Life of a Hobo.

Hobo in the House

By Charlie Melton

I strut into work. I tried sauntering into work but it’s hard to appear busy when sauntering. Marching doesn't work well because it makes you look stupid. Slinking into work makes the boss suspicious, so I choose to strut. Strutting works for me.

So I strut into work and Mary looks up. Her eyes squint a little and she wrinkles her nose like she smells something overripe and distasteful. “Where did you get that shirt?” she asks. I reply I bought it for a quarter at a garage sale. “Do you like it?” I queried. “No. You look like a hobo” she retorts.

I’m devastated. Well, not devastated. A better word would be irked. I spent a good 5 minutes and good money for a barely used shirt. I don’t think I look like a hobo. 

What the heck is a hobo anyway?

Traditionally hoboes ride trains. I rode a train once. I rode Amtrak to Vegas. My compartment wasn't very comfortable and the shower had low water pressure. The food in the dining car was really overpriced for the quality. The trip as a whole was way overpriced and slow by travel standards. I can’t imagine why a hobo would want to go through that disgrace.

Hoboes are itinerant workers. They’re not bums, which don’t work. They’re also not to be confused with tramps, which travel a lot but don’t work much. Hoboes travel to work. I’ve traveled for work. I went to a conference in Boston for work. It was a really boring week. I’ve also filled in for a guy in McLeansboro while he was on vacation. I travelled 18 or 20 miles twice a day for work, which made me an itinerant worker. I didn’t like it much, but I did it because I have what I fondly call “bills” that I have to pay. I assume hoboes travel for work to pay their mortgages and truck payments.

Hoboes are often unwelcome in communities. I know how they feel. I’ve been unwelcome. I never felt welcome in my Mother-in-laws house. I wore a “Proud Redneck” shirt in Ferguson, Missouri and felt very unwelcome. Maybe hoboes suffer the same indignities.

Hoboes have a secret code. They mark symbols in diverse places that are decipherable only to other hoboes. You can see these in any city. The ones I saw were done in spray paint in large bubble letters. Some people call it “gang graffiti” but I guess it’s the same thing. I tried to decipher it but was unable to. The very large tattooed gentlemen socializing near the symbols were not interested in interpreting the symbols and threatened to “bust a cap” in one of my unmentionable body parts. I guess the spoken language is as private as the written symbols.

Hoboes have conventions. For some reason they hold these in Iowa instead of a convention center in Orlando or Southern California. They hold a big election and choose a King and Queen. They spend a lot of time around the camp fire telling stories and visiting. The convention sounds to me like it is part senior prom and part visit to the local diner. I wonder if they have a liars table like some cafés have.

Hoboes have a code of conduct. That’s one thing they have over most of society, which doesn’t seem to have a code of conduct anymore. They vow to respect others, look for work, and to help those in need. The hoboes should probably mentor our representatives in national government and executives at some of the larger corporations.

As I learn about hoboes, I’ve decided Mary was complimenting me. Hoboes travel, they work, they have a secret language, and they convene every year. They live by a code. I haven’t found anything that would cause me to dislike them. On the contrary, I’ve learned to admire the hobo. I may even aspire to be a hobo. The life seems quite romantic and fulfilling.

I like everything except the train travel. Perhaps I can be a hobo that flies. Does the airport have a hobo waiting area? I’ll have to check it out.

Oh, and thank you Mary. I’m flattered to be called a hobo.

Hacking Household Appliances

Hacking Household Appliances




Appliances can do more things than you think. Here are a few "off label" uses of everyday appliances. Feel free to comment with your own hacks.

Washing Machine: Having a party? Needs lots of cold drinks? You don't want everybody in and out of the fridge all night getting drinks and eating all of your food in the process. Coolers are unsightly and leak water everywhere. Buckets are cumbersome and heavy to move

What's the answer? Fill the washing machine tub with ice and beer, soda, or wine coolers. The drinks stay cold and handy. When the party is over and drinks are all gone, just put the washer on spin. No muss, no fuss, no mess.

