BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

And so the dance of deception begins…

What dance? What deception? Read on…

In recent months some of the news organizations had their work cut out for them battling against slow news days. By “slow news days” I mean those stretches where the only news was the same old sucky economy and healthcare debate. Nothing new… No dead celebs, no scandals that hadn’t already been beaten to death, no multi-tuplets, and no shocking tragedies.

They needed something to wax poetic about, as usual, and so they filled the “news holes” with feature programming. One in particular that stood out from the crowd – for me, at least – was when they dusted off a bit of psychology coupled with the Internet. I probably took notice of it because of my fascination with the human condition and how our minds work, but something tells me I’m not the only one had an interest in this subject. (Duh, Sellars! Why else would they be doing the reports you doofus? Yes, I know, sometimes I can be Captain Obvious Doofus Guy…)

What am I babbling about? Simple – the news programs ran some feature reports about the “wisdom of looking up your old flames on the Internet.”

Is it wise to do so?

Is it not so smart after all?

And, what is it you are really after?

Well, personally I found these reports to be interesting, again, because of my fascination with psychopathologies and what makes people tick. They were nothing new. There have been articles about this before, but the statistics and correlations between them and other statistics (divorce for instance) keep changing… And not necessarily for the better.

However, as usual I thought their reports were a bit stilted and incomplete. By that I mean, they skewed it to make things sound like people don’t harbor subconscious intentions, and we all know that’s not true. But, moreover, they didn’t really get into the warning signs of the whole “what are you really after” factor. They had psychologists babbling about how it really isn’t a good idea to go in search of old flames because you might get in over your head, but they were simply paying lip service to the advice. No substance. No admissions that intentions aren’t pure. And most especially, no red flags for the prey of the “old flame hunters” out there who end up sliding down that slope as well if they aren’t careful.

Well, being a somewhat public figure, as mentioned in the past I have actually had to deal with stalkers a time or two. And, while not exactly the caliber of stalkers, I have also had to deal with old flames looking me up.

Yes, I know it comes as a shock to many of you, but I actually dated before becoming an indentured servant to the Evil Redhead. And, I know it’s an even bigger shock to discover that any of them would actually want to look me up after managing to get rid of me… Well, just imagine how surprised I was as well, so there…

But, moving right along… Said flames have ranged anywhere from a “quick flick of the Bic” to “long lasting bonfires.” However, the common thread and most important point about them is that they have long been extinguished and there are no smoldering embers – at my end anyway.

Now, I should point out that there is a difference between an old friend and an old flame. If you don’t know what that is, go back to 5th grade health class and watch the birds ‘n bees filmstrip again (yeah, dating myself…) And, there is a huge difference between looking up an old flame and looking up an old flame then contacting them.

Especially if the old flame happens to be married.

These latter two points are exactly what I am talking about.

So, while I don’t even begin to consider myself an expert on the subject, I do happen to have more than just a bit of experience in this area, as well as some intense background studying irrational behavior (I write about sociopaths, remember?)

Admittedly, I hold no degrees in the subject of psychology. But, as noted, I write fiction for a living, and as any fiction author can tell you, we are lifelong students of human behavior. It’s how we make our stories real. So, while we aren’t licensed to help you cope with your clinical depression, odds are we can spot a bullshit artist quicker than your average bear. And yes, that talent also draws from the old adage, “it takes one to know one,” as fiction authors are bullshit artists by trade. What makes us different from other BS’ers is that we readily admit it.

So anyway, it recently dawned on me that perhaps I could put my powers of BS X-Ray vision to use for the good of mankind, and at least partially fill the void left by the feature news programs. Especially since it is “that time of year” – yes, the holidays – which as it turns out is when statistically there is a sharp rise in the number of “old flame contacting” occurrences. (I have a pet theory that Dan Fogelberg and his song, Same Old Lang Syne are directly responsible for this phenomenon. I call it the Fogelberg Unwanted Creepy Kook Marriage Encroacher Effect or FUCKMEE for short.)

To that end, I am offering here a “red flag dictionary” of sorts. A modest listing of phrases often used – and reused – by “old flames/flings on the prowl.” The thing is, they appear perfectly innocent at first, but when unwrapped they look absolutely nothing like the representation on the outer packaging.

And there you have it.

