I'm going to be rich! (part 1)

Stay tuned as this develops...

FROM: JOY JOSEE
RUE 6 BP 01 COCODY ABIDJAN CI
COTE D IVOIRE
DEAREST ONE
I KNOW THAT MY MESSAGE WILL COME TO YOU AS A SUPRISE SINCE I DONT KNOW YOU IN PERSON OR MET WITH YOU BEFORE, BUT I AM OF THE BELIEVE THAT YOU WOULD BE OBLIGED TO COME TO MY ASSISTANCE AFTER HEARING ABOUT MY SITUATION. IT IS HIGHLY REGREATABLE WRITING TO YOU NOW NOT MINDING THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT PAVADED AROUND ME HERE IN ABIDJAN. I AM JOY JOSEE,18 YEAR OLD GIRL, THE ONLY DAUGHTER OF LATE MR AND MRS.JOSEE MY FATHER WAS A VERY WEALTHY COCOA MERCHANT BASED IN ABIDJAN,THE ECONOMIC CAPITAL OF IVORY COAST BEFORE HE WAS POISONED TO DEATH BY HIS BUSINESS ASSOCIATES ON ONE OF THEIR OUTING TO DISCUSS ON A BUSINESS (yadda yadda etc. etc., you see where this is going, let's skip ahead to the juicy part - cb)...HE HAS A SUM OF US$ 9,500,000 (NINE MILLION> FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND, UNITED STATES DOLLARS) LEFT IN A SUSPENCE ACCOUNT IN A LOCAL BANK HERE IN ABIDJAN...DEAR, I AM HONOURABLY SEEKING YOUR ASSISTANCE IN MOVING THIS MONEY OUT OF THIS COUNTRY TO YOUR COUNTRY,AND I WILL GIVE YOU 20% OF THE MONEY INCLUDING 5% FOR ALL EXPENSES MADE ON THIS TRANSACTION. THANKS AND GOD BLESS YOU
SINCERELY
JOY JOSEE

(my reply - cb)

Dear Ms. Josee,
I am very sorry for the loss of your father, but boy oh boy am I ever glad you wrote to me! You see, I have heard there is much money to be made on the internet and have been looking for an opportunity just such as this to make a killing (no pun intended). Because honestly, the whole 9-to-5 thing just really isn't cutting it for me. My wife has been on my ass about a new swimming pool and my kids want iPods and there always seems to be some pain-in-the-neck money crisis going on. I'm sure it's the same in Abdjapan. Anyway, this could really set me up pretty nice. So please let me know ASAP how we can proceed in this matter.

Sincerely,
Mr. Richard Fuchstich
Vice President of Company Matters
United Business Corporation, Inc.
2212 Blome Ave.
Sukadik, NY 10096

If this works out like I hope, I will be blogging from a solid gold computer with a diamond encrusted keyboard.

BASEBALL IS NOT EXACTLY ROCKET SCIENCE (cb:2005)

BASEBALL IS NOT EXACTLY ROCKET SCIENCE
** A short biography of DR. ROBERT H. GODDARD **

1882; Born in Worcestor, MA.

1889; Pops up 3-0 pitch with bases loaded, two out in 9th inning of Worcester "Li'l Shavers League" championship game. Coach refuses to buy him a chocolate phosphate afterwards.

1888-1898; Attends school in Boston.

1911; Boston Red Stockings scout Leland 'Fuzzy' Suggs files this scouting report: "R.Goddard: high school boy, weak hitter, poor range & mobility, throwing arm is suspect, makes poor tactical decisions, does not seem to have a grasp on the fundamentals of playing the game. Marginal prospect at best. Knows all about rockets though. I don't. What the hell is a rocket? No such thing exists!"

1912; Becomes first to explore mathematically the practicality of using rocket power to reach high altitudes & escape velocity.

1913; Released by Class C Hopkinsville (KY) Tobacco Stretchers for repeatedly failing to hit the cut off man.

