-giving occasions. Then we BOTH get the benefit of the present.

    I have to say, I’ve resisted the multicooker mania, but it’s just exactly like the way I resisted a rice cooker.

    ALL my Asian friends: SP you NEED a rice cooker!

    SP: Eh, how hard is it to make a pot of rice on the stove?

    SP gives OMWC a rice cooker when out of gift ideas one birthday.

    Fast forward.

    SP: OMG! How did we live without this thing??

    Same deal with the multicooker. Tamales done in 45 minutes? Check! Flan in 15 minutes? Check! (#notvegan)

    Along with all the more regular uses for it, I expect to use the hell out of the thing for small batch canning. Great gift, all around. Thanks, OMWC!

    Anyway! Let’s see what’s happening in the world today.

     

    Who hasn’t fantasized about doing this?

    No, OMWC, we cannot do this.

    How would this go over for the holiday decorations at your workplace?

    I imagine they must have gotten the parents’ permission for this.

    And, of course the legislator wants to legislate even more in response to this.

     

    Time for me to open some cooking wine…you know, wine I will drink while cooking.

     

    Merry Christmas, etc etc, Glibs!

  • The Hat and The Hair Extended Universe: Uncle Joe

     

    “Pussies are bullshit,” Uncle Joe whispered into the child’s hair. Her mouth opened and a wailing gurgle began.

    “Oh, I think someone’s a little overexcitabled,” he said, looking up at the parents. An aide whisked the child and parents away as the cameras continued to flash.

    “Reminds me, reminds of the time I played the Santa for a bunch of bla-black kids in the barrio, which is what we used to call Starbucks,” Joe said. An aide sat another child in his lap to break off the incipient ramble.

    “How are you, young man?” Joe asked the child loudly. The smells of denture glue and Hai Karate enveloped the little boy as Joe snaked both his arm around his thin torso hugged him until his ribs ached.

    “Mr. Vice President,” an aide said sternly.

    Joe’s eyes opened. “Did you get what you wanted for Channhooka, young man? Do you want to learn to swim?” He kissed the boy on the side of the head. “You don’t taste like you can swim. I have my own pool.”

    The boy didn’t say anything. Fat tears were running down his face.

    “Mr. Vice President!” another aide said. There were a dozen arrayed on either side of him. All armed with low-powered tasers.

    “I love drinking pool water,” he told the reporters as the child was taken away. “Refreshing. I remember summer where I drank nu-nu-nothing but pool water. Hot pool water. Full of vitamins and sunlight!” He smiled his toothy grin, then frowned. He laughed suddenly and loudly. The low warning crackle of a taser could be heard.

    “What do you want for Christmas, little girl?” Joe asked, pawing for the mother of the next child. He caught her wrist and pulled her into his lap before her husband could react.

    “You’ve got fantastic tits for a 2nd grader,” he told the back of the woman’s neck. He rocked her tailbone against the base of his erection and moaned.

    “The Vice President has a very full campaigning schedule,” tallest Secret Service agent barked. He helped the woman in Joe’s lap to her feet, a red flush across her neck and upper chest. The agent passed her to a waiting aide. He never bothered to learn the aide’s names. They rarely lasted more than a week.

    “Don’t smoke The Devil’s Lettuce, kid!” Joe called after the visibly distressed woman.

    “You either, bucko,” he said, pointing to the next child in line. “Don’t even think about asking Ol’ Saint Joe for intravenous drug bongs. I don’t go in for that sort of stuff, Jack!” The little boy took off running, evading the aide trying to put him on Joe Biden’s lap.

    “Look at that little picaninny go,” Joe roared. “We got ourselves a track star!”

    “We’ve been over this, sir,” an aide sat urgently into his ear. “You cannot use that word any longer!”

    “TRACK STAR?!?” Joe asked loudly. Campaign workers were breaking up the line of waiting children and parents. “I can’t say TRACK STAB! Anymore?!?”

    “‘Track star’ is fine, sir,” said the aide. “‘Track stab’ less so. No picaninny. Or mulatto or quadroon or octoroon or Negro or…”

    “They love my leg hair, goddammit!” Joe said, pushing the young man away.

    “Firebird is sundowning,” the aide said into his wrist. “I repeat, Firebird is sundowning.”