Dishwasher: Talk about a multi-use appliance. The dishwasher can do lots of things. Sure, anyone can use it to wash dishes, but can you hack it?

Working on your car? You can spend hundreds of dollars on chemicals to clean it up, but why would you when you have a dishwasher. It's perfect to clean hubcaps, oil caps, even PVC valves. Painting the valve covers? Clean them up in the dishwasher. Just spray them liberally with engine cleaner, and put on the long cycle. To keep your food free of a gritty oily taste be sure to run the dishwasher 18 or 20 cycles before washing dishes in it.

Wait, thats not all. Instead of putting hot dogs in a pan of water that takes forever to heat, stick them on the metal prongs in the dishwasher. It cooks them nicely, and there's nothing to clean up when they're done. Don't forget you're cooking and accidentally put soap in. The soap ruins the hot dog flavor.

Microwave: It'll cook, it'll reheat, but did you know it'll dry clothing, and do it fast? Stain on your favorite shirt? Rub it out and then pop the shirt in the microwave to dry it. the same goes for socks, but not a wet cat. You've got to be smart here. No pets in the microwave. When drying clothing or other items in the microwave stay close by and monitor the smoke detector. Your results may vary, so be prudent.

Have others ideas? Comment and share them.

The Care and Feeding of an American Male

The Care and Feeding of an American Male

By Charlie Melton

It’s 1826. The fierce and grizzled mountain man leads his horses through the deep snow into the rendezvous. It’s bitterly cold in the steep terrain. One horse carries the year’s bounty of furs. The other carries his Indian bride. She rides as he walks.

He exchanges furs for money. The mountain man trades and negotiates for the items he wants. He ends up in debt by the second day, and heads back to the mountains hoping to trap enough to pay off his debts.

As he leads the horses up the trail, his bride rides high in the saddle and is a vision of beauty. She is wearing gold, silver, and the finest silks. He’s spent everything on her. He spent all he earned and hasn't yet earned. He did this because she knows the secret of being his woman. She knows what he needs.

***

Ladies, this story is for you. I was asked why men are so complicated by young ladies at work. They say they get mixed signals from their guys.

The truth is that men are simple. We don’t do signals. We have no long term plan of any kind. You guys can back me up on this. Nothing could be simpler than to know the mind of a man. That mind revolves around a central theme. Everything else is a subtext to that theme.

Men want to be the alpha male. Some call it “king of the castle” or “Neanderthal mentality”.  

When your guy comes home to you ladies, he wants you to be ecstatic he has returned from slaying dragons, welding nuclear weapons, and saving the world for democracy. This want can be filled by meeting his primal need. That need is for you to admire him as your alpha male.

A nap is also a primal male need. The nap need is near the top in the hierarchy of man needs. Some people call it self-actualization. That’s just a big word for a good nap. He also wants a full belly and an operational remote control.

The last three items are self explanatory and easy to accommodate. The “admiring your alpha male” thing requires instruction.

So how can a woman make her man a happy alpha-male? Compliment him. Say things like, “Honey, I really like it that you’re wearing your favorite Aerosmith t-shirt to my sister’s wedding. It’ll mean a lot to her”. Tell him leaving the toilet seat up is charming. You can also try, “The deputy gave you a speeding ticket because he’s jealous of the man you are”. Try it, it’ll work wonders.

Now don't let this powerful knowledge go to your head. I don’t want to hear any ladies saying something like, “Honey, I went shopping all day because I love you and you’re such a good provider.” Another unfair thing is the old, “I was so sad you were gone to work I just couldn't make dinner.” That’s not fair to do to your man. Guys fall for it, but that’s just wrong.

Many ladies do just the opposite of what I've advised. We all know that when women get together they make fun of their men. Come on, you know you do it. If no man can hear the run-down, no harm is done.

