A New Day Dawning

For those of you who’ve stuck by me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I’ve been doing 120 in the fast lane for the last few years, in a good way, but that has curtailed my writing passion considerably.

For you fans of The Paramedic series, the final book will be coming out within the next couple of weeks. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to bring to press, but, well, see the above. However, I promise it’ll be worth the wait. Follow Doc, Nancy, Butch, Mike and the….well, I’ll let the book fill in the details.

Also on the horizon, two new, totally different books will be rolling off the presses at Danby Mountain Press. Both of which I’m extremely proud of and I believe you will enjoy. More on those soon.

I was asked a funny question the other day that took me aback for a moment. A dear friend asked me, first, why I wrote erotica. With the exception of The Tenderfoot’s Guide and Born Bent Over, The Paramedic series, as well as the new books coming out are erotica.

I first explained the difference between erotica and smut. Not that I begrudge those who write smut. If that’s what you feel inside, have a ball. We do still have a first amendment in this country and there are a whole lot of readers who read and enjoy smut and will admit it. There are scores more who read it and prefer to keep that little tidbit to themselves. Frankly, if it doesn’t involve minors or barnyard animals, write and read away.

All of my erotica revolves around loving relationships, caring people and, at least in my humble opinion, has a plot. I have always been of the opinion that adding explicit love scenes between consenting adults just adds a higher level of intimacy to the story and makes the reader that much more familiar with the character. Again, just my humble opinion. I’ve been called sappy at times. I guess I am. I cry at old movies, certain songs, weddings and whenever the mortgage bill comes in the mail.

I believe I’m a kindred spirit with a lover’s soul. Must be my Italian heritage. Nothing has me grabbing for a tissue faster than a mushy love story.

Please bear with me for just a short time more. I believe you’ll be pleased with the upcoming additions to our book catalog.

And for those of you who read and commented on But for Lisa’s Voice, I want to thank you. While I did respond to your wonderful comments, I’d like to thank you again. That was one of those that has a special place in my heart for numerous reasons.

Until next time, I wish you all much peace and happiness.

God Bless!

Some Emily Post for Cell Phone Users!

Hello, my friends.  Welcome back.  I’m warning you ahead of time; I haven’t taken my meds today so we’re fixin to get busy in a most euphoric way.  Once again, I’ve swerved off of the camping course to air another pet peeve: cell phone etiquette.

As always, I like to qualify my statements by showing that I have some knowledge and or experience on the subject I’m speaking on.  While I may be fifty-two, and considered by some to be a dinosaur, let me assure you that I am now, and have been for many years, gainfully employed in the high tech electronics world.  I proudly fit most of the criteria for being a card-carrying geek.  I have, and drool over, a whole host of the latest electronic gadgetry; including a  cell phone, which is my only phone.  I am a fairly competent “texter” and I can surf the internet on my Droid with the best of them.  I consider cell phones to be one of the greatest inventions since the automobile:  in their proper context.

For starters, since doing away with my home phone some years ago, my cell phone is my only connection to the outside world (the internet not withstanding).  That doesn’t mean that I want to be that accessible.  The idea of someone knowing where I am and what I’m doing at any given time just isn’t me.  It reeks of Big Brother.  Just because I have a phone on my hip at all times, that doesn’t mean I like being called constantly and pulled into unnecessary conversations at all hours of the day and night.  Frankly, I hate talking on the phone; land line or cellular.  I freely admit to being one of those, Say what you’ve got to say and get off the line, phone minimalists.  When I’m talking to someone, I like to watch their eyes and their facial expressions to insure I’m getting the straight poop.  I keep my cell phone to be accessible to my children and grand children to hear about their latest ups and downs, occasionally, though grudgingly, for work and to prove one of the many bullshit artists I come across on a daily basis wrong with a quick visit to Google.  Other than that, there’s a great big world out there full of real people to converse and mingle with. 

I am a fairly laid-back fella, tolerant of others and their different ways, but nothing can get my dander up quicker than trying to carry on a conversation with someone who is half in our conversation and half into a text conversation; or even a verbal conversation, on their cell phone while I’m trying to broaden their horizons with my wealth of useless information.