     

    In the rendition room, Secret Service agents in clown masks read Trump Tweets to the parents of the children in order to keep their votes.

     

  • Christmas Morning Links

     

    Traditionally, Jews would slip a few bucks to a goy to do tasks on Sabbath forbidden to the Jew, like turning lights on and off or lighting a stove. If it pisses off Yahweh, so what? It’s not like it’s a Jew breaking the commandments. Today, the opposite, the Jew sits in for Sloopy, while he spends the morning trying to prevent his sugared-up kinder from smearing shit on the walls with glee and abandon (not to mention partially digested crayon fragments). And I’m a Jew in a good mood, given the fantastic female with whom I’m spending my day off, the amazing food and beverage in the house, the afterglow of the effective end of the regular season in the NFL, and the memory of SP’s four kinds of tamales with red, washed down with several ethanol-containing media, and accompanied by a delightful Humphrey Bogart flick set in Arizona.

    Birthdays abound, though Wikipedia coyly omits the most famous one. But they DID include one of the three or four greatest minds in human history; someone whom I could have sworn was made up; a guy who combined a great mustache with shitty cars; someone who at least admitted that he was not to be believed; the absolute exemplification of cool; a guy I would love to have done some lines with; the source of the terrific quote about TV, “How can you put out a meaningful drama when every fifteen minutes proceedings are interrupted by twelve dancing rabbits with toilet paper?“; one of the best baseball players I ever saw (but hung on too long); and an empty suit which could be a poutine receptacle.

    Oh, and there’s likely some news or other out there.

     

    IT’S HAPPENING!

     

    If she’s successful, citizens will take turns shaving her legs.

     

    “You can’t solve problems by just throwing money at them.”

     

    Mexicans doing jobs Americans won’t.

     

    He’s not incorrect.

     

    After spending a few million dollars in grant money, scientists report startling fact known to anyone who has ever owned a dog.

     

    Old Guy Music is clearly on theme today, a terrific song and a performance to match.

  • Hey Tree Man!!! – Tales of the Big City and of Time’s, Past Part 3: Oh the Humanity

    Previously: Part 1, Part 2

     

     

    The People that You Meet Each Day

    I don’t want to spend time creating and describing stereotypes of New Yorkers to everyone. This has been done ad nauseam in TV, Movies, and books. I’ll stick with some observations and unique people I met during this time.

    One year I worked at the high rent East Side stand at 66th and 67th and Lexington. This introduced me to a new type of customer the entitled New York upper class twit. The upper class twit has a lot of money and doesn’t consider the workers and staff around them as intelligent or worthy of respect. I sold trees to many of this type and delivered them to their homes. This was an amazing opportunity for me to experience some posh apartments, incredible art, and to get called a moron. One such couple of twits walked up to the stand and began verbally pissing all over the wreaths that we had for sale, then made fun of the dress and general condition of our staff. I heard this in passing but decided that I’ll try to make a sale. The couple was wearing flashy clothes and jewelry. They were not gaudy, but the gems and watches were very expensive looking.

    I approached them and introduced myself, “Hello, I’m Time, what can I help you with today.”

    The man responded, “We need a tree that doesn’t look like it came from the side of the LIE.”

    I started my pitch, “Well sir these trees were all cut within the last few days and are very fresh, I can pull a few out so you can see them better. What size are you looking for?”

    The woman replied, “We need the biggest tree you have, we have a very high ceiling. It’s a very spacious home.”

    “OK,” I countered. “Just so you know we have up to twenty five foot trees. They will take quite the effort to show you. So I would like you to be very sure of the height before we pull them out.”

    The man replied with a snotty tone, “Ohhh we are sure what will and will not fit in OUR apartment. Show us the biggest tree you have.”

    “Ok then,” I said stifling my distain, “Let me get some help and we will open the twenty-five footer.”

    I talked to the boss and got his permission to move and open the big Fir tree. We had to close off most of the sidewalk as we unbound the monster. As we unfurred the tree I watched the couple’s eye widen. They walked around it while maintaining their distance from the branches and especially the folks trying to hold it up.

    “So what do you think, is it big enough for you?” I asked. “Do you want us to bind it up and deliver it for you?” It’ll be Three hundred and fifty dollars with another fifty for the installation and stand.”