Never denigrate their man in front of other males. That is a big no-no. How should you ladies act around other men? Make sure you stay close to your man. Clutch his arm. Maybe whisper in his ear, “Her husband is so weak. I’m so lucky to have you. Who would want to marry Brad Pitt anyway?”

Watch an action movie together. During the movie you can swear the hero falls short of your male’s driving, fighting, and shooting skills.

You could also imply all other women admire your man’s judicious choice of bib overalls for all social occasions.

In keeping with the alpha male theme, you may never loan your man’s truck or tools to another man. If the President’s plane accidentally lands on the lawn and he needs a screwdriver to get it going, tell him to talk your husband after he wakes up from self -actualizing. Make him wait outside far away from the truck and toolbox until naptime time is over.

See, men are simple. Make us feel like we’re the center of your universe and we’ll be happy. In return we’ll make you happy by doing stuff and buying sparkly things.  Just be careful not to abuse him with this new knowledge. You’ll be tempted to do that because women are so complicated.  Your signals are all mixed up.  

Now, it’s nap time.

Breaking Up

By Charlie Melton

Question: Why is divorce so expensive?

Answer: Because it’s worth it.

I was coming out of my favorite gas station balancing a big soda and I froze like a deer caught in headlights. My ex-wife, obviously just escaped from the nether world, was standing in my path. I probably muttered an oath, but I don't recall. I pushed past her and made a beeline to my truck. All I am sure of is that she repeatedly tapped on my truck and demanded I talk to her. I refused, and sped off. I have no intention of talking to her, and would rather rabid rats eat my eyes than to speak to her. 

For all I know she won the lottery and wants to give me half, but I don’t care. It’s not that I’m bitter, unforgiving, and resentful. Now that I think about it, I am. I’m that and more. What I am sure of is the gas station is now contaminated and doesn’t hold the same attraction it once did.

I bet I'm the only one in the county with an ex-spouse they want to avoid. Wait, what was that? There are others? Are you saying there are one or two? More? How in the world does this happen? How do we end up with an “ex”?

We get the urge to merge, and we pick a potential spouse. OK, the girl picks a potential spouse. Spouse picking is more a girl thing. It’s part of nest building ladies are famous for. Guys allow themselves to be picked, and eventually buy into the idea of nesting. Whoever is the architect, both parties more or less agree to become a couple.

The couple is all encompassed with each other, building a life together and an eventual empire of some sort. They can't get enough of each other, right up until they can't stand each other. I say virtually every married couple starts out madly in love. Over half of those that can't live without each other end up divorced.

Nobody, other than divorce lawyers, knows how this happens. They have irreconcilable differences as a cause. They have mental cruelty. They even have “no fault” which was invented by auto insurance lawyers. I guess that makes sense. A divorce is sort of a wreck. I suppose that both parties cross the figurative center line and have a head-on of sorts.

Maybe attorneys are the problem. Maybe we should get lawyers out of marriage dissolution. We could get other specialties to take care of marriages. I can think of lots of skilled trades persons that could repair or replace a couple.

Doctors should consult on marriage. They may find that the wife develops an allergy to the husband’s manly scent. That allergy could cause general dissatisfaction and the urge to shop excessively. An antihistamine twice a day and the family unit is saved. Maybe he has a blind spot and can’t see his socks on the floor. A little eye surgery and boom- happy couple.

How about the trusted mechanic? Take your marriage into the shop and Mac can put it on the tester. He'll reset the “put the toilet seat down” module and the couple runs just fine. Maybe one of the couple has a bent linkage that causes one of them to end up at the horse track or gambling boat repeatedly. A vigorous rap with a mallet cures the problem.

A grocer could also consult on marital discord. “Not getting along? Maybe you need more fiber. We have cereal on sale for $2.98. No one can be unhappy with fresh broccoli for $1.29, today only”.

