Victor Bloom, M.D.

I got into my half-assed writing hobby by first writing Amazon reviews, starting in 1998. Yep, Amazon reviews. Founders of a website called PearlSoup contacted me and a number of folks about submitting stories for their site. Many of the early submitters there were Amazon reviewers noted by the founders. PearlSoup led to blogging, and dabbling with helicopter magazine articles and our local news website.

PearlSoup is where I "met" Victor. One of the more colorful characters on PearlSoup, Victor could make you mad, make you think, make you laugh.

Victor turns 79 today. He wrote something interesting on Facebook about his father. His dad was 60 when Victor was born. (And I thought I was a late-in-life dad.) Victor's father was born in Minsk in 1871, the year the Royal Albert Hall opened. It was also the year when H.M. Stanley allegedly uttered, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

Victor was born in 1931. In 1931, Thomas Edison submitted his last patent application, Alka Seltzer was introduced, the "Star Spangled Banner" was named the official anthem of the U.S., and France announced that they couldn't afford to send a team to the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics.

Happy birthday, Dr. Bloom.

Attack of the Plug Bug

I got back to the company quarters intending to take a quick shower, and venture out to find something to eat. Instead, I decided to catch up on emails. Sitting there in my uniform, I felt something inch down my back under my shirt.

Now, as far as I know, I don't have a bug phobia. But when I feel something crawling down my back where I can't see it, it creeps me out. I sprung out of the chair and frantically unbuttoned my shirt. I was halfway done when I thought, "Screw it," and pulled the shirt over my head. I could still feel the bug, and it was big! I thought that it must be a cockroach or a really big spider.

I reached down my back and caught the offender. I brought it in front of me. It was yellow. It was an earplug.

We keep earplugs on hand at the flight line. The pair I had were attached by a cord to each other. Normally, I would drape the cord around my neck with the plugs hanging down on my chest. But, during the course of the afternoon, the plugs worked themselves around to the point that one fell down my back as I sat down at the computer.

I'm glad nobody was around with a video camera as I darted around the room getting my shirt off. I can see the YouTube title now: "Who says middle-aged white guys can't dance?"

Voids

I left a comment over at Debby's blog about angry people.

I wrote, Several years ago I was talking to one of our senior lead mechanics about one pilot who would throw a tantrum at the drop of a hat. I managed to get along with the guy, largely by steering the conversation toward his grandson. That would always lighten him up.

Anyway, the guy had come close to crossing a line with me. Close enough that I felt quite in touch with my redneck lineage. I was still miffed about the exchange, and mentioned that to our lead mechanic. He paused, and then said, "We grew up in the same town, y'know. I knew his father, and if you had ever met his father, that would explain a lot." Those words stuck with me.

Some people are assholes simply because they're assholes. But then, I believe many people cling to anger because they grew up with too little love in their lives. For them, anger can be strangely comforting. Anger can fill the empty places.

**

I've followed Debby's blog for a while now. I read it before she learned she had breast cancer, and followed her journey through chemo and recovery. Through it all, she never stopped writing.

She recently posted this: People have often asked how I do it. How I manage to post regularly, despite all the things going on in my life. The answer is easy. I get up early to do it. Each morning, I pad around in my bare feet and night gown making coffee. A morning without coffee would be, well, it would still be a morning, but infinitely worse. So I start my day with two cups of cappuccino from my own machine, and I bring my frothy cup into the living room, and I sit down at the computer. I take a few moments to click through the blogs, and then I quickly type up my post. It's part of my morning ritual. If I have to work or if things are especially hectic, I might not take the time to do it, but mostly I do take the time. As the coffee courses through my veins making me feel human, well, connecting with all of you, that makes me feel human too.

Steve Brewer is a novelist and humorist who stayed at home raising his sons while his wife worked as a managing editor of two different newspapers. He lives here in our northern California community of Redding. When I asked him how the heck he managed to publish seventeen books while holding down the fort as a stay-at-home dad, he answered, "I got up at three in the morning." Another writer friend, Alan Rider, is a stay-at-home dad when he isn't traveling for some writing gig, and his wife is also a career woman. When I asked him how he's done it, I pretty much got the same answer: "I get up early in the morning."

My writing output has declined in the last year, and I think it's largely because I no longer wake at four in the morning on my off days. Most of the time, I wake at the same time as the family. My couple of hours of solo time in the morning have largely evaporated. Why am I not waking "naturally" in the wee morning hours anymore? Am I getting abducted by aliens?

So there it is, doggone it. If I want to up my writing output, I'm gonna have to set a damn alarm clock on my off days. That just seems unnatural.

Marital Discourse from 1998

We'd just watched news about Bill Clinton's impeachment.

Me: "Sweetie, I'm curious about something."
Rhonda: "What's that?"
Me: "Well, if you were to learn that some woman gave me oral sex, would you be as upset as if I had full-on sexual intercourse with her?"
Rhonda: "Is there something I need to know?"
Me: "Not unless you want to count the neighbor's dog." That pooch was a crotch-hound if ever I met one.

She rolled her eyes. She thought for a moment.

Rhonda: "Well, I think I'd be upset if I learned that some woman was tooting your horn, but I don't think I'd be as upset as if you were boinking her."

My bride, bless her heart, has so much trouble expressing herself.

She looked at me. I betrayed a mischievous little smile, and raised my eyebrows.

Rhonda: "You shouldn't take my answer as ****ing permission."

Sheesh I laughed hard. I think I almost passed out.