    She responded, “Well do you have something else for us to look at?”

    I commented, “We do, but they are quite a bit smaller and less impressive.”

    The couple walked aside and began to deliberate. I went back to the poor schlubs holding up the monstrosity and told them to relax and try to get it out of the way. The couple argued, with the woman seemingly pouting for a bit.

    Finally they returned and the woman spoke. “We’ll take it, we need to move a few things to prepare, but we want it delivered this afternoon so we can decorate it before our party.”

    “Ok, please pay the stand manager, tell him your information, and I’ll begin getting your tree ready for transport and delivery.”

    The tree was funneled into the special large bailer that we had at this stand and eventually loaded onto the truck. We had to get our delivery guy with the big truck and three guys to move the beast. I went on the delivery to help with the logistics and set up. I was sure to bring a saw, tools, a broom, trash bags, and a forty-foot tape measure.

    We approached the building and had to double park the truck while unloading the tree. The home entrance was thankfully on the first floor. We met the help at the door, the couple was nowhere to be seen. We were able to get the thing into the door around the furniture, pieces of art and pictures on the white walls. The living room did have a big ceiling, but it sure didn’t look like it was over twenty five feet. The walls were lined from chest high to ceiling with built in book shelves. There had to be several hundred books lining the walls. The couple arrived and I told them the tree was too big for the ceiling. I measured it and showed it to them. They stood in disbelief, but couldn’t deny the number I showed them. Twenty four feet was the ceiling-to-floor height, if I added the stand then the tree was two feet too tall. The only options were to take it back, cut it, or cut a hole in the ceiling. I relayed these options to the couple and they began whining and complaining to me.

    I reminded them that the stand manager would not take a return without keeping half of the money and they would not have a tree for their party tonight. So they decided to have us cut it. I informed them that once we cut the trunk it’ll be a much different tree. It will lose most of the fullest branches. They agreed and then the work began.

    As the men cut the trunk I started making small talk with my customers.

    “You have a beautiful home I really love all of the books you have. What types of books do you collect? Who is the big reader you or your partner?”

    The man responded, “They were picked for their colors, I don’t know where they came from.”

    “Well…,” I responded with even less respect than I thought possible, “they sure do look wonderful.”

    The tree was cut down to size and stood up after about forty-five minutes, it looked quite ugly now with big open spots. We cleaned up and I started to leave. The man of the house gave his maid a fifty dollar bill and she gave it to me. I was done wasting our collective time, I thanked the maid and turned to the couple who had a confused and disappointed look on their face.

    I ended our interaction with a snarky pitch, “Well, thank you for your business. I look forward to seeing you next year, however I would recommend a twenty foot tree. It would be perfect in your space.”

    Yorkers could surprise you. I was becoming hardened and disenchanted with people in general after several days in the city. One evening an older couple I had seen walking to the store every other day stopped at the stand. They wanted a Douglas fir that needed to be a certain size and shape. They had a picture with them and a tape measure. They were enthusiastic, respectful, and seemed to be having a great time with the process. They had a strong German accent but kept talking to me and each other in English. They picked out the tree that met their requirements and I packed it up and delivered it. Turns out they lived right across from the stand. As we were walking to their apartment I asked them why they had such a specific tree in mind. The gentleman indicated that they were from Germany and left for New York after the war. Every year they would try to find a tree that matched the one they left behind on their farm and recreate the same look of the picture they had. I stayed for a schnapps and chocolate as they showed me the other trees they had already decorated, this was their third. They let me know that the tree I sold them was the closed they had found to the tree they left behind.

    We Tree Men also experienced kindness that could thaw our freezing hearts as the holiday got closer. We had people bring us hot cocoa, eggnog, cookies, food, and brandy. It was those people that made me forget the others for a time.

     

     

    The People that You Don’t Meet Each Day

    There are some people I met that blew my mind. They were different in one way or another from the others I’ve outlined previously.