The dark side of my font of useless information comes from the information I’m forced to ingest just for committing the heinous crime of being seated near someone on a cell phone in a restaurant.  It’s like watching an old movie where Ma and Pa Kettle get their first crank up phone and have to scream into it to be heard by the party on the other end.  You’re sitting there, trying to eat or have a real time conversation with whoever you’re dining with while having to listen to supposedly intelligent people speaking into their cell, at a volume far higher than the ambiance requires, telling the individual on the other end about their hemorrhoids, toe nail fungus or the sordid details of last nights’ conquests.  TMI, people!  I’m trying to eat in peace and converse here!

Moreover, Mr. Webster and a few others spent a great many years compiling a dictionary that has come to be the literary bible for most of us.  Underpaid and overworked teachers dedicate their lives to teaching our children the English language.  Yet, in the comparatively short time since texting has become the preferred source of communication, the English language has been reduced to a lingo, unintelligible to most of us over forty, that would have Mr. Webster rolling over in his grave.  I shudder at the thought of the literary masterpieces that will come from the current texting generation.

I love the written word.  I am a voracious reader and, according to some, a hack writer (to them I say, DILLIGAS).  I spend a great deal of time writing and looking for just the right word to make my point.  I put great stock in words and, admittedly, though probably wrongly, sometimes measure people by the way they communicate; both verbally and in print.   If I’m going to tell someone that I love them in a text, it certainly won’t be with ILY.  Love is not a word that should be taken lightly.  To abbreviate it just takes all the zing out of it.  If I’m going to take the time to thank someone for something they’ve done for me, THX just doesn’t express that sentiment sufficiently; IMHO.

Most work places have a break area with an insufficient number of uncomfortable tables to, in “the Man’s” warped way of thinking, insure that the masses keep their breaks to a minimum.  As such, at peak break times, it is often necessary to share a table with others.  More often than not, that table is probably inhabited by others carrying on a face-to-face conversation, yet more and more people find it acceptable to sit at that table while talking on their cell phone, thoroughly disrupting an ongoing conversation, and share, on occasion, details of their personal lives that no one else should ever hear or care to hear.  And, more often than not, they’re talking on their phone while shoveling food into their mouths; totally oblivious to the others sitting inches from them.  Whatever happened to not talking with your mouth full?  How about my mom’s favorite: Don’t interrupt people while they’re talking, young man!”  I know; I’m ancient and from a land and time where manners were of prime importance and considered the norm instead of the exception.

Even more disturbing; how many times have you walked into a public restroom and heard voices wafting over the top of the stalls?  There’s nothing more unsettling than to hear something like, Of course I love you *grunt* baby doll!  There’s no other*pffffffffttttttt* woman in the world *splash* for me!  How romantic!  A profession of love from a petri dish of fermenting filth.  Frankly, I’m one of those who has worked diligently at training my bowels to function only at home so as to avoid the disgusting experience of having to even sit on a public toilet.  In keeping with my geek persona, I even keep a tub of Lysol wipes in my backpack, right next to my collapsible umbrella, “just in case.”  The thought of sitting on one of those fungus colonies while holding my cell phone in my hand, probably the same hand that will soon be used to do the paper work, and then return that phone to my mouth and ear shortly thereafter, is revolting.  Just the smell of a public restroom should be sufficient to deter anyone with any sense from even pulling a cell phone out of its’ case for fear of untold, and as yet unidentified, germs jumping on it and later causing them to grow a third eye.  I’m ugly enough.

Ladies, you have my deepest sympathies over your disqualification from the stand and deliver method of elimination.  That, however, is an entirely different blog.

That third eye takes on even scarier connotations when you factor in the radiation you’re absorbing into your brain while you mindlessly blather into your phone.  They have actually categorized said radiation now and have named the phenomenon SAR, (Specific Absorption Rate), measured specifically from the brand of phone you use.  It must be something worth considering if they gave it an acronym all its’ own.

I’ve been secretly doing my own scientific research, observing those who constantly have a cell phone glued to their ear to see if I notice any ill effects from SAR.  So far, my research is proving fruitful.  Those who are constantly on their phones are usually observed walking around in a daze with that glassy eyed look I used to see in my days as a medic on the campus of Happy Acres (my alias for an insane asylum for those of you who are new to my warped sense of humor).  A great many of them are also crotch scratchers and nose pickers.  The more dedicated cell phone addicts have even developed a facial tic.  None of them realize that whatever their spouse or significant other is doing at that very moment can wait til they get home!  As a father, you can trust me when I tell you that  lil Mortimer is certain to make another stinky on the potty.  It’s nature.  You’ll see it in all its’ technicolor glory soon enough.  Get a life!  Converse with real people.   I’m going to publish my scientific findings soon so I can’t divulge anything further for fear of plagiarism.  I’m sure MAD Magazine is chomping at the bit to publish my thesis and a great many unsavory hack colleagues would love to beat me to the punch.  If you fit the aforementioned description of a cell phone addict, please get help before it’s too late.