1914; Awarded first two patents for rocket apparatus: U.S.Letters Patent #1,102,653 liquid-fuel gun rocket; U.S. Letters Patent #1, 103,503 a multistage step rocket. Named manager of Class D Clinton (IA) Rail Splitters. Starts #1 pitcher Doyle "Big Mucelage"
Lortigan on only 3 days rest against last place team. Lortigan injures shoulder, resulting in amputation by pre-Tommy John surgeons. Clinton loses pennant by 1/2 game. Goddard is fired. Lortigan dies broke and alone.

1915; Becomes first to prove experimentally that a rocket will provide thrust in a vacuum. Hired to manage Class E Mud Lake (MD) Girth Carriers. Franchise finishes last for the first time in 27 years, moves out of town. World's Fair committee decides that without baseball, event should be held in San Francisco instead of Mud Lake. Goddard is tarred, feathered and dragged out of town behind a team of oxen. Entire town of Mud Lake later contracts Polio and burns down (seperate incidents).

1917-1945: Develops the basis for the rocket weapon, later known as the bazooka. Publishes first U.S. basic mathematical theory underlying rocket propulsion & rocket flight. Develops first rocket motor using liquid propellants. Tests first rocket containing instruments. Develops first gyro stabilization apparatus for rockets. Becomes first to use deflector vanes in the blast of the rocket motor as a method of stabilizing & guiding rockets. Launches first liquid-propellant rocket which attained a speed greater than that of sound. Serves as director of scouting for Chicago Cubs, where he files the following report, "Perhaps one day a negro will play professional major league baseball, but I am quite certain it will not be this Jack Robinson fellow. He has no discernible athletic ability nor the strength of character to endure such an undertaking."

1945: Dies.

1945-present day: Chicago Cubs suck.

Moving update

Welcome to the inside of my head. You must be at least this neurotic to ride: (Pretty damn neurotic)
You'll want to fasten that safety harness and hold on to your wigs and keys. Thanks and try to enjoy your trip (you won't).

The Big Move (TBM) is less than 48 hours away and I am at any given time less than 2 minutes from a full-blown panic attack (as opposed to the usual 5 minutes). What is it about TBM that has me in such a state? Yes, of course I have boxes packed, I have appointments (for movers and cable installer, etc.) scheduled, I have things paid for that need to be paid for (thanks to yet another life saving assist from...well, she know who she be). But guess what? When you're me, that's not enough because what if:

• I've forgotten some small-yet-essential detail?
• there's been an error in some of the paperwork?
• I'm making a huge mistake?
• even though I made a list and don't think I've forgotten something, it's still possible that I did, right?
• I'm making several huge mistakes?
• something goes wrong?
• I probably didn't forget anything. Right?
• I'm wrong?
• something doesn't go wrong...yet?
• I'm right about being wrong?
• Oh God, I know I've forgotten something!
• All of the above, at the same time, sped up 100mph played over and over and over again, iPod shuffle style, at top volume, backwards, in English, French and German. Weeeeee!!

Anyway, thank you for flying Clark International. Please remain seated until the uncontrollable shaking has come to a more manageable level, since it will never ever come to a complete stop. And remember, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't all out to get you.

World Cup referees: Arbiters of justice and honor (cb: 2006)

You there, number 14 in the white shirt and navy blue shorts. You have committed an act of unsportsmanship and brought dishonor upon yourself and your teammates. Do not protest, for I have already determined that you did indeed wrong your opponent by kicking him with malice in your heart, not to mention the foot inside your shoe. See him rolling on the ground, holding his shin and wincing? You have debilitated your loyal opposition for a matter of several seconds. This grievous transgression must be dealt with swiftly and severely. Here...hold on a second...I have something here in my pocket. Where is it? I had it when I left the house...Ah, here it is! Behold the yellow card! Look at it. Be a man and accept your punishment; the display of a small yellow index card. I hold it above shoulder height so that all in the immediate vicinity may look upon it and heap scorn upon you. Even now, I see you blister inwardly with shame, as well you should. For I had no intent of brandishing this yellow card if a spirit of fair play could be maintained throughout this contest. But alas, you have forced my hand and I now have no choice but to hold the yellow card aloft and turn slowly in a semi-circle. Now, I would like to put this card away and resume this exciting 0-0 contest but first I must have your word as a man of honor that you will comport yourself in the manner of a true sportsman as this glorious game demands. For if I do not receive your pledge and further malfeasance occurs, then my only recourse will be to reach into my other pocket and retrieve the red card, which will result in your banishment from the field of play, much to the displeasure of your loyal spectators who even now are urinating on immigrants as they await to pummel me with stones and bottles as I attempt to leave the stadium.

