The Official Rick Bell Blog

Casting Stones

As a registered Libertarian, I don’t have a viable horse in the ongoing race for the presidency. I am sure the Libertarians have a candidate. I assume he or she has a name. But when your party snags .05% of the popular vote they don’t garner too much press coverage. I probably won’t learn the Libertarian candidate’s identity until I step into the polling booth in my traditional Election Day garb--trench coat, black socks and shoes, no pants.

And though I really don’t know who my candidate is, I have an advantage over my Republican and Democratic counterparts—I don’t have to grapple with 24/7 news coverage of every flaw, wart and misstatement attributed to my candidate. I have no reservations when I vote and I like it.

I wish others could be as undistracted as I. But if you’re voting for a major party candidate how do you ignore the nonstop barrage of mudslinging and dredging up of past missteps? I know what my guy stands for—minimal government. I’m good with that, even if we attract a few ganja-smoking hippies who want to be free to spark up their bongs while hurtling down speed limitless highways (highways that are in a sad state of disrepair because our limited Libertarian government has curtailed the fuel tax.)

Ok, so the Libertarian view has some flaws, but I do appreciate that our candidates—if for no other reason than their irrelevance—are scandal free. I wish all candidates could be judged solely on their positions.

Good gravy people. Do I really care what Barack’s pastor said while trying to whip up his congregation into a little frenzy? I’d hate it if someone compiled YouTube clips of the Top Ten dumbest things I ever said. And is it really so offensive that Hillary exaggerated the events surrounding her Bosnia trip? I’ve been on a first date or two, and if memory serves me right, I may a taken a little literary license in describing my life experiences to make a better impression.

We all have skeletons in our closets and wreckage of our past. Consider me. I’m a decent guy. But put a little alcohol in me and I am quite comfortable making pee pee in the most inappropriate places. Though I have cut out the alcohol and thus curtailed this activity in recent years, there was a time when alcohol and creative urination played an important role in my life.

For example, back in my 20’s I held the position of General Manager for a small software development concern. My responsibilities were great, my resources were limited and I spent an inordinate amount of time at the office. Working late most nights, I was often drawn to the corner liquor store up the street… a little something, something to get me through the late hours.

As most know, alcohol is really not purchased. It is rented briefly as works quickly to exit the body via the urethra. I drink. I pee. Therefore I am.

Problem was, however, that alcohol also clouds one’s judgment. Sober, I frequently, though not consistently, use modern porcelain toilettes when the need arises. But put alcohol in me, and my inner primal man emerges--the world is my toilette when I drink.

Such was the case one Friday night in my office. I worked. I drank. I felt the urge.

It was my intention to stagger down the hall to the bathroom. But as I made my way down the dimly lit hall, an illuminated lamp on my boss’s desk caught my bloodshot eye. Like a new star in the sky showing camel-riding wise men the path to take, that desk lamp illuminated a small potted plant that seemed to say: “Hey strained bladder, I am here to provide relief.”

Relief is what I so desperately needed and relief is what I found. Finishing my business I returned to my office where I worked until the fog lifted and I was ready to proceed home.

In the morning, I was ready to enjoy my weekend. Sure there was a little flicker of a thought that my judgment was a bit impaired the night before. But a bowl of heavily-sweetened Grape nuts and a quickly gulped beer quickly erased that concern… until the phone rang.

It was my boss, Mary.

Mary: “Good morning Rick, you got a minute?”

Me: “Sure, what’s up?”

Mary: “Did you work late last night?”

Me: “Umm… yeah, I was there for awhile?”

Sweat began to bead on my brow. The uncontrolled clenching of my buttocks forced a beer/Grape nuts burp to take form.

Mary: “Were you there when the janitors stopped by.”

Where was this headed? Did those illegals narc me out?

Me: “Yeah, they did their thing while I was there.”

Truth be told, they were there pre-urination… did they come back unannounced? Had they spotted my impromptu plant watering?

Mary: “Did Lupe bring her husband? Or was she there alone?

Hmmm… I sensed a scapegoat.

Me: “Yeah, her husband was there. Why?”

Mary: “I don’t know how to say this, but I think he peed in the plant on my desk.”

Me (feigning shock as my buttocks loosened): “You’re kidding. Are you sure?”

Of course she was sure. Why would she think her general manager would do such a thing? Mexico is one big why-use-a-toilette-when-there-is-a-perfectly-good-wall? kind of place.