While the “what it really means” column was presented with a bit of over-the-top, tongue in cheek verbiage for the entertainment value, it isn’t actually far off the mark. The stark reality is that more often than not, the gist of the “hidden sentiments” are exactly the same as those listed above, even if the words themselves aren’t. Word choices have meaning, both obvious and hidden. They are hooks, they are invitations, they are designed to evoke a response. Ask any writer – it’s what we do.

Statistically, the whole old flame thing is a slippery slope. If you don’t believe me, here’s a link to an article written about it back in 2006 – Think Twice. The one thing in this particular article I take exception with is the idea that these things start innocently. This is where I step out over the abyss and state that I think perhaps writers just may know a little bit more about human nature than psychologists doing experiments with a room full of chimpanzees, a crate of bananas, and some bad porn tapes. Primarily because of the fact that a simple universal constant is always ignored, that being – nobody is completely innocent after the onset of puberty. Yes, the “father of modern psychology,” old Sigmund himself (the psychiatrist, not the sea monster) said that, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Well, that’s true. But, it’s the intent of the person holding said cigar that is at issue here.

Furthermore, I would posit that rather than being the norm for an old flame or fling to contact someone out of the blue after several years simply because they care how they are doing, it is in fact the complete opposite – extremely rare. Whether conscious or subconscious, in contacting an old flame or fling, a person is hoping to re-kindle a feeling that once existed because it is something that is currently missing from their life. And, as noted in the article, the percentage of these “old flame contacts” has grown because the internet has made it easy to chase people down.

But, you need to be aware, people don’t go looking for you unless they want something. That’s a hard, cold fact.

Take it from someone who has not only been on the receiving end of such contacts, but knows others who have as well. There’s an entire story written between the lines, and it’s not Hallmark material…

And trust me dear readers, that is non-fiction…

More to come…

Murv

Part 1 of 2

We don’t have an Alice’s Restaurant here in town. I wish we did… Then I could write a song about my little story here and be famous like Arlo Guthrie. But alas, we don’t, so no Thanksgiving Dinner that can’t be beat for me… Well, that’s not actually true, but the person who generally prepares it is named Liz… Or, every other year, me… Just not Alice… I did actually know an Alice once, but she never cooked for me, so I don’t think she counts…

Either way, once upon a time we had a place called Charlie’s. Served the best biscuits and gravy this side of the Mississippi, outside of homemade of course. But, unfortunately, Charlie’s is long gone. I think a plumbing outfit is in that spot now (see footnote)…

But, I’m getting off the subject, as usual…

If you’ve been following me on Twitter, or happen to be a Facebook friend, you’ve more than likely noticed my recent tweets / status updates lamenting the fact that I recently had to deal with a bogus traffic ticket.

And, that’s the subject I am going to focus on here…

You see, this blog entry is all about Adventures In Night Court… Not the old Night Court with Harry Anderson… After all, Anderson and Larroquette were a riot, and Markie Post… Well… Let’s just say she made the screen a whole lot of fun to look at in addition to being funny.

No, the Night Court I’m talking about wasn’t funny. It was an annoying waste of 3 hours for me. Of course, it probably will be funny once I get done writing about it, because I am going to endeavor to tell you about the weird that went on during my 180 minutes in close proximity to Hell. But, as usual, that remains to be seen. Guess I’ll just have to start writing and see what happens…

Now, to properly grasp the reason I visited Hell’s waiting room – also know as the City of Saint Ann Municipal Court – we have to start at the beginning. Wouldn’t you know it, the beginning involves Hell House… Please note, that the name of the city has NOT been changed, because very simply the citation is a matter of public record… And, in that public record is the City of Saint Ann Missouri’s side of the story. Not mine. Therefore, here you have my side, being made a matter of public record as well. I did, however, change the names of individuals involved just because I’m a nice guy. The real names are a matter of public record too, but I really doubt any of you will go look them up.