Further flea market observations

This is the last I'll mention it but here's some more stuff from yesterday's adventure at the Oldsmar Flea Market:

* There’s a stall there called “The Florida Survivalist”. If that in itself isn’t enough to make you shudder, consider that they were advertising that they carried a full line of ammunition and accessories for 50 caliber guns. Now, when I was in the Army, I remember we had rigging installed on some of our five ton trucks to mount 50 caliber machine guns, which was an exercise in futility according to a sergeant who had combat experience because he said the recoil generated by the firing of a gun that large would probably knock the truck over. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but one of the few things I did learn while in the service was that it was always a bad idea to challenge guys with combat experience.
* One store selling mailbox covers had over 200 designs. I think the only thing sadder than the fact that a market for mailbox covers exists in the first place is not being able to decide which design to use because there’s just so darn many to choose from.
* Another stall was named “Novelty Fishing and Hunting”. This conjured images of a stuffed dear head mounted on the wall with one of those wacky Steve Martin-style arrows through the head.
* Seeing that other people had given their stalls names like a regular store made me wish I had thought of doing that. I think I would have called mine “Here, YOU Throw It Away” in honor of the late Mitch Hedberg.
* A stall that sold socks (“Nothin’ But Socks”) had a sign that said “yes, we have socks for little people”. Now, I know they probably meant children, not midgets, but it made me think of midgets anyway and how lame a description ‘Little People’ is. Is that the best anybody could come up with? If you’re trying to update your image and be taken seriously by distancing yourself from a term that was basically a slur, does ‘Little People’ do the trick? I’m pretty sure if it were me, I wouldn’t want to be called ‘Little Person’ any more than I want to be called ‘Great Big Fat Ass’ now.

Today at the flea market (part 2)

These two transactions pretty much cleaned me out, with the exception of about 15 books. They’re all good books, but with the tables now looking so sparse and there being about 50 or 80 other stalls selling books, they weren’t moving. Even at .25 each. Maybe I was spoiled by my early success or the non-stop bleating of a woman’s voice over the PA speaker right behind my stall (“Come visit The Lingerie Hut in building J…don’t forget to stop by Fragrance City in building F…Father’s Day Special on all VHS tapes at Ammo Junction in the B building…”) was wearing on my nerves, but the gates had only been open for a half hour, I wasn’t selling anything and I was bored. Once I calculated that I had less than $4 worth of merchandise and that it may take several hours to sell it, it was clear that I had reached the point of almost completely diminished returns. So I decided I would invest everything into 20 minutes of hardcore, in-your-face sales pitch and then I would leave and donate whatever was left to the VA hospital. I started engaging people in conversation, making comments about what they were wearing or had already bought as a means of drawing them in. This was fairly successful and even kind of entertaining. I met some very nice people, some of whom bought books, some didn’t but all very nice. When this guy with greasy yellow-gray ponytail in a tie-dye tee shirt, carrying a WMNF pledge drive bag, with a massive stick obviously up his butt (unseen, but you should trust me when I tell you it was there) came by, I only had about six books left, all about baseball. He sneered and made some really snotty comment about me not having any real books. I decided to invest the last bit of energy I had into selling my last $1.50 worth of books about baseball to THIS guy.

ME: Come on, they’re only .25 each. You could give them as gifts to friends of yours who are baseball fans!
HIM (fake, sneering smile): I don’t think so.
ME: Well, anything I don’t sell is going to the burning.
HIM: What do you mean? What burning?
ME: These guys I know. They’re barbecuing some burgers, having some beers and burning some books later. I told them if I had anything left over, I’d bring them by.
HIM: These are books about sports. Why would you even want to burn these?
ME: It’s not my thing. It’s these guys. They just like burning them. They don’t really care what they’re about.
HIM: So you’re just going to burn books? That’s symbolic of fascism.
ME: I know! But what am I supposed to do?
HIM: What are you supposed to do? Give them away! Something! But you don’t burn books!
ME: Give them away?!? Ha ha! Do you see anybody else here giving anything away? I don’t think you get the concepts of commerce and free enterprise.
HIM: I think you’re disgusting.
ME: Whatever. So are you going to save these books or are you going to let an idiot like me just burn ‘em up?
HIM: Idiots like you shouldn’t be allowed to own books!
ME: Wow, now who’s a fascist?

