Uncle Adam was known as a jokester and at a young age, I thought his favorite ‘target’ was my younger brother and his namesake, Adam. After all. it was Uncle Adam, who persuaded my brother that eating his ‘toe jam,’ would make him grow up strong.

How and why it came up, I don’t know; what I do remember is Uncle Adam convincing my kid brother that Prince Albert lived in a red tobacco tin and needed releasing before he suffocated. It would be a few more years before I learned this tale came from a popular crank call.

***

“Hello, do you have Prince Albert (a tobacco brand) in a can?” the caller would ask.

“Yes, we do.”

“Go let him out before he suffocates!,” followed by a quick hanging up of the phone.

***

The following day, Uncle Adam said he was going down to the hardware store, which also double as a sporting good store and a ‘five and dime’ department store. Adam and I begged Uncle to let us go with him, which he said yes too.

As Uncle Adam did his business, I wandered through the aisles, daydreaming about what I’d buy if I had a bunch of money. Finally, finished at the register, Uncle Adam called for us.

Having raced to the front of the store, I waited with Uncle for Adam to appear. Nothing.

After a minute, Uncle Adam, with me tagging behind, went looking for his other nephew. Rounding a corner, seated in the aisle, surrounded by one opened red canister after another was Adam, in the process of searching for Prince Albert, whom he was certain had to be in one of the many tins.

It’s adventure
That’s for sure,
As he explores
His daily chores.

“There’s nothing like kicking my own ass,” I kept thinking as I tried to fall back to sleep. It began about half-an-hour earlier when I got out of bed, still asleep and in the midst of a night-terror.

Night-terrors, for me at least, happen when I feel stressed out. In this case it is Christmas-time and I still do not have a job and so I fill my time with writing, reading, taking photos – all which leave me feeling guilty that I am not earning a paycheck.

Yes. It’s a vicious circle and both its creation and activity are all in my mind.

Anyway, in this night-terror I was the only ‘White’ face in a sea of protesting Black people. (Please don’t ask me why this is – I’ve no clue.) They were yelling, screaming and pushing me around, calling me names and accusing me of stuff that I’d never done.

And of course, me-being-me, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut as I hollered back at all these people, shoving and jostling me about. This is when my wife woke me up and I evidently got snotty with her for having done so and then jus’ as quickly as I barked at her, I was back asleep.

As I fell back to sleep, I transitioned from being in the crowd to the edge of the crowd. I was getting punched in the head by one man, kicked in the back by another and I was fighting back.

Now my wife, whom I had awaken with my screaming, was sitting up in bed, reading, when I suddenly got out of the blanket and sheets and commenced around the foot of the bed. She figured I was getting up to use the bathroom.

Instead, I was getting ready to square off on the dude that was punching me in the head. However, I never laid a hand on him, as he struck me (in my night-terror) right on the chin and as my wife put it, “you suddenly took a couple of steps backwards and fell on your ass.”

That woke me up! I had landed hard on the floor, smashing into a table, knocking the wind out of me and leaving two fairly sizable cuts on my right butt-cheek.

It took a minute or so for me to regain my breath and composure so that I could go into the bathroom to look at my injuries. (My poor wife had to take a picture of my wound because I was unable to see it in the mirror and no, I didn’t ask her to kiss my boo-boo to make it all better, either.) Other than a little blood, there is no real damage other than to my pride, which is a bit out of sorts for having lost a fight composed solely in my subconsciousness.

This morning, I’m wearing three large band-aids on my bum, I have a slightly swollen and bruised left elbow and a back that hurts worse than usual, plus it’s painful to sit. In the end, (no pun intended) I guess I could say that I’m as good a fighter as I am a punching bag — because in both cases I lost — to myself.

For the last three months I’ve been sporting a full gray-white beard. I started it on October 15, the day after my son and daughter-in-law got married on Lake Tahoe.

The day before yesterday I went to Walmart to purchase a last-minute gift for my wife. While wondering the aisles, a little girl, about five-years old and her younger brother, stopped me.

“Why are you shopping here, Santa?” she asked.

More than a little taken back, I glanced at her mother, who smile politely and was obviously enjoying her child’s error, I answered, “Because even Santa needs a little help sometimes.”