When you look at it logically, we’re doing marriage completely wrong. We are getting it backwards. We should marry the person we hate the most. We can fall out of love. I say we can fall out of hate as well. The guy may meet a girl that he can't stand to be around. He'll walk over and say, “You disgust me. Want to get some coffee?” She’ll say, “You're gross. I bet you're self centered and inconsiderate. I'd love to get coffee with you.” They'll get married and gradually learn to tolerate each other, and someday fall in love.

That’s the real happily ever after. Start out despising each other and fall into love. Everyone wins. Everyone wins except divorce lawyers. They can become grocers or mechanics and do some real good for families.

Lost My Marbles

By Charlie Melton

I talked to my daughter the other day. She works in Indiana, is raising 3 kids, and studying for something important and time sensitive. She doesn’t know if she can get off of work to come down for Thanksgiving. I gave her my usual “I’m getting older and may not live until another holiday” speech, but she’s developed immunity to the “guilt trip”. I brought out my new and improved “Marbles” theory. Stick with me and I’ll try to explain.

You’ve heard someone has “lost his marbles”. Back in the old days before social media and political correctness it was a term to describe someone was mentally unbalanced. It equates marbles to degrees of sanity. Fewer marbles equate to decreased sanity.

I have a different take on “marbles”. Here’s the marbles theory. I figure we’re each born with the same number of marbles. For illustration, let’s say 12. OK, we all know someone that maybe has only 8 or 9 marbles. I worked for a guy I swear had no functional marbles at all. For this, let’s agree most people have a dozen marbles.

Facets of your life are like slots on a board. One slot may be family. Another is career. Yet another slot may be music, or art, or dancing. There may be lots and lots of slots on your life board.

So I take my marbles and put them where I want them. I can spread them all out and be pretty average at everything. I can be a good family man, be acceptable at work, play a little guitar, and watch dance shows. I can show due diligence to all of these areas and be a pretty average Joe.

Let’s say I want to be really good at music. I can put a few extra marbles in the music slot and may be successful at music. Since I only have 12 marbles total, I’ll have to take them from other places. I may choose to pull marbles from the career slot, or family, or both. The more marbles I put into music, the less I have for other things and life gets out of balance. I think the disastrous lives of many pop music and movie stars prove the theory. The “King of Pop” was a music legend, but his life was so wacky it was like a really bad cartoon.

There’s also the stereotypical absent minded professor. We picture him as disheveled and unable to even remember to tie his shoes. All of his marbles goes into his research, at which he’s brilliant. He’s not even aware of the existence of other aspects of life.

I can use this for my own life. On my board of life I have no marble in a slot relating to sports skills or anything else that requires hand-eye coordination or the ability to say, “Go Team. Rah.” I had those marbles left over, so I put them into nerdy pursuits. Because I used those marbles as I chose, I know more useless information than the other nerds. I also dropped an extra marble in the locale for an affinity for tasty treats, but that’s another story.

So what’s the moral of the story? If you put too much into one area of your life, other areas will suffer. The puritan work ethic notwithstanding, too much work makes for a bad home life. Too much music makes for a bad work life. Too many tasty treats make for a bad doctors visit and an inability to see your shoes. Out of balance is bad, even if someone pays you a lot of money or respect for being out of balance.

So how does this relate to my daughter? She forgot to put a marble in the “visit my aging parent” slot. I’m just reminding her to be balanced and not end up unbalanced like a moon walking rock star with a one glove and a pet chimp. For her well being she needs to balance out and come to Thanksgiving. Besides that, she makes really good pie, which helps me balance out as well.

Unforgettable

By Charlie Melton

I talk from time to time about being remembered when we're gone. I think that being forgotten someday is the worst. I've found that for me, someday is today.

My wife and I moved here after my 33 year jaunt around the world. We spent a lot of time getting reacquainted with old haunts and former associates. This coming home thing is something I’d anticipated for a long time, and it’s very gratifying.