A very good friend of mine, a computer geek of the highest esteem, was one of the first people, back in the day, to own a blue tooth.  Imagine my surprise, having never seen one, when I walked outside to the break area one night to see him storming up and down the sidewalk screaming at, I thought, himself.  Being a member of the medical team, I reached for my radio to call out the rest of the team to help subdue poor “Myron” and get him neatly packaged and properly restrained in the back of an ambulance and off to Happy Acres.  I knew “Myron” and his wife were having some extreme marital difficulties and I just assumed he’d finally snapped.  I do have to credit him for having the deportment to have his breakdown outside and out of hearing range of everyone else, though.  Imagine my chagrin when the team showed up and found “Myron” wearing his blue tooth.  Maybe my phone has an extremely high SAR and my short, infrequent use of it emitted enough radiation to  cause me irreversible brain damage?  Most who know me would probably just shake their heads knowingly in the affirmative.

So, in the relatively short time that cell phones have been around, we’ve managed to cause Emily Post and Noah Webster to roll over in their graves and untold millions to say WTF?  That’s quite an accomplishment for one little piece of electronic gadgetry.

Cell phones are wonderful devices.  However, in the wrong hands, they are a public nuisance.  Don’t be a nuisance.  Be considerate of the people around you.  Walk off someplace private to have your conversations and allow the rest of us not interested in lil Mortimer’s bowel habits to converse in peace.  After you’ve disconnected, get a life!  That person sitting next to you might just have something interesting to say.  In these days where everyone thinks the internet is the real world, the art of conversation has all but died.  Whatever happened to visiting?  Enjoying the company of  people in their flesh and blood persona and not as an avatar?  Shut the damn thing off for a while and smell the air.  There’s a wonderful world out there, full of beauty and knowledge.  Grab your piece of it before it’s too late.  Remember, if your cell phone is turned on, Big Brother knows where you are…………..GPS can be used for good and evil.

I have to give credit and thanks my beautiful daughter, Shelby, for her input on this blog.  She’s got her daddy’s heart wrapped around her fingers and always has.  The lil darlin is the texting queen: a true master of the lingo.  With the exception of the idioms and acronyms I see on Facebook, I am ignorant to most of the latest lingo…….and I intend to stay that way.  I don’t understand half of my daughter’s texts.  She usually throws in enough of The King’s English to allow me to follow the gist of her conversation, but the rest is all Greek to me.  I texted her to get a list of the latest abominations to disperse throughout this rant so as not to preclude any of the cell phone generation from the point I’m trying to make.  I’m a firm supporter of proper English and I support literacy for all: literacy meaning reading and writing in proper English!  Drop the phone and read a book.  I hear that up-and-coming, stupendous author, Brian Greenleaf, has written a few doozies!   Check them out here.  I know.  That was a tasteless and tacky promotion.  ROTFLMAO!

Until next week, dear friends, unplug once in a while.  Snuggle up with the one you love and reaffirm your position in reality.  Most importantly, be considerate of others.  Walk away to have your phone conversations and keep them brief so you can get back to the conversation at the table and maybe learn something or even make a new friend.  Life’s too short.  Live it for all you’re worth.

B4N,

Brian

©Brian Greenleaf 2012.  All rights reserved.

Gun Control Is Not the Answer!

Hello, my friends.  Welcome back.  I’m damn glad to have you here.  I’ve got something to say.

Let me start with an apology.  I made a promise to myself when I started writing this blog that I’d keep it light and humorous.  The news reports these days are always so full of gloom and doom that I had hoped to be an outlet for laughter and a little food for thought.  There are enough political blogs out there with a never ending range of viewpoints.  I don’t want this blog to become one of those, but I feel so strongly about this week’s subject that I’m compelled to say what I’m about to say.