And, also for that record I’m sure you will note that my story is flip and punctuated with observational satire.  Otherwise this would just be me griping about getting a ticket… However, since the officer involved elected to try his hand at writing fiction I thought I’d try my hand at writing reality. I just figure I’ll make it funny so it’s worth reading…

To make a long story short, back in early October Scuba and I ventured off to “The Depot,” better known as “Home Depot,” in order to obtain some materials necessary to the completion of a project or two over at Hell House.  One of these items was a long section of wire rack shelving for a closet. We put it into the bed of my truck, along with the other materials, then secured it firmly in the center, jutting out at an upward angle so as to not present a hazard to other motorists. It was long, and it hung over the rear of the vehicle, as one would expect. We looked around for flag material, but found none (I forgot that I had a plastic, orange emergency flag under the seat in the cab, but we’ll get to that in a bit…)

So, we couldn’t find a flag, however, in the state of Missouri, per Missouri Vehicle Regulations, revised statutes (August 28, 2009) section 307.170 item 5 – Projections on vehicles:

All vehicles carrying poles or other objects, which project more than five feet from the rear of such vehicle, shall, during the period when lights are required by this chapter, carry a red light at or near the rear end of the pole or other object so projecting. At other times a red flag or cloth, not less than sixteen inches square, shall be displayed at the end of such projection.

The piece of shelving projected 4 feet 10 1/2 inches from the back of the truck. We knew it would be prudent to have a flag, however, we also knew full well that we were still perfectly legal, not to mention the oblique positioning of the item rendered it harmless to all around us (except perhaps extremely low flying aircraft… and I mean EXTREMELY LOW.) Furthermore, if one employed the Pythagorean Theorem, the actual end of the item was only projecting 4 feet 7 inches from the rear of the vehicle as measured parallel to the cargo box.  The point here being that while we were close to the limit, we were still legal, so off we went.

Just over two miles down the road – and oddly enough, just over two miles from our destination – flashy red lights appeared in my rear view mirror. The thing is, I had seen the police car traveling alongside us. I had watched him drift back and slide in behind us. I even told Scuba, “This cop is getting ready to pull us over.”

Officer JellyDonut, though I didn’t know his name at that particular moment, proceeded to follow along behind for several blocks. I began to wonder if perhaps I was wrong, because if he was going to pull me over he had plenty of opportunities to do so safely and with room for us to pull off the road. But alas, no, he elected to make the traffic stop. But, for some unknown reason he waited until I entered an intersection. He stopped at the white line, because as I entered the intersection the green light flipped over to yellow. In my rear view I saw him come to a halt. Then, as the light was going from yellow to red, he lit up his light bar and sped into the intersection to chase me down – what with me being a hardened criminal trying to make an escape and such.

Doing as one should do, I pulled over, immediately turning onto a side street so as to be out of traffic. I parked, shut off my vehicle, removed the keys from the ignition and placed them on the dash. I then extracted my license from my wallet, as well as my registration and insurance card, placing them on the dash as well. Then rolled down my window, and waited patiently with my hands in plain sight.

Officer JellyDonut extracted himself from his cruiser. And kept extracting himself from his cruiser… And kept extracting himself from his cruiser…

Eventually, when he had gathered himself and hitched his belt up underneath a belly that Santa Claus would have endeavored to reduce, he lumbered the 35 feet or so from his vehicle to mine. This took a good minute and a half if not longer. When he arrived at my window he was huffing and puffing as if he had just chased us on foot. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling particularly confident in his ability to protect and serve should the need truly arise.

I was immediately given the impression that he was angry with me for making him get out of his car, because the first words from his mouth (once he caught his breath) were, “Where’s your flag!”

“We don’t have one,” I replied.

“Why not?” he barked.

Scuba piped up. “We don’t actually need one, and we’re just going up the road.”

“That’s more than two feet!” the officer announced in a very agitated voice. “You have to have a flag on anything more than two feet.”

Now we knew we were screwed. Number one, we had ourselves a cop who either didn’t know the law or was making it up on the fly because he figured he could. Number two, we had a pissed off cop – probably because we interrupted his lunch, but that’s just speculation on my part – and when you have a pissed off cop you can’t even reason with them. Even my cop friends will tell you that. My only hope at this point would have been to distract him with a dozen donuts, but I didn’t have any on hand.

Besides, I was taught that you don’t argue with a police officer. Enough said.

At this point, although I had been more than cooperative as well as appropriately respectful and polite, Officer JellyDonut proceeded to announce in no uncertain terms, “I’m writing you a ticket! Give me your license and insurance card!”

