I drive a pickup truck. I only wash my vehicle about every 3 months or so. I consider it to be a work truck. It probably has dust in it from my days working masonry in the Detroit area. It is historical dust -- it may have some anthropological value. I usually wait until the dust bunnies in my purple pickup truck resemble Erykah Badu's afro before I become aware that it is time to clean it. Today, I figure it was about time to clean the truck if I ever planned to take a woman out on a date in it.
First, I dug around under the seats for quarters. I knew I had some change rattling around down in the nether worlds of the truck because I had hastily dumped everything out of the middle console when I was making room for someone to slide over closer to me one night last week. There is hardly anything more disgusting than a pile of coins sticky with truck-mung with dusty dimes hairier than Robin Williams' chest from carpet lint. Speaking of Mork, check out Pam Dawber (as Mindy) back in 1978. Babe-a-licious. She once walked into my 7th grade health class because she was a friend of our teacher. Scha-wing! 7th-graders with wood -- is there anything more obnoxious?! Yes. An old guy who dumps everything out of the middle console onto the truck floor because he thinks he's going to get some.
Prying apart a few quarters, I then drove down to the car wash. I pulled the truck up to the big, shiny cylinder that resembled a Dalek from BBC's Dr. Who and whispered to the truck, "I'll try to be gentle", as it was probably the first time my truck has been so close to such a device.
The whole experience of vacuuming and then shampooing the carpeting in my truck was disconcerting. It's very stressful. Once you put your quarters in the machine and it immediately roars to life, you've got to rush around and beat the clock. I felt like I was on some juvenile Japanese game show ... The Manga Power Sucky-Suck show. I had to move the seats forward and vacuum. I had to move the seats all the way back and vacuum. Then, I tried to use the Shampoo Dalek but had the Vacuum Dalek's hose in the truck and the shampoo hose was still hanging up, instantly spewing out more white foam all over the place than the Hedge Hog ever did in his entire lurid career.
After the truck smelled better and some of the anthropological coffee stains were removed from the carpeting, I pulled into the car wash bay. I stopped short. WTF?! I jiggled the stick shift into neutral, hopped out of my truck and stood in front of it, staring. A wad of bills! I found five singles laying in the wash bay!! And then, Mira! A ten dollar bill, too!
I washed my truck with a glee that only comes from opening cool birthday gifts.
My mom died yesterday afternoon around 3:30pm. My brother and I were with her in the ICU at LRMC when the call sounded for "Code Blue, ICU room 2". The nurse was explaining to us that they were just getting mom settled into the room when she stopped in mid-sentence and her eyes got huge. I said, "Hey, I think that code blue is for mom ..."
Her doctor, Dr. Roque, had just changed her status back to full code from Do Not Resusitate when she died. After I had been fighting the hospital and doctors for several days to maintain her wishes on that issue, it was too late. She made it through the weekend, but had to stop fighting the inevitable outcome. She had been suffering with Chronic Obstructive Pulmunary Disease for several years. COPD is no picnic. A person with COPD will feel like they are drowning when they simply can not get air in their lungs. A drowning person panics and it's a vicious circle of shortness of breath and anxiety, each feeding the cycle and making the situation worse. If your Mommy tells you quit smoking cigarettes, take her advice and quit. If you can't breathe, you will certainly die.
I had been taking care of her for the last several years. Everytime I said, "Bye, Mom, I'll see you tomorrow" when visiting her in the hospital or nursing home, I was preparing myself that she might not be alive the next day. I'd give her a kiss on the forehead, and leave. Now, it just photographs, flowers and sincere condolences. The people that knew mom will miss her.
I live in Central Florida. The weather here is interesting and rarely boring. Every afternoon in the Summer, the Atlantic Ocean's Sea Breeze collides with the Gulf Breeze over my house and creates tall cumulous clouds and Popcorn Storms. As I am trying to get some exercise time in the swimming pool everyday, I can watch these so-called Breezes collide, slide over and under each other, and build into Thunderstorms from the sub-tropical heat of the afternoon.
Sometimes, just like relationships, these fascinating clouds build into loud, troublesome thunderstorms. Florida is known to be the lightning capital of the world. How nice for me.