    The first encounter of an exceptional person was one of beauty. I saw many an attractive person, male and female, but one just took my breath away. I was working the ritzy stand at the time and was shooting the shit with one of my coworkers. Then I saw her. She was at the far end if the Armory and approaching the stand of trees. She was six foot tall or more with brown knee high boots. She had brown or tan leggings that seemed to go on forever like the legs inside. My eyes traveled up to a most impressive and proportional waist and chest surrounded by a sweater and leather jacket. I saw her face and it was perfect in the furry hat she was sporting. I immediately pushed a co-worker out of my way and approached the woman and some dude that was with her. I didn’t know he existed and completely ignored him. She was looking at a ten foot Fraser fir and I immediately pulled it out for her to get a better look. The tree that is.

    “Hello miss, how can I help you!!” I sang.

    She responded in sweet Australian accent, “I’m looking for a tree for my apartment.”

    “Well you came to the right place,” I responded stupidly.

    She repled, “I want this one and I want it delivered this afternoon to my apartment.”

    I told her way too quickly, “I’ll be sure to deliver it personally.”

    She gave the stand manager her delivery info and the money. I told him there was no way I wasn’t going to deliver this tree.

    He saw my eyes and said, “Keep it in your pants, Time.”

    I proceeded to wrap and carry the tree to the customer’s apartment with extreme urgency. I didn’t want to miss her and deal with whomever the dude was. I arrived at the Park Avenue and 68th street apartment slightly out of breath. I entered and told the doorman where I was going and took the elevator up a few floors.

    I ring the doorbell and instead of the beauty I met earlier an older Puerto Rican woman answers the door with a Que?

    I responded, “I’m here to deliver and set up a Christmas tree.”

    In a Rosie Perez like accent she responded with, “Meez Mak Fearsom wants it set up over there in the corner by her picture.”

    Recognition of the photo on the wall was instantaneous and the previous interaction and reaction of mine flooded back with new insight.

    I was mentally kicking myself, “You were talking to supermodel fool, one you have lusted over since you were fourteen.”

    Inset Elles apartment pic.

    There was no sign of Elle MacPherson or her Australian accent. Only the picture on the wall and an old Puerto Rican woman. I received a twenty dollar tip from the housekeeper and went on my way.

    The second person that stuck with me was exceptionally shocking for a very different reason. I was working a typical day on a new stand. This one was on the Upper East Side just shy of Spanish Harlem. It was an area in transition. There was a ton of bars in the area and a distinct border between new and old housing. Gentrification was occurring and they were knocking down projects and putting up a new high rise apartment building. There were complaints from half of the people in the area that our prices were too high. This was likely the new and old residents’ different demographics.

    An old woman in her early seventies approached the stand. She was wearing a babushka, a blue coat, and was towing a shopping basket. She looked just like my beloved grandmother. My grandmother is one of the sweetest and most caring persons I have met. Every word from her comes from the heart. I smiled as I approached the old woman.

    I said sweetly, “Hello ma’am, how are you this beautiful day? How can I help you?”

    She started to respond before the word day left my lips with, “You rotten cocksuckers should be ashamed of yourselves. How can you sell these fuckin trees for this much? Who do you think you are? Who’s going to buy this shit?”

     

    I had no response and the look of shock, disappointment and sadness on my face must have rattled her. She turned away and kept walking while she muttered more of the same vile stuff.

     

     

    Crack, Crime, and Co-Workers

    So it was hinted at earlier that crack and crime were ever present in New York at the time. There were good reasons why the guys at the stands were doing transactions in the huts. Strong armed robbery, muggings, stick ups, and theft were everywhere. There were shards of glass vials and pipes all over most alcoves and alleys.

    Crack heads were always looking for a buck to feed the pipe. They did this by various methods. There was the straight forward begging in front of a place of business, volunteering to help a passerby or customer in exchange for a small fee, theft, mugging, and selling of random ill-gotten goods. The stand was a natural place for all of these approaches. These folks are always around you like seagulls following a fishing boat. Pedestrians needed or wanted to slow down from their brisk city walk to look at or buy the trees, there was cash being exchanged in the street, there were distracted people both working and patronizing the stand, and finally there was stuff to steal and people at the stand to buy.