Mary: “I didn’t want to think so, but there is definitely the smell of urine coming from this plant. What should I do?”

Hmmm. I had the perfect scapegoat. But if she got confrontational, their pleas of innocence might prevail.

Me: “You know, I can’t believe someone would do such a thing. Maybe you’re just smelling fertilizer. That plant food stuff reeks.”

Mary: “No, I thought that, but it is definitely urine.”

Me: “Maybe so, but you can’t risk confronting them on something as sensitive as this. I wouldn’t bring it up. Lupe is your friend and that would just be too awkward if you got it wrong. Just ask them not to water the plants. He’ll get the message.”

It went on from there. For 15 minutes I worked to convince her that confronting the accused would only jeopardize a marginal friendship. I don’t know how I finally convinced her, but I was very motivated to see that this issue was not pursued any further.

So there you have it. A glimpse… only a small glimpse into why, in the big scheme of things I am not that horrified when a little dirt comes up on an aspiring politician. Do we really need to know the minute details of a presidential candidate’s life? Let’s judge them on their voting records, platforms and proposals... ok, it's a stretch but I was committed to a wee wee story and politics have been on my mind as of late... deal.

Wee Wee

More than a year ago I entered into discussions with a publisher about compiling a "bathroom reader" comprised of true stories about places I've made wee wee. As is the case with many small publishing houses, they were more willing to talk than to pay. No advance ever materialized and I lost interest... until Saturday.

Saturday I met a man who claims he could fill volumes with stories about places he has piddled. I said nothing, but I took his assertions as fighting words. No one, and I mean no one has cornered that market like yours truly.

Today's post was going to center around my views of the media... especially surrounding election coverage. I may get to that, but my pride is on the line.

Tonight, and for the next few weeks it all going to be about the yellow stuff. You have been warned, tune in at your own peril.

Pawns

Not much for reality television (except for a certain show featuring dancing B-list celebrities… I’m gay that way) I was surprised to find myself drawn to such a show that CNN has been airing lately—Make Me a President. Apparently cameras follow around assorted Senators and Governors as they vie for something called a “presidential nomination.” They don’t sing, eat bugs or wear loin clothes, but like all reality TV, this show features a diverse cast: The whacky war veteran with a quick temper, an oh-so-perfect pretty boy from Massachusetts, a bible thumper from the land of man-daughter marriages, the token black guy and some angry lesbian chick from New York. Each week someone gets voted off the campaign trail and the survivors preen for the camera and move on to the next round.

OK, so I know it’s not reality TV… sadly it’s the all too real state of presidential primaries in the U.S. But like reality TV, this whole campaign process is anything but real.

Take, for example, the recent made-for-prime-time“scandals” in the Obama and Clinton camps. Last week, Samantha Power, an obscure Obama foreign policy aide resigned after calling Hillary “a monster.” Less than a week later, there are calls for the resignation of an even more obscure former vice presidential running mate from the Mondale campaign after charges were levied that she said, “Obama’s only popular cuz he’s like a good looking black whigger.”

In an era when everyone knows the cameras are always rolling, do they really expect us to believe these were regrettable moments of candor? I’m not claiming these statements were scripted and planned… oh wait, I am… and here’s why:

When I was a boy (prepubescent and very, very sexy) I had an older bother that delighted in abusing me. On good days, he’d pin me down and break wind on my face. On bad days, he’d pin me down and have all his friends break wind on my face (after they had ingested a variety of expired condiments from our refrigerator door.)

Being that he was about a foot taller, five years older and significantly bulkier, I had little choice but to endure this assault on my olfactory senses. The only thing that kept me sane during the “gaseous” years was that on Sundays, when friends weren’t allowed over, parents were there to protect me and the TV was off, I was often able to lure him into a “friendly”game of chess.

For the sake of anonymity, I’ll just call this brother “Randy” or “Glen Randall Bell”… (Gosh, I hope none his clients are Google-ing “Randall Bell” right now…) Anyways, my brother may have been bigger, but God had apparently stepped out for a smoke break when Randy strolled through the line for brains. Beating him at chess, repeatedly and convincingly, was the only glint of joy in my otherwise noxious life.

Winning was easy because we had two very different approaches to chess. Randy assumed that--like checkers--the object of the game was not to lose any pieces. I, on the other hand, intuitively knew that chess was about strategic sacrifice. Pawns were meant to lay down their lives for the greater good. Even sacrificing the all powerful queen might prove strategic if it lured your opponent into a checkmate.