“Oh,” she responded. Then without missing a beat she asked, “Can me and my brother tell you what we want for Christmas?”

My heart melted. “Yes, you can,” I replied as I got down on one knee so she’d have a place to sit.

She whispered in my ear, telling me it was secret. When done, I responded, “That’s a big one. I think my boss will have to know about this.”

“You have a boss?’

“Yup.”

“Whose your boss?”

“God. Do you say your prayers every night?”

She nodded her head ‘yes.’

“Good,” I said, “and I’ll say a prayer that you get what you want for Christmas, too.”

She hugged me as I added, “Jus’ remember we don’t always get what we want and there’s always a reason and sometimes we don’t know what that reason is. Can you be brave if you don’t get everything you ask for?”

“Is it alright if I’m sad if I don’t get what I want?”

“It is. You can even cry and be mad.” We hugged again as she climbed from my knee.

“Thank you, Santa,” she smiled as she  went to her mom’s side and took her hand. As for the little brother, he was too shy to ask this Santa’s helper for anything.

The mom silently lipped ‘thank you,’ as she turned down the aisle. I winked at her and quickly rushed from the store without buying anything.

It took about 15 minutes before I could drive home, the tears were too much to see through as the innocence of that little girl tore my heart in two. And that night as I lay in bed, I said a special prayer with the faith that her secret – her mother’s cancer – will be healed, then I cried myself to sleep.

Obviously, I pissed someone off and they decided to get back at me through Facebook (FB.) I think it began last night when I had trouble loading a video to my timeline. Then this morning around 5:30, I lost control of my mouse’s functions for a couple of minutes.

Half an hour later, I had no control of my FB page and I immediately let the folks over in the Bay area know what was happening. While they couldn’t help, I did get a hold of McAfee and they aided me in shutting down this hack. It took nearly eight-hours to restore my FB page and clean out anything maliciously hidden in my computer system.

In that time period, FB decided I violated their community standards and banned me for a 24-hour period, meaning I can see your post, but I am unable to respond to a post or post anything directly. I figure this happened because of several ‘nudie’ photographs that found their way my page, and while I didn’t see them until a friend sent me me a screen-shot, I apologize for their appearance on my page.

Thank you for sticking with me through this and a special thanks to my friend, Lisa Arteaga for taking the time to explain what was going on and for posting a notice — complete with a tag and everything — to my newly restored FB page to let you know what was happening.  So barring any further blocking by the social media site, I’ll be back in less than 24-hours. Take care of each other till then.

At seven-years old, my younger brother Adam showed a propensity for having a one-track mind. In this case it was his want of ‘Lincoln Logs,’ for Christmas.

Each store we entered, he’d inquire of Dad or Mom if they had the logs. One late morning as we were moving up and down the aisle of the Sears store, Adam spotted them.

“We can’t afford them,” Dad said, causing Adam to ebb into a complete and embarrassing meltdown. And after having heard enough of Adam’s wailing, Dad put a stop to it, by adding, “And if you keep that up, Santa won’t bring them to you either!”

Adam immediately stopped bawling and fell into the sniffles and a gulping of air as he fought off the tears. I felt bad for him and vowed to myself to do something to help both my folks and my brother.

The following day, I went outside and searched the yard under the trees and bushes and it didn’t take very long for me to find what I was looking for, and after a while I concluded 50 pieces was a good start. The rest of the day I spray painted my new-found ‘logs’ a deep, rich brown, followed by a health dip in lacquer to keep the paint in place.

(Yes, America was a different place back then.)

By the next day, my project was dry and ready for packaging. After finding a box to load the ‘logs’ into, I spent a good part of two-hours trying to wrap it up and make certain Adam knew what they were and that they came from me.

With pride, I slipped the box under the tree. Then came the hard part – waiting for Christmas morning, which was still a million-hours away.

Come Christmas morning, we rushed out to the tree to see what not only Santa had brought us, but what other gifts we’d gotten from our parents and relatives. As I ripped open package after package, I kept an eye on that special gift I’d made for Adam.

Finally, he tore into the decorative paper and opened the box. I could see by his face he wasn’t too thrilled with what had given to him.