    You needed to sell while still keeping your eye on the crackhead skulking around the stand. This was very nerve racking and wore you out. A poorly placed fuck off to the crackhead could kill your sale as could the crackhead annoying or scaring the customer. We were on a city street not on private property, so there was no legal recourse for us to tell the crackhead, beggar, or crazy transvestite to leave. There were a few ways we dealt with this. One way was to have a blocker on your stand. One of the bigger and less sales savvy employees would be on one or each end of the stand to intimidate the street person. They would stop them, confront them, and most importantly let them know they were noticed. This would encourage the unwanted person to move on to the next spot for the day.

    I walked home from the stand with several hundred dollars in my pocket every night. The seagulls kept an eye out for the guys leaving the stands because they knew we had cash. Some of us walked together or took cabs. I refused cabs because I needed my money and I had two legs. When I left the stands I kept vigilant, mumbled a lot, and in general acted crazy. I also had a very illegal six-inch hunting knife strapped to my hip. My appearance and awareness kept the random crackhead from bothering me. I passed rocks being smoked in and around the dark places on my walk to the hotel. It seemed to be everywhere especially around the dicier stands like the East Village. I would take the bus or subway when necessary because they were only a dollar twenty-five for a token at the time.

    Working at the stand at night, or even worse overnight, meant guard duty. You were by yourself against the neighborhood. This meant keeping aware of your surroundings, setting up and consolidating the stand for security, creating sight lines, and staying awake. I had to regularly chase dudes trying to run away with a tree or trying to hide, piss, or sleep behind the piles. I started a habit of juggling or throwing a hatchet or knife into a cut log every time an unsavory looking person would come into my awareness. This kept the crazies away better than more lights or additional people.

    With all of the crack related chaos out on the streets, Hotel Hell should have been a refuge for me. This was not always the case.

    My second year I decided to go to the city early before my final exams. I needed the extra money and I had the idiotic expectation of being able to study during my time in the Hotel or at the stand during slow periods. After four days I would need to travel back home and take my chemistry, engineering dynamics and differential equations final. Then Dean was going to take be back to the city with a load of fresh trees.

    Don agreed to my plan and asked me to take cash back to his wife during my travels back with the company van. I had to work at whatever stands needed me and stay in whatever rooms were available at the Windermere.

    I arrived the day after Thanksgiving and was put on Milt’s stand with his brother and some other Hilljack nutcase. They appeared to be in good spirits as I approached and informed me that I would be staying in their room this week.

    We worked the full day and got along relatively well. As the night guard got there Milt had to go meet Don and the rest of the managers, Matt and the Hilljack told me they were going to grab some food and drinks at a bar. I went to the corner and picked up iced tea and pizza prior to studying at the hotel. No forty bombs for this college guy. They gave me the room key and told me to let them in once they returned from dinner.

    I ate my food while studying for two hours. About this time Matt and the Hilljack were knocking on the door like a drug raid was underway. I checked the peephole and let them in. They passed me without a word carrying bags of beer and entered the bedroom which I assumed was Milt’s. The bedroom had a table and chairs with deck of cards and a very full ashtray on it. They closed the door and I forgot about them for a bit as I tried to study in the living room on my cot. I ignored the sound of clanging beer bottles, laughter and coughing, the strong whiff of weed coming from the bedroom, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

    Milt arrived back from the stand managers meeting and aggressively knocked on the door for me to let him in. I stood up from my cot as the bedroom door shot open. Matt hurried to the front door and let his brother in. From my view of the bedroom I could see the Hilljack sucking on a crack stem with a butane lighter at the other end. There were four vials of crack on the table and two were empty.

    Matt hurried in to the bedroom ignoring me, Milt did the same except for a quick back and forth look to the bedroom then to me. The door was slammed and I considered my situation.

    I said to myself, “I’m working with a bunch of goddammed crackheads, I’ve got finals to study for, and now I have to worry about getting rolled in my sleep.”

    As I was contemplating my fate there was arguing in the bedroom. I couldn’t make out most of it, but it included Milt and the Hilljack going back and forth about not wanting to go to 42 Street again. Just then the door shot open and the Hilljack trotted out the door with Matt. Milt came out of the bedroom with the look in his eyes I had become familiar with dealing with the street crackheads. I was a hyper aware that he was staring at me.

    Milt came out of the bed room toward me, I stood up to face him. He then pulled a folding pocket knife out of his pocket opened it and confronted me. My knife was in my work pants under my cot. Milt stopped half way between me and the door to the hotel room.