I’m in Norris City and a lady comes in that I recognize immediately. It’s my girlfriend from high school. I think that this is going to be awkward. I try to recall if we had a bad break-up. I wonder if she still has my class ring. I speak out and greet her by name. She looks perplexed, because I’m now bald and a lot older. I introduce myself. She still looks perplexed. I describe my car, my favorite jacket, and everything that might jog her memory, but nothing works. The poor thing must have dementia. I persist. I say, “I hung around with my cousin Craig.” Her face lights up. “Craig?” she asks. “I remember Craig. He drove a tan Cutlass. He liked denim jackets and vanilla Coke. He danced really well. Who are you again?” I wonder whose class ring she really wanted to wear.

We take our Grandson Charlie to ball practice and I see people I recognize. It’s my former preacher and his family. I introduce myself, but he doesn't remember me. I mention he mentored me and taught me about the bible. He looks confused. I tell him he baptized me, but he doesn't recall. I remind him I worked for him all through high school, but I might as well be from the moon. “I hung around with my cousin Craig.” I say. His face lights up. “I haven’t seen Craig in years! How is he? I remember his Cutlass. Who are you again?”

I just found a Facebook group for people I was stationed with in Germany. They are chatting back and forth about some of the more memorable events I was involved in. I pipe in. They respond by asking my identity. One of my old comrades asks why he doesn't remember me, so I describe myself including where I’m from. He replies, “Southern Illinois? I knew a guy from there. Do you know Craig? He drove a tan Cutlass.

I don’t like this being forgotten thing. Maybe I need to ask Craig’s advice on how to be memorable. I guess I can find a tan Cutlass but the dancing thing isn't possible. Perhaps I can get my obit to start with “Craig’s cousin.” Maybe then I’ll be remembered.

Last Request

By Charlie Melton

My wife is shakes her head at me and mutters something about me being weird. She’s doing this because I say we should put the fun back in funeral.

Here’s the thing. I’ve been to a lot of funerals lately. My increasing age is directly proportional to an increase in visits to the funeral home. All of the visits are quite sad. The funerals get to me emotionally, just as they are designed to do.

I want my funeral to be different. I want my funeral to be happy. I want the fun in funeral. Come to the funeral, have a glass of Ouzo at the door, and loosen that tie. This funeral is going to be quite a ride.

Firstly, let’s talk cheerleaders. Nothing lightens a mood more than peppy cheerleaders stirring us into a happy place. Professional NFL cheerleaders are best, but college cheerleaders will be OK too. A rousing cheer and some fancy pom-pom shaking will send me off in a most joyous manner. You should discourage them from doing that pyramid thing. Someone could fall, get hurt and ruin my funeral. My wife threatens male cheerleaders, but that’s just wrong. Oh, and for the pom-poms I prefer blue.

Secondly, music and dance would be a good idea. Something snappy, like some 60’s rock and maybe a little reggae would be memorable. Electric Avenue is a good one.  Techno would liven up the place as well. A conga line would be appropriate, and will get everyone warmed up for the funeral procession to the cemetery.

All of this drinking and dancing will take some time, so feel free to bring a picnic lunch. Out of respect for the departed, pie of any kind is recommended. There is no bad pie, so be creative. While you’re at it someone had better put some of those little individually wrapped pies in my coffin. Who knows, the afterlife may be all tofu and sprouts. It pays to be prepared.

So we've all had fun and it’s time to commit me to the earth. I always liked the New Orleans band thing for the procession. It’s a long way to the cemetery, so you may want to intersperse the brass jazz thing with some Tijuana Brass selections. That should inspire some dancing.

When at the graveyard be sure to toss a handful of dirt and any unneeded cash into my grave. The latter will insure quite a spectacle when the guys come to cover me up. “Hey Joe, there’s a twenty down there. I’m going in to get it. Wait, there’s a five.” It may take days to finally cover me up. As for you, you may want to go take a nap. It’s been a busy 3 days.

This is all sounding pretty fun to me. Maybe I shouldn’t wait to have a funeral. Let’s do it before I die. How’s a week from Thursday sound to you? Just help me convince my wife it is not weird. I’ll bring the Ouzo. We’ll put the fun in funeral.