The never ending, rhetorical chant from our elected officials and liberal news media to make villains out of gun owners with their misguided, ad nauseam, plea to the masses from their bully pulpit about America’s need to render the victims (those being the honest, hard working legal gun owners) unarmed and at the mercy of the animals who, of late, seem to be coming out of the wood work has finally plucked my last nerve.

Let me first say that my heart goes out to the victims and loved ones of the Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting.  What happened there is so tragic and senseless that no words of sympathy or comfort could ever console the victims and grieving families of this senseless tragedy.  I pray that your friends, loved ones, your memories and your faith help you cope with your sorrow in your time of bereavement.  This despicable,  premeditated act was committed by a deranged coward who should die a very slow and painful death in the public square.

Unfortunately, immediately following the movie theater tragedy, and after just about any other major crime involving firearms, the liberal news media and our clueless elected officials were again ablaze with their patented war cry: “Gun Control!”

The matter of gun control hits very close to home for me.  This is not a story I like to dwell on; one I would love to be able to forget, but I will tell it to show my credentials for making the point I’m trying to make in this post.

For those of you who don’t know me, I was the victim of an armed home invasion two years ago that, to this day, still haunts me to my very core.  During this nightmare, I was shot three times.  I no longer feel that warm-fuzzy that the warmth and safety of being “home” brings to most people.  Every strange sound I hear in the night sends ripples of fear throughout my mind and body as I’m reaching for my gun.  On those rare occasions when I don’t have the horrors of that night on my mind, I have two lead slugs in my right hip to remind me of what happened in my own kitchen two years ago.

Two weeks prior to this incident, I was away for the weekend and came home Sunday evening, in the pouring rain, to see my shed door swinging in the breeze and one of the front windows broken out.  After closer inspection, I found that the tools I had stored out there were gone and the inside of the shed was in shambles.   My cornice flood lights on the corners of my house had been extinguished when the perps killed the main breaker to my house so they could take their time in the dark back yard without fear of being seen by the neighbors.  They weren’t even kind enough to turn the power back on after their cowardly act so, over the weekend, without power to the house, all the food in my freezer thawed and everything in the refrigerator was useless.  The police made a cursory investigation, tsk tsk’ed a few times and told me about the terrible times we were living in as they took the report that, I knew, would never be investigated.

I work a weird shift and usually get home at around three-thirty in the morning.  I got in that fateful morning, two weeks after the shed robbery, went through my usual routine; a glass of tea and a quick perusal of my email and Facebook page to wind down, and went to bed to watch some mindless TV before I went to sleep.

Just as I was drifting off, the TV and the lights went out.  I initially suspected a power outage, common to this area on rainy winter nights, until I looked out the window and saw the street lights on.  Suspecting the worst, I grabbed my gun and a candle (my flashlight batteries had died) and went outside in the freezing rain to reset the breaker.  When I went around the back of the house to reset the breaker, a cranked up neighbor slid in the back door to hide and wait for me.  This was someone who lived right across the street from me and who knew my schedule, knew when I was home or away and knew that he had ample time to do his dastardly deed while I was at work.  He wanted to break in while I was home!

I came back in, locked the door and stepped up into my kitchen, only to be met by a masked, gloved maniac awaiting me with a gun pointed inches from my head, screaming at me to get down on the floor.  A gun which we later found out was borrowed from someone else of questionable credentials for the soul purpose of insuring that it couldn’t be traced.

It’s amazing how the mind and the bladder work together, believe me, but I knew in an instant that if I went down on the floor, I wouldn’t be getting back up.  Running entirely on my most primal fight or flight instincts, and not the machismo that most  who profess the bravery they’d exhibit in a similar situation say they would show,  I jumped back behind my refrigerator and started shooting blind from around the corner.  A lot of that night is still fuzzy, but sometime amid the ear-splitting booms and the thick blanket of acrid cordite smoke that permeated the small kitchen, I took three in the gluteus and, as I later learned, so did he.  I made a dash for the back door while he bolted for the front.

Fortunately, he didn’t have time to take anything but my sense of peace and tranquility.  He did, however, leave, to date, two years of nightmares and two of the three bullets still in my right butt cheek…….and an almost new pair of jeans that are probably still in the evidence room at the police station.