    Milt wildly spat, “You tell anyone about what you see in this room or on the stand and I’ll cut your motherfucking throat in your sleep.”

    I stuttered and said, “Milt buddy, I don’t give a flying shit about what you guys do as long as you chill the fuck out. What you do is your business, now put the godammed knife away.”

    Milt smiled at me like the first day at the stand and said, “I’m just fuckin with ya, Time. Come have a beer and some weed and relax. You work too hard.”

    I drank a beer, took a toke or two from a joint, and went back to my cot. This must have convinced him that I wasn’t a rat, so Milt relaxed and smoked the rest of the rocks. He told me Matt and the Hilljack fucked up and only got a few rocks. He sent them to 42nd street to score more so it could last for the rest of the night. They returned at midnight with more crack. I kept on trying to study while they continued to smoke and play cards. Milt and the Hilljack spent twenty minutes looking for rocks on the scummy floor prior to deciding to go for another run. They went back out to score again at four o’clock. This was repeated every night as well at the stand.

    I was relieved after the four days were over. I was going to another room and stand when I returned. I never wanted to take a final more in my life.

     

    The End Game

    “So Time, you’re out, you’re free, you’re rehabilitated. What’s next? What’s happenin’? What you gonna do? You got the money you owe us?”

    I usually returned from the city on the night of the twenty third. The next day I travel to the farm to get paid. I was able to make enough to get presents on Christmas Eve, pay for my next semester of college, and have some spending money. It was well worth it in the end.

    So after an adventure like this you are a mess, tired, usually sick, and wanting a clean cockroach-free bed. Most importantly you need sensory isolation. I arrived home to my parents’ house and couldn’t believe the utter silence and serenity. I hugged and kiss my mom and sisters, hugged my dad, and greeted my family warmly. Mom was in the kitchen getting ready for dinner on Christmas Eve, dad was watching football, my sisters were asking me about my adventures. I was numb but content because I was home. Home where it was noise free, warm, roach free, crack free, Milt free, and chaos free.

    Merry Christmas Everyone and thanks for reading.

    Sincerely,

    Timeloose

     

     

    The City Then and Now

    The city was a different place than it is today. This is obvious from my story. There was a lot of negative aspects to the job, but there was much to enjoy as well. So much of what made the place enjoyable and tolerable were the people we met and places we frequented when we had time for a break. These were usually food establishments, stores nearby with stuff I could never find at home, and the excitement and flavor of the city itself. I feel this has been diminished over the years. The same things that make the city exciting to nineteen year old time are the same things that were getting routed out by gentrification and growth. They city is thriving, but along the way that flavor is lost. Most of the great places we ate at are now banks or chain restaurants. Several of the grocery’s we sold in from of are closed including the 110th street store. Below were some of my favorite places, some are no more.

    Fowad: Not a restaurant but a strange clothing store with crazy outfits. The window displays were fun to look at.

    Happy Burger: I hit this place up for a burger and calendar for many years after I stopped doing tree sales.

    Columbia Hot Bagels: The best Bagel I ever had. Chewy and soft at the same time. More Cream cheese than I thought possible.

    Mikes Papaya: A great place for a cheap meal. The papaya drinks were good and refreshing. This place has gone away as have many of the papaya hot dog places.

    Hotel Windermere: Hotel Hell was renovated and now has apartments for six to fifteen grand a month. WTF? How did they get all of the glass out of the lobby roof?

    Dive Bar: Still the same as I remembered

    Koronet Pizza: Giant slices of pizza that kept me full while saving money.

  • Christmas Eve Afternoon Links

    2019 decided to send one final “fuck you” to my family, the stomach bug laying into my wife and mother-in-law about 10:30 last night. There was so much vomiting. Soo much. I finally managed to nod off around 2am. I will say **knocks on wood** my kids have been great thus far. But its still shitty. I had to cancel all the family get-togethers for Christmas, because I’m not about to invite my parents and brother into our plague house tomorrow. I’m taking the boys this afternoon to Christmas Eve dinner with my aforementioned family. We’ll eat prime rib and cheesecake, and everyone can exchange gifts. But damnit, the only thing I make that my mother (who did all the cooking for us growing up) really likes is the Christmas brunch seafood chowder, and I’m not sure how to get that to her this year. I think I’ll make it and run it by their house in the afternoon if everyone is feeling better enough to take some kid duty from me. /rant

    Pentagon tells service members they really don’t want to know who really fathered that kid.

