morning thought

11:50 at night doesn't really qualify as "morning," but when the ever elusive thought comes, I can't be too picky.

There's a saying that people start to look alike after they are married for a while. I was just thinking how much more efficient hill billies are. Marrying a first cousin cuts like twenty years out of the process.

hot commodity

My ex sister-in-law is what one can refer to as a F.O.B (fresh of the boat). She is like the a Clampett in Beverly (Hills that is).

Anyhow, Long, my little nephew's first day of fifth grade was a very traumatic day for the Trinh family.

"He's better off in Vietnam, he needs to be with his dad," my father told me.

Dad can be a bit dramatic in traumatic times. Me, I'd start small. New school. If that doesn't work, maybe another school system. Then work my way up to another city. A neighboring state after that. Then something within