By the way, the exclamation points punctuating the officer’s dialogue aren’t just there to end the sentences. Everything with him was an angry declaration.

Knowing that discussion was out of the question and that arguing would only serve to get me a pair of bracelets of the type I am only good with if E K is the one applying them, I kept my mouth shut other than to say, “Yes, sir,” which is pretty much what I had been doing all along except when other words were necessary due to a direct question. Each of those sentences, however, always ended with, “sir.”

After the arduous huffing and puffing 35 foot trek back to his vehicle, the officer piddled about calling in my license to make sure I wasn’t a hardened criminal who had gone around putting envelopes underneath piles of garbage. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about that. It’s part of the job and necessary – remember, I write books about cops and portray them as the good guys. I know what they are up against. I like cops. Some of my best friends are cops (hey, I couldn’t resist that last one)… However, there’s a bad apple in every bunch, whether it be rotten to the core or simply bruised and mushy. It seemed to me that what we had happened upon on this particular day was an entire barrel in and of itself that wasn’t even good enough for making cider.

So, on with the story. Unfortunately for Officer JellyDonut, he had not captured the Kowalski* of Saint Louis. I say unfortunately because this seemed to agitate him even more. He got out of his car, and got out of his car, and got out of his car (you get the idea) then rummaged about for several minutes in his trunk. Eventually he came to the back of my truck with a tape measure the size one might find in my wife’s purse – i.e. pretty small (make all the jokes you want she doesn’t use it for measuring that.)

Officer JellyDonut then proceeded to huff and puff around the back of my truck, bending the measuring tape, slapping it around, dropping it, wrapping it around things, and generally re-enacting a scene from a Three Stooges short.  With Curly or Shemp. Not Joe, although Joe had is good points.

But, moving right along…

Scuba and I watched the officer as he measured from several inches inside the cargo bed of my truck (as opposed to the actual rear of the vehicle  from whence the measurement was supposed to be made) to the far end of the piece of shelving, all while a nice, arcing droop fell along the middle of the tape. At one point Scuba even remarked, “Do you think I should go out there and offer to hold the stupid end for him?” (the stupid end, in case you haven’t already figured it out, is the start of the tape, as in end that doesn’t require reading.)

After several more minutes of huffing and puffing I was finally presented with a traffic citation to sign, which stated I was being charged with – “Reckless driving due to not having a flag on a load that extended more than 2 feet beyond the rear of the vehicle.” It also included the wholly inaccurate measurement of 5 feet 3 inches. Please make note – Per Officer JellyDonut himself, I wasn’t operating the vehicle in a reckless fashion other than the whole not having a flag thing, which legally I was not required to have in the first place.

Officer JellyDonut informed me that I had a court date of December 1st, but that if I wished to plead guilty I could just go by the City Hall any time before that and pay the fine. He then started the long trek back to his vehicle, whereupon I annoyed him even more by calling after him and asking for a copy of the citation, to which he replied – after staring at me for several seconds as if I was some sort of alien with three heads – “Yeah, I guess.”

Yeah, I guess? I can’t be positive about this but I’m pretty sure they are supposed to give you a copy of the ticket… But, I digress yet again…

It was about this time I remembered the emergency flag underneath my seat. I asked him if that would suffice to which he replied, “Maybe.” We won’t even go into his strongly implied threat that I might very well be pulled over again because the flag was safety orange instead of red.

Scuba and I attached the orange plastic to the load and climbed back into the truck to head on our way. I watched in the rear view as  Officer JellyDonut made a swift turn into the Burger King across from which we had been parked.

I guess with all that hiking and measuring he had worked up an appetite, and it was time for something that didn’t involve jelly, icing, or glaze…

More to come…

Murv

To be continued in Part 2: The Group W Bench…

Footnote: A little bit of trivia, just for the hell of it: Charlie’s, the Eat-Rite Diner (another Saint Louis institution), and a little mother-daughter run place in small town Michigan called “The Spot” were the combined inspiration for “Charlie’s Eats,” the diner frequented by Ben and Rowan in the RGI novels.

* Kowalski is the name of the main character in a cult classic movie titled, Vanishing Point. The character drives cars for a company and… well, either follow the link in the body above for a full synopsis, or watch the movie. I highly recommend option 2, but watch the 1971 original, not the remake.