    Florida Man gets in the Christmas spirit, then arrested.

    Who could possibly have seen the expensive wine thing boomeranging on Liz Warren?

    You can’t spell Giuliani without “Jew”

    Time for my favorite Christmas song

  • ‘Twas the Night Before Glib-Mas

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    ‘Twas the night before Glib-Mas, and, purged of endorphins,
    Not a creature was stirring – not even the orphans.
    Booby traps and alarms were set, in fear
    That old rapist STEVE SMITH might decide to appear.

    The Glib Ones were nestled, each snug in their bunk,
    Each Glib Girl and Anarchist, and reg’lar old punk.
    Both I and my mistress, who looked really super,
    Were succumbing to an alcoholic stupor.

    When, all of a sudden, ere I could rebuke,
    Our Glib-house was hit with the force of a nuke!
    (I exaggerate, of course, but still, I was shook up
    And upset at the interruption of my hook-up.)

    I ran to the window and threw open the pane.
    Dark clouds had gathered, the moonlight did wane –
    And above the night wind’s blistering howl,
    I heard a voice; no, it was more of a growl:

    “ALL OF YOU TROLLS, BE READY FOR TAKEOFF!
    STEVE SMITH GO IN HERE, THEN WE WILL MAKE OFF
    WITH THEIR GIFTS AND PRESENTS AND CHRISTMAS BOOTY –
    ALL TROLL FLIGHT CREWS ATTEND TO YOUR DUTY!”

    I cowered in fear, for from childhood I knew
    Of the legend of STEVE SMITH and his murderous crew –
    Eight ugly trolls pulled his magical sled;
    The very sight of them filled grown men with dread.

    I stood frozen in fear, stuck right to the floor
    And heard massive footprints approaching my door;
    Then, at the last moment, dived back of a chair –
    My door was kicked open, and then, standing there

    Was STEVE SMITH, in all of his horrible glory,
    His dank body hair matted and gory.
    He possessed two incredibly bloodshot eyes;
    Oh, and a phallus of enormous size.

    The creature turned and gave me a wink,
    And just as I was beginning to think
    That I was a goner, now it appeared
    Perhaps things would not be quite as I feared.

    Instead, he turned his attention to see
    All of the Glib-gifts under the tree.
    Then it hit me like a clap of thunder –
    His purpose and intention to plunder!

    All the things we had bought, he stuffed into a sack,
    Our unopened presents, he proceeded to pack.
    All of the firearms, sex toys, and lube,
    Our home-brew kits, our blow-up dolls – hey, rube!

    This was our whole holiday he was stealing,
    But as I stood there, I had the feeling
    That if I tried to stop him, he’d pound me, I knew
    Into a greasy little pile of goo.

    So while I stood cowering, tame as a mouse,
    The creature went all about the house
    Taking all that he wanted; why, he even took
    Every Ayn Rand and Hayek and Mises book.

    When he was finally done, he heaved a great sigh,
    And again fixed me with a bloodshot eye.
    Though the beast seemed to be in a jovial mood
    I had only one thought: Holy crap, I am screwed.

    But as I stood there trembling, my mouth agape,
    The monster assured me: “DON’T WORRY, NO RAPE –
    STEVE SMITH EXHAUSTED AFTER LONG NIGHT OF THEFT.
    ALMOST FEEL SORRY, YOU HAVE NOTHING LEFT.

    BUT REMEMBER THIS: GLIB-MAS NOT ABOUT EARTHLY THINGS
    BUT FREEDOM AND ALL THE JOY THAT IT BRINGS.”
    With that he stepped out, with his large pack fumbling,
    To his sled and his slave-trolls all a-grumbling.

    Within moments the over-burdened sleigh
    Rose into the sky, and then away –
    Leaving only a horrible stink.
    “No one will believe this,” I started to think.

    I was up the rest of the night explaining;
    I really don’t think I deserved the caning.
    Ah, well. As STEVE SMITH said, as he vanished from sight,
    “MERRY GLIB-MAS TO ALL! AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!”

     

     

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