This week and next is considered by historical meteorological data to be the peak of Hurricane Season. Storms get whipped up west of Africa and develope into Tropical Depressions, then Hurricanes. They wander the Atlantic drunkenly, but generally West, until one or two of these troublesome storms decide to slam into the United States with all the logic of some brain-washed Al-Qaeda zealot. Just in case September were scheduled to be a boring month, the planet Mars somehow decided to move as close to Earth as has ever been known in recorded history. Why?
Last month, a woman got a crush on me. I see her at her work during the week and decided to make friends with her. But, she has the hots for me. So, let's review the Imajica chart of common sense:
How available is this woman? She's vocally unhappily married but she still lives with her husband.
Is she attractive? She's very cute. She's slim. She's active.
Does she have a pulse? She's in her early 30's and at the peak of her sexual desire.
How long has it been since you've been laid? Longer than is necessary to become a monk.
So, what's the problem here? First, she's married and living with her husband. Didn't I mention that already?
Second, she has two small children who are continuously sick and although she works, she's financially immature and couldn't come up with $100 to save her own life the day after her pay day.
What are you going to do? Try like hell not to get struck by lightning.
Below are the links to blog entry archive pages and to jump to other sections on this page about:
[Me]: John Furie Zacharias, recent and FAQ [myblog]: Thunderstorms in the Imajica FAQ [I]: The JfZ FAQ
Thunderstorms in the Imajica is a blog. If you are not familiar with what a blog is all about, the easiest way to introduce you to my take on this form of online publishing could be to simply repeat a comment I made to a fellow blogger about blogging:
" Heh. I know how you feel. I go through phases with Thunderstorms. It started out as a way to tell old friends that I was actually doing okay -- as I tend to go off, disappear without explanation, and become a social hermit for years at a time -- and most of my friends are old school callers of a bulletin board I created back in the d-a-y with a similar name as the blog. Honestly, the blog method of letting your friends know that you're still alive but, perhaps in need of psychiatric medications is easier than answering individual emails.
Another phase was to say nothing of my personal life and simply use it as therapeutic device for venting my dislike for everything to do with this spinning little ball of mud in the universe. Or just a way to exercise my sarcasm and cynicism. Either way, it's basically mindless ranting.
And then there's never-ending dissatifaction with the way the blog looks. I tend to tip my little etch-a-sketch upside down and shake the hell out of it a little too often. I just did that last week. So people have to suffer through my whims as I re-organize and relink things alot. Recently I got smarter or more compassionate and just decided to do major overhauls on another 'form and function' blog first before I bring it to the one people seem to read for content.
Overall though, I found that whether your blog is in a plain page or something as artistically pleasing as the one you currently have, whatever you blog about -- just do it for yourself -- you're going to see and read your own entries more than anyone else. "
I hope that helps a little. Some blogs are just online diaries. Other blogs display a person's photographs or poetry. Still others are like interactive magazines. Thunderstorms in the Imajica is a little bit of all of these things and continually transforming itself as elusively as if it was a fleeting morning memory of last night's dream.
If you just finished reading the introduction of Me, my blog & I, you know that Thunderstorms in the Imajica is not some personal diary blog. Nonetheless, unlike reading articles from a magazine -- I usually do write things in a more personal style -- as if I were telling you a story or just talking to you in person.
Because of this digital social relationship between you and I, it's difficult to categorize and list any specific blog entries that merely speak of me and nothing else. Usually, I'm talking about something else entirely, and then a little personal history, or personal information, or recent event in my life is mentioned.
The simplest way to know what is going on with me most recently is to start here. And then, if for some masochistic reason you want to know any more, hit next page.
But, I guess the beginning is as good a place as any to start, so let's do that. I was born and raised in Detroit and until a few years ago lived much of my life in one Detroit's NW suburbs, Farmington Hills. But one day I got a phone call from one of my mother's neighbor's in central Florida, where my mother had been hanging out in her retirement and that call set things in motion to change my best-laid plans forever.
My mother had been taken to the hospital for a respiratory problem, she had been discharged to spend some time in a Rehabilition Facility and, had only been there for four hours when she passed out cold. When she passed out, she hit the hard tile-over-concrete floor so hard that it broke her hip, her arm, and her shoulder -- nearly everything on the side she landed on -- and gave her a nasty concussion. My mom's neighbor was a bit frantic.