One day I’ll be able to write this story with a humorous twist and throw in all the unspeakable acts of debauchery performed on me, both by the police and the staff at the hospital, with the comedic slant that they now so deserve but, to date, I haven’t been able to muster that amount of mental healing.  I fight daily to clear it from my mind and stop being a victim, but I have been unable to, as yet, fully achieve that.  It will come, I’m sure.  If nothing else, I’m an optimist.  One thing is for certain; I wouldn’t wish that feeling of helplessness on my worst enemy.  However, thanks to my gun, I lived to tell this tale of woe.

The point of that story is this:  Had I been unarmed that night, and left to the devices of a crank infused, mentally unstable, would-be thief/potential murderer, I probably wouldn’t be here to write this blog today.

My guns are registered and I carry a  legal concealed weapons permit.  I went through all the requisite steps to legally carry a gun.  How many of the perpetrators of these heinous crimes do you think have done that?  As a matter of fact, current laws would prevent most of them from legally possessing a firearm at all.

According to Wiki, it is estimated that between forty-three and fifty-five million households in the United States own at least one gun.  That’s a liberal estimate because those are the guns owned by people who went through the necessary steps and bought their guns legally.  These “ordinary people” have proven to the extent required by existing, satisfactory law that they aren’t felons, don’t have a history of mental illness and all the other mandated criteria the federal and local government requires of those who legally own guns.

Of those approximately fifty-five million legal guns, only one percent of the crimes committed in the United States with a gun were committed by those fifty-five million legal gun owners.  One percent!  I’d have to conclude from those statistics that it’s fair to say that the legal gun owners who follow the rules aren’t the people we need to fear or place further restrictions on.

I could mention the extremist’s view and say that if law enforcement were doing their jobs, we wouldn’t need to be armed.  The more rational among you all know what a foolish statement that is.  Police departments everywhere are all woefully understaffed and under funded.  Police men and women are underpaid and over worked.  Given the alarming crime rate, due in part to our plunging economy and the amount of drugs available on every street in every city in the country, the police are basically outnumbered and doing their best to put out the small fires while the raging inferno continues to blaze hotter by the hour.

I read constantly.  I’m a bit of a news-a-haulic and spend a great deal of time sifting through the news on the internet to weed out the hogwash and pick the gems out for future reference in my ever growing font of useless information.  Like it or not, a lot of the tidbits I picked up along the way hit really close to home.

I learned that before the Nazi’s took over control of Germany, the preceding Weimar Republic put into place gun laws that were later reinforced by the Nazis which,  in 1938,  effectively disarmed the citizenry.  From 1939-1945, over 13 million Jews and others, unable to defend themselves, were sent to their deaths.

In 1929, the government of Russia imposed gun control.  From 1929-1953, approximately 20 million dissidents, unable to defend themselves, were rounded up and exterminated.

During WWII, one of the key reasons the Japanese never invaded US soil was because they knew that a great many Americans were armed.

These are but a few of the many things I’ve picked up in my reading.  The list is endless but this is a blog, not a book, so I’ve whittled the list down a bit.  The point is that if you take the guns away from the law abiding citizens, only the criminals will have guns.  It’s so blatantly obvious that the question of gun control should never even be broached in intelligent company……which explains why the politicos keep waving the gun control flag.

More to the point, the Constitution of the United States was written for a reason.  It has, in effect, ruled the land and brought this country from the revolution to the strong, free, wonderful country that we have enjoyed for over 200 years.  It is the very foundation that our culture was built on.  The 2nd Amendment is a part of that constitution.  Thomas Jefferson said it best when he said, The greatest danger to American freedom is a government that ignores the Constitution.  If we start changing the very basic principles of our country to satisfy the whims of a few, as we seem to be doing with the current trendy fad of political correctness, (another blog) we’ll have anarchy.  Does that sound extreme?  Possibly, but it is something I believe deeply and, considering that this is my blog, and because I’m an American with the right of free speech, also thanks to the First Amendment of the Constitution, I can express my views as I like without fear of reprisal; other that that which I’m sure I’ll get from those who disagree with what I’ve had to say here.  Feel free to comment below.  While it is my right to voice my opinion, it is your right to disagree.  Welcome to America.  She may have a few chinks in her armor, but she’s still the greatest country in the world…….and we speak American English here.  If you would care to view this blog in Spanish, push the escape key numerous times and, please, let me know how that works for you………..reply in English, please.