He didn’t buy them and I was spent (it was hot out there). So I dropped off the last of the books at the VA hospital and went home.

Today at the flea market (part 1)

I am a packrat. I collect stuff (and of course, that means it has to be complete sets of stuff) and can’t throw anything away. I’m pretty pathological about it and should actually seek some professional help for it. Seriously. Anyway, this means I have a lot of accumulated stuff. With the big move less than a week away, I simply had to get rid of some of it. Complicating things is the fact that it’s all too good to simply toss in the trash (Honestly! It is!). That would just be wasteful and that is just not going to happen. Ah, but selling it is an option I can live with. So I came up with the bright idea of packing up six boxes of my least essential old toys, baseball cards and books and hauling them off to the Oldsmar Flea Market (“The Mightiest In The South” if the sign is to be believed). For $15, I would get a stall, two tables and access to a crowd of Father’s Day bargain hunters. So I was there at 7:30AM to set up for the 9:00AM opening when I suddenly realized that I had not put a lot of thought into preparation for this. I don’t know if there’s a “Flea Markets For Dummies” (there probably is) but if so, I’m sure it advises the prospective flea merchant to have signage, bags and money to make change. I had none of these things. The change situation was going to be especially problematic since I had decided that all items would be .25 each or $5 a box. I had exactly two dollar bills, three quarters, a dime and two pennies, my change from breakfast, on me and was wondering what to do about it when a guy from one of the nearby stalls wandered over to check out what I had. I told him, “Everything is either .25 each or $5 a box”. He glanced over everything and gave me $20 for four boxes of action figures and Matchbox cars I had brought with me. While he was settling up with me, a friend of his from another stall came by and bought another $15 worth of assorted stuff. Here I had worried about being able to recoup my $15 startup costs and I had moved 75% of my inventory and was in the black an hour and a half before the doors opened! I was reveling in my status as the biggest boy wonder entrepreneurial genius in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market, The Mightiest Of The Mightiest In The South, when my inner capitalist woke up and introduced some new doubts. Had I undervalued my merchandise? Could I have gotten more? Much more? Had I just given way a fortune? Had I been ripped off by savvy flea market chickenhawks waiting around in the early morning hours for rubes like me to wander in off the street? Obviously, I was the biggest boob, know-nothing knucklehead in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market.
But then I realized that I had gotten rid of six boxes of junk I wouldn’t have to haul to the apartment and had put $35 in my pocket in the process and I got over it pretty quickly.

June 18, 2006: First Post

Hi there. Let me take the opportunity of this first post to go a little more in depth about me than what's covered in the profile. My name is Clark. I was born in 1964 in Benton Harbor, Michigan. If you've never heard of it, don't worry about it because if you had, it wouldn't be anything particularly nice. Now I live in Tampa, Florida where I have recently undergone some fairly dramatic personal changes in my career (about three months ago) and personal life (soon-to-be completely legally single, ongoing). I'm also selling my house and moving into an apartment (this Friday, June 23). I love to read and write and listen to music. I also enjoy sports, but not to the point where I'm a fanatic about it. I'm passionate and knowledgeable about the teams I care about but usually won't watch whatever game or sport is on. I hate being embarrassed and minivans. I like interesting people, and I believe that all people are interesting, but I hate people who think they are more interesting than they really are. I love women and don't care much for men; I would much rather go shopping at the mall with a group of women than sit around a sports bar eating chicken wings and drinking beer with a bunch of guys. If you don't know me, I am quiet and introverted but I am different around people I consider my friends, an admittedly small circle of people but to whom I am devoted beyond question. Okay, none of this is funny but I promised some exposition in the profile, so there it is. More on what's listed above will undoubtedly be revealed later.