Mom took the box and peaked into it, then with a half-puzzled, half-joyfilled look on her face, she called Dad over to have a look in the box. They then began laughing which immediately hurt my feelings.

“Tommy,” Mom said, “You’re so sweet, but…”

“Yeah – very sweet,” Dad interrupted, “but dog poop doesn’t make very good ‘Lincoln Logs.’

The next package handed to Adam made it obvious that he was going to get the real thing after-all. I don’t remember him actually opening up the tubular-shaped container, because by then I had raced to my bedroom to cry.

It took my folks the rest of the morning to calm me, letting me know that I had actually done a ‘good thing,’ by convincing me that it was ‘the thought that counted and not the gift.’

We were riding our bicycles around the neighborhood, something he and I did quite often. This day though, my brother Adam was wearing an old white motorcycle helmet that belonged to Dad.

Since it didn’t fit him, Adam had stuffed it full of newspaper wads and taped them in place. Then by wearing a beanie-stocking, the helmet didn’t shift from side to side or slip down to cover his eyes.

One of the great joys we partook in was pedaling from in front of the fire station to the hill that lead to the woods, which was between the Methodist Church and the red Simpson building. We used the distance, which was probably a quarter of a mile, to gather enough speed to race up the hill to the logging road above.

The hill, as we called it, was a steep grade greater than 45-degrees and consisted of a path no wider than the handlebars of our bikes. The real trick was not only to make it to the top and onto the road, but to either stop or turn before crashing into the embankment on the far side.

Sometimes we were successful — most times we weren’t and that’s what made it fun.

One day we found our pathway blocked; Mr. Breedon had chained a billy-goat to the entrance of the bike trail. So instead of riding up the hill as planned, we dropped our bikes to play with the billy-goat.

Being limited in his movement, we could easily stay out of danger, should the goat decide to butt us, which is exactly what he did. Standing jus’ out of range of his tiny bump-like horns, I was petting the animal when I heard Adam say, “Watch this!”

Turning, I saw he had the motorcycle helmet on and he was kicking his right leg like a bull, ready for the charge. I stepped out-of-the-way, saying, “I don’t think you should…”

By that time Adam, head down, was sprinting towards the goat. The animal saw him coming and took off in the opposite direction, with Adam chasing it from one place to another.

Finally, out of breath from racing after the billy-goat, Adam trotted down the hill to where I was standing. As for the goat, he was standing in the middle of the bike path, watching Adam retreat.

After a couple of minutes of staring each other down, Adam put his head down and again making with the menacing foot drag, charged up the hillside towards the billy-goat. This time the 60 pound animal met Adam’s challenge as it reared up on it’s hind-legs and bolted down the pathway.

The pair collided head-long into one another with a mighty ‘Clack!’ which echoed off the metal wall of the Simpson building. The goat bounced off Adam’s helmet, while Adam dropped face first to the dirt.

Knowing Adam could be hurt as the goat pranced around and jump on top of him, I rushed over and dragged my brother out of harms way. Once beyond the goat’s chain, Adam rolled over on his back and began laughing – which caused me to laugh.

The next day, Adam complained bitterly about how the top of his head, his neck and both of his shoulders ached, claiming he couldn’t understand why. By then, I was the only one laughing.

Bruce Clark’s head snapped about as if he didn’t know where he was at. That’s because he didn’t.

The last thing Bruce recalled was sitting on his couch, passing horrendous clouds of gas. That’s when it struck him; he had finally farted so badly he had literally gassed himself to death.

“Why else would I be in Yuppy-hell, standing in line at Starbucks?” he posed.

Bruce was eighth in line, so he had enough time to assess his situation. That’s when it dawned on him: he’d much rather be standing in line at McDonald’s.

“At least there, I could get one of those mitten cups that’s actually a pole-dancer spreading her ass-cheeks.”

Without having moved, it was suddenly his turn at the counter. That’s when all manner of hell broke loose on Bruce Clark’s self-induced, noxious nightmare of eternal damnation.

As the female barista began to speak, she barked as if she were a dog. And like other dogs, it didn’t take much encouragement for those behind the counter and who had previously had their faces buried in their iPhones and other devices, to join in.