Agree with me?  Disagree with me?  Agree to disagree with me?  Just keep this in mind:  According to the New York Times, police response times to priority 9-1-1 calls has increased to an average 8 minutes, 25 seconds in metropolitan areas.  Even longer in rural areas.  In that amount of time, you and/or one of your loved ones could possibly be murdered or assaulted, your home cleaned out and the scum who committed the crime well on their way to the pawn shop where everything you’ve worked and slaved for will be sold for drug money.  While owning a gun, and knowing how to handle it properly, may not save your life, it will certainly level the playing field somewhat and possibly save your life or the life of someone you love.

Responsible and legal gun ownership is our constitutional right and, to coin an old phrase, the only way they’ll get my gun is to pry it out of my cold, dead hand.

Until next week, I wish you peace, love and every happiness.
Brian

©Brian Greenleaf 2012.  All rights reserved.

My latest book, Born Bent Over: Flashing the Vertical Smile at Middle Age, is now available as an ebook as well as in paperback and hardbound editions.  Order your copy today.  I promise there are no tangible political opinions in the whole book.  There are, however, laughs galore.

Peruse our politically incorrect website at your leisure.  Read some of my stories and get information on all of my books at www.bgreenleaf.com

Is Facebooking for the Aged?

Hi, remember me?  I know.  I’ve been very naughty.  I should be spanked.  Line up, ladies.  I’ll bring the whips, dark lager and whipped cream.  Party at Brian’s!

Unlike my past blogs, this one isn’t about Nosty’s Nook.  While that project is still ongoing, the hot weather and life in general have put her on the back burner for a little while.  You’ll be hearing much more about Das Nook when the temps get down below 100 degrees.

Since my last blog, both of my children have blessed me, each with a perfect grandson.  Noah Patrick Tolbert, now eight months old, and Hank Daniel Greenleaf, now three days old, have further blessed what has become a very wonderful life.

Facebook has been occupying a great deal of my gray matter lately so I thought I’d jot down a few thoughts on that subject and share some other news.

As of this morning, my latest book, Born Bent Over: Flashing the Vertical Smile at Middle Age, has been granted premium distribution and will be available in ebook, paperback and hardbound formats through all the major book and electronic book distributors within the next few weeks.  To say that’s a milestone for me would be like saying a nuclear explosion in my underwear drawer was a minor disturbance.  I’m so proud.  Danby Mountain Press, my publishing company, (my children are named Daniel and Shelby, hence the name Danby) has been a struggling, scratching entity since 1997.  It’s taken us a very long time, but we’re finally starting to see some light at the end of a very long tunnel.

Anyway, enough about me.  Bring on the blog!

Is Facebooking for the Aged?

“What the hell is a face book?  Did you write that?  It isn’t one of your naughty books, is it?”

Believe it or not, I still hear that from some very intelligent people who refuse to be assimilated into the world of cyber communications.

My very best friend in the world; a man to whom I would give a kidney, and with whom I shared my first cigarette, my first beer and who was also in an adjoining bedroom the night I “became a man,” refuses to have anything whatsoever to do with a computer.  Of course, he’s a mail delivery person so he’s probably fallen into the whole email vs. the postal service conspiracy, but that’s another blog.  He does, however, tell everyone he knows to look me up on Facebook.  Don’t worry, Dude; your position is safe.  I get enough junk mail on a daily basis to keep the post office afloat for many years to come.  If you’re really worried about job security, become a sanitation worker.  I haul bags of the aforementioned junk mail, shredded, of course, to the curb daily.

I became ensconced in the world of Facebook shortly after its inception.  Unlike my aforementioned “brother-from-a-different-mother,” I freely admit to being a computer nerd.  I’ve been playing with computers since the internet was nothing more than a bunch of picture-less billboards and the TRS-80 was giving way to the 8088.

Ok, so I’m old.

My original intent in becoming a FB’er was to get the word out when I published a new book, or to occasionally converse with my minions who will, one day, help me conquer the third world country I will, without question, become the fair and just ruler of.  The gang at Happy Acres is just waiting for my signal to come across the Take-over Hot Line (two tin cans tied together with a very long string).  Thorazine and shock therapy are our friends………..

