The Official Rick Bell Blog

Tool

I am a “tool.” I use the term, not as in, “I am an instrument in the hands of the Lord, working to carry forth His great work.” But rather, I use it in the more modern sense. For example: “I’m a complete tool.”

Not clear? How does one convey the syntactic and semantic changes in the usage of a word to readers who are less than hip? Hmmm… On the one hand, I might ask you to hang outside a Hot Topic at you local mall and immerse yourself in teen speak. But it might be simpler if I craft my own definition. In the modern sense a tool is a clueless, mouth breathing dweeb who mindlessly follows others. Got it? Good.

“But Rick!” you say, “You have always marched naked to the beat of your own erratically-pounded drum.” “Surely you don’t follow others mindlessly?”

Oh, if that were true. For years I trod my own path. Meandering though cities, byways, woods, and the occasional men’s bathhouse. The world zigged and I zagged. But then I started working in downtown Phoenix, awash as it is with the homeless, the indigent and the poor—you know, stinky little scumbags.

But let me back up. A dozen years back, I looked at my alcohol-soaked, bipolarish rollercoaster of a life and made a simple decision. Who was I to ever judge a person who petitioned me for alms? The way my scriptures read, I should never judge others, but give freely as I have been freely given.

Or to quote from the source:

And also, ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.

Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just—

But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent; and except he repenteth of that which he hath done he perisheth forever, and hath no interest in the kingdom of God.

For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind?

Well that simplistic spiritual bullpocky is just fine when you are working in the suburbs. On any given week I might encounter one or two freeway off ramp beggars promising me that they would work for food, though they preferred cold hard cash. A couple of bucks a week and I was set. I was petitioned, I gave, all was good.

Then I started working downtown.

No longer could my interaction with the indigent limited be characterized as occasional. Now I was literally facing streets lined with grubby-faced bums shaking their cups, making their pitches and tugging at my pants leg. Worse yet, none of them were hot Asian women. I have not issue throwing money at hot Asian women. But I digress…

Each day, a plethora of hobos stand between my office and any restaurant I chose to walk to. There is even one particularly pathetic looking guy in wheelchair who sets up shop between my office and the parking garage I am required to use. As one who uses the backseat of my car like others use a briefcase, I often find myself running back and forth to my car several times a day. At a dollar a pop, I was looking at some serious change just to access my own briefcase on wheels.

My “give freely when petitioned” approach to life was starting to cost me some change. Almost, I dare say, as much as I spend daily on Diet Pepsi and Lottery tickets. How dare they?

So I looked to the example of my fellow urban workers. They seemed to care naught for those that beseeched them. They walk the streets with purpose. Eyes straight ahead, expressionless and unapproachable. Ain’t no beggar laying a hold of their pocket change.

I was impressed. My mind said “more lottery tickets for me.” I mimicked my peers.

Within a few short months I had dropped that nonsense of loving others and gotten to the point where I had real disdain for those less fortunate than me.

This new attitude towards the poor was in full force this past week as I was gorging myself at the local food court. As I was finishing my gyro and fries I happened to look out though the glass doors to the outside seating. It’s June. It’s Arizona. Ain’t no one sitting outside.

But one unwashed fellow was working his way through the tables, peering in trash cans, and looking expectantly at anyone who exited the glass doors.

Though 30 feet away and separated by those glass doors. I could see his filth. I could smell his stink. I was ready to charge out the door and blow past him as if he didn’t exist. Lousy, begging bum.

As I judge him, as I projected how I would ignore his little pathetic pleas as I rushed by him. But before I could finish my food and pass him by, amost unsettling thing occurred. A man two tables up from me, closest to the door, wrapped up a half a sandwich and exited out the door. I thought, poor sap, he’s going to be accosted for sure. But the bum said nothing. Instead, when he saw someone approaching him he shied away from peering in the trash cans and started to move on.

But my lunch mate beckoned him before he could move out of range. He made eye contact with the bum. He spoke to him. He handed him his sandwich.

Oh boy, he’s asking for it. This guy doesn’t want food, he wants the green, I thought. They spoke for awhile. The bum smiled. My lunch mate never reached for his pocket.

The bum walked away. Eagerly he unwrapped the sandwich. He ate with obvious joy.

My lunch mate went his way. Did I mention that he walked away with a cane? Did I mention that his foot, deformed from birth, twisted unnaturally to the outside? Did I mention that he taught me what it means to be human again? Yeah, I though I’d better mention that.

Eggplant and Hillary

I hate eggplant, so it logically follows that I hate the idea of Hillary as president.

“But Rick,” you say, “I understand the eggplant comparison, but isn’t Hillary’s quest for the nomination fading like the “Home of the Whopper” silkscreen on your oft-washed favorite pair of boxers?”

Not so fast cowboy. As the gap in pledge delegates and super duper delegates widens between her and Obama, Hillary showed once again that while you can’t change the hand you are dealt, you can change how you play that hand. Hillary might be holding a pair of 3’s against Obama’s four aces. But like the ever-adaptable cockroach that defies all efforts at extermination, Hillary simply turned to the other players and planted the suggestion that if the Senator from Illinois met an untimely demise the game could continue.

Miss that one? I kid you not. Asked why she was still staying in the race, Hillary reminded the audience that Bobby Kennedy looked to be the nominee into June of the election year before an assassin’s bullet cut him down. Knowing the fate of Vincent Foster and many, many others (http://www.stewwebb.com/Hillary_Clinton_Murders_March_27_2007.htm) who had the misfortune of jeopardizing Bill and Hillary’s quest for power, Barack cancelled all public appearance the day after Hillary let that one slip and is rumored to be seeking the safety of an extended Dick Cheney duck hunting retreat.

But, as usual, I digress. What I really wanted to rant about is eggplant. As my ever expanding waistline demonstrates, there are not too many foods that disagree with me. I like everything but tripe, brains and rocky mountain oysters… and eggplant.

It’s not so much that eggplant has an unpleasant taste. It’s more because it is a deceitful little squash that tries so hard to appear to be something it isn’t. As a boy, my mom prepared eggplant by breading it and frying it in a skillet. On more than one occasion, I spied what appeared to be a breaded pork cutlet frying in a pan only to be disappointed after the blessing on the food to find that the succulent hunk of pork was nothing but fried mush.

Hillary’s much the same way. Through out the campaign, I’ve heard her and her lackey’s promote her as the champion of women’s rights. Granted, she has breasts and cuts a striking figure in her little pantsuits. But appearances can be deceiving. How many times did she stand by as her husband trashed the reputations of women who dared speak up about their flings with slick Willy?

You may argue that all men of power have women on the side. That may be. But don’t forget that that they just didn’t deny the allegations, they trashed the reputations of many a woman. Bill was ready to paint Monica as a delusional liar… a chubby girl with a crush… until the blue dress cropped up. Did she deserve that? She wasn’t going public about him. She was tape recorded confiding in a “friend.” What did she do to deserve the attacks Bill and Hillary leveled at her?

A champion of women’s rights? Tastes more like fried mush.

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.