If I, with my public education and poor grasp of the rules of punctuation and grammar, had this figured out by the age of ten, do you think the strategists behind Hillary and Obama might be more than a little familiar with this concept? I’m not saying Samantha Power was a pawn--I’m sure three, maybe even four non-family members knew she worked for his campaign before her demise—but I’m thinking that labeling a woman with already high negatives like Hillary “a monster” might prove a little more advantageous than the policy paper on regulating Afghanistan rug exports that Sam was working on before her fall.

Well maybe Ms. Power was a pawn, you say, but Hillary would hardly risk losing an invaluable ally like Geraldine Ferarro just to brand Obama’s appeal as a “race thing.” I stand corrected, I’m sure the experience garnered from the two failed Senatorial campaigns she waged after losing in a landslide with Mondale is indispensible… come on people, Gerry makes a plastic pawn from a mismatched thrift store chess set look like look like a hand-carved Italian marble knight from a Sharper Image catalog.

Let the games continue... I’m believing none of it. But I will tune in to see who’s sacrificed next.

Metal Constipation

For months now my writing output has been, shall we say, almost nonexistent. I even attempted to set self-imposed deadlines to try to spur my creative flow. Yet my imaginative juices, like my urine stream as my prostate enlarges, failed to flow. I was stopped up, blocked, constipated if you will.

Wrestling with this, I walked between the piers at Newport Beach yesterday. Where had the spark gone? Was I tapped out? Where my meds off? Was I not getting enough fiber in my diet?

Midway through my mile and a half walk I noted, with alarm, that lack of fiber was not the issue. My bowels were active and alive, I was concerned.

At this point, regular readers might assume that I concocted an elaborate scheme to discharge waste material without using a proper public restroom facility. That was not to be so. I clinched. I walked (with haste). I relieved myself properly. But, as usual, I digress.

As I walked, I wrestled with the issues of mental blockage as my lower intestinal tract reminded me that this was the only blockage I would ever need to concern myself with. Then it hit. BAM! It was an epitome! (Or is that epiphany? Why is it that I confuse similar sounding words… I believe they are called homo-something words… not unlike my homo-something tendencies… but I digress yet again.

As I walked, an image flashed before me. I was at the airport the day before. As I waited to board my flight I noted a gaggle of business types frantically typing on their laptops as they carried on a hands-free conversation on the Bluetooth-enabled cell phone and scanned the paperwork beside them. For some reason, such people never fail to annoy me. Are they so freakin’ important to the survival of their employers that they must multitask for 15 minutes before they board their flights? Like my 85-year-old mother is fond of saying, they come across as complete “nimrods.” (She actually has a more descriptive term, but it’s not really suitable for a family-oriented blog.)

As I walked, I realized the airport multitaskers annoy me because they remind me of me at my worst. Just the other day I offended a friend as I sat watching TV and typing on my laptop. He was trying to share something of importance as I feigned listening. Apparently one of my courtesy “uh huh’s” of agreement was missed timed. He realized I was faking attentiveness and cut his sharing short.

I am a “tool.” A total and complete tool when I multitask. And the reason is quite simple. While my laptop has a dual-core processor, I was born with a one track mind. We all are. Though I may be able to walk, chew gum and drop kick kittens that cross my path, my mind can only process one thought at a time.

Since October, I have been trying to be Mr. Multitasker. From my PC in Arizona I can be simultaneously logged into three different client sites. I’ve been billing like a madman, yet the quality of my work output has suffered. I’ve been trying to do everything at once and I have fallen short.

As I walked, I realized that I must stop trying to do everything at once. It doesn't work for me. Like a fat lady on an all cheese diet I am blocked up. As I walked, I got clarity. Do one thing at a time and do it well. As soon as I internalized that concept the noise stopped and I got clarity. Through the rest of the day I put this thought into practice. As a result, I was more productive that I had been in months.

So now is my time to write. It is the only thing I am focused on. And the words, like the urine stream of my youth, are flowing. Monday posts are no longer a vague promise. Like genital warts, they will appear like clockwork. This is my vow… I’ll see you next week.

Did I say 2/11????

I am writing again. 2/18 is a little more realistic... hang tight...

NO, REALLY I MEAN IT.

Starting Monday 2/11 we will be back in business. I have just completed a side project that was sapping every available minute. I am writing again.

Thanks