However, what started out as a platform for my books and stories has become a lifeline of sorts.  On a daily basis, I can keep in touch with friends, new and old, family up north and, most importantly, my two children; both of whom have, within the last eight months, blessed me with two beautiful grandsons.  I have an entire external hard drive dedicated to the pics my daughter and son post daily of my two future camping buddies.  While nothing can compare to holding those two little monkeys in my arms, I’m stuck in the middle class.  Until that semi-hostile take-over (a few at Happy Acres have anger issues….Sue!!) of that third world country, I don’t have access to a private jet and can’t make it down to see my kids and grandkids as often as I’d like.  I’m hoping my retirement will be a healthy (both physically and financially) one, and I’ll be able to haul my camper down there for long stretches of quality time.

Who’d-a-thunk it?  With a few mouse clicks, I’m up to date on all that’s going on with the people I care about:  and all from the comfort of my office chair.

I’ve talked to a few of my colleagues who flat out refuse to become involved in the world of social networking.  Many of them are computer savvy, some can barely check their email.  Their reasoning for avoiding social networking sites varies, but some of the most interesting responses I’ve gotten are from those who profess a fear of becoming addicted.

Wait a second!  Is that a bad thing?  I may as well stand and take the pledge now:  “Hi, I’m Brian, and I’m a FB addict.”   I have a feeling there’ll be a twelve-step program available to those of us with this affliction very soon.  I, however, am not a quitter!  Until some better way of communicating comes along, (or until FB “updates” with that one straw-that-breaks-the-camel’s-back, irritating update, (like Timeline) regardless of how ferociously FB addicts object to it) I’ll be a dedicated FB’er.

FB has helped me rekindle a great many old friendships that, due to the miles and life’s different paths, had been dormant over the years.  I’ve managed to be brought up-to-date on what’s going on in many people’s lives, and have marveled over how many of those who, like myself, were voted most likely to become wards of the state by our graduating class, have managed to become pillars of their community.  Admit it, a whole bunch of us denizens of the “back path” at Taconic have managed to move from the back path to the front office.

One of the amazing things that FB has brought to light in spades is the fact that many of the young and vivacious class of 1978 are now grandparents.  We, the seventeen and eighteen year old graduating class from Taconic High School, who were sprung loose on the world to reap havoc and shake the establishment to its very core, have Preparation H and a whole host of prescription bottles, balms and salves in our medicine cabinets.

Where has the time gone?  If my math is correct, our thirty-five year reunion will be coming up in 2013.  Judging from some of your profile pics, most of you have aged gracefully.  Some of you, even amazingly, *wink*  My profile pic is fair warning to you all not to call animal control when I walk in the door.  I am not an animal!  Unlike most of you, time has not been very good to me.  As a matter of fact, if I’d been born with an identical twin sister, my profile pic would be her; cigar and all.  Just add about 200 pounds.

To answer my original question, I don’t know whether FB is for the aged or not.  We’re not old.  It took a long time, but I honestly believe that you truly are as old as you feel.  That being the case, I’m still that seventeen-year-old who had to wrench his diploma out of Mr. Diamond’s hand back on that hot June day in 1978 and run from the platform before he had a chance to snatch it back.  I am the grandfather of two perfect little boys.  The honor of the title of grandfather is not an indicator of age.  It’s a blessing from God.  There may be some prescription bottles and Preparation H in my medicine cabinet, but that seventeen year old is still at the helm.  Never let a number rule your life.  Keep grabbing for that brass ring and never succumb to black socks and orthopedic sandals.  The grim reaper can’t catch you when you run in Nikes.

In closing, I’d like to thank my 180 FB friends for the many laughs and for sharing your lives with me.  I have always shot for quality, not quantity, in my friend’s list and can honestly say that, with the exception of a few businesses and organizations I enjoy hearing about, the wonderful people on my friend’s list are all truly people I know or have met through other friends and whom I consider an honor to call my friend.

Until next month, I wish you peace, love and every happiness.

Brian

Thanks to my wonderful sister, Michelle, my website, bgreenleaf.com has been totally revamped.  The short stories page is still in the development stages, but will be available soon with new stories from the depths of my warped and demented mind.

Stay tuned to this station for forthcoming podcasts featuring none other than yours truly!  We’re in the development stages and are currently putting together a studio here at Happy Acres.  If nothing else, they’re sure to be interesting.  More on that as the project progresses.  As if I haven’t pissed off enough government agencies; now we’re going to poke the FCC tiger.  *rubbing hands together while flashing an evil grin*  Life is grand!