As the barking reached a nerve-shattering crescendo, Bruce jumped back into his poisoned reality. At first he thought he’d been dreaming, but then he could smell the lingering effects of having ripped a toxic terror, plus his poodle was yapping fiercely in his left ear.

“Good boy, Killer,” he cooed towards the dog as it bounced from the floor to the couch then the back door.

As Bruce Clark got up from his stained leather couch to release his would-be heroic K-9 on the outside world, he couldn’t help laugh, “Dog’s are immune to such brain-melting shit – after all they lick their asses all the time.”

He closed the door, heading to the kitchen to pour another cup of four-day old coffee.

Note: This will be the last one of these as it was an experiment that failed.

The suspect in a terror-related attack in New York City has been identified as Akayed Ullah, a Bangladeshi Muslim immigrant who lives in Brooklyn and was allegedly inspired by ISIS.

As we were celebrating Thanksgiving, ISIS issued a threatening video message titled “Christmas in New York.” However, authorities claim yesterday’s NYC subway bomber acted alone.

There are now more so-called journalists in Jerusalem than there are Palestinian protesters since President Trump recognized the city as Israel’s capital.

Molotov cocktails were thrown at a synagogue in Malmo, Sweden. No one was injured and the building wasn’t damaged. This is the second incident carried out against the Jewish community within 48 hours.

A Republican National committeewoman from Nebraska, Joyce Simmons has quit the organization, writing that she “strongly” disagrees with the RNC’s choice to resume financial support for Judge Roy Moore.

A federal court has ordered the Pentagon to allow transgender people to enlist in the military beginning January 1, despite opposition from President Trump.

The U.S. Supreme court is refusing hear the case of a Georgia woman who claims she was harassed and forced out from her job because she’s a lesbian. The court gave no explanation why it won’t take the case.

Two-thousand, seventy-five dollars. That’s every American’s personal share of the fiscal year 2017 budget deficit. The total deficit? $666 billion.

Polls no longer reflect opinion. Instead they’re used to push and create opinion.

And finally, you cannot pour from an empty vessel.

There’s been an explosion caused by an ISIS inspired suicide bomber in a passageway below ground at the Port Authority in New York City. The attacker was injured and is in custody.

A network of loudspeakers designed to warn people of terror attacks is being set up in Melbourne, Australia, ahead of New Year’s Eve celebrations.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics says employment in U.S. manufacturing has increased by 189,000 in the year since Donald Trump was elected president.

Independent analyses by the Thomas A. Roe Institute shows the economy will be three percent larger in ten years, thanks to the tax plans being reconciled by a joint congressional committee.

Only six more states are needed to fulfill the required number of 34 states to force Congress to call an Article V constitutional convention for the purpose of proposing a ‘Balanced Budget Amendment.’

Jewish and Christian communities are actually joining together, not battling one another, to celebrate President Trump’s decision to recognize Jerusalem as the capital of Israel.

Czech President Milos Zeman on Saturday accused EU states of being “cowards” in their response to President Trump recognizing Jerusalem as Israel’s capital.

German intelligence agencies are warning Chinese hackers are increasingly launching attacks on European companies through trusted suppliers.

Former President Barack Obama continues to globe-trot, claiming responsibility for the improvements to the U.S. economy.

Trump on Twitter: Another false story, this time in the Failing @nytimes, that I watch 4-8 hours of television a day – Wrong! Also, I seldom, if ever, watch CNN or MSNBC, both of which I consider Fake News. I never watch Don Lemon, who I once called the “dumbest man on television!” Bad Reporting.

A woman in Georgia shot Justin Alan Foster who was attacking sheriff Sergeant Randy Harkness after he had given Foster a ride to a gas station. Both Harkness and Foster survived their injuries.

A Washington State University-Spokane study shows law enforcement officers are less likely to shoot unarmed black suspects than unarmed whites.

A new poll shows that 74 percent of ‘young people’ believe that being called a ‘snowflake’ has a negative effect on their mental health.

During the Army/Navy game anthem, not one knee touched the ground. Army won 14-13.

After two investigations, Ahmad Bradshaw, starting quarterback for Army’s Black Knights has been cleared of sexual assault charges.

The nominations for the 75th Golden Globe Awards are underway, but nobody cares.

And finally, passion gives you the power you need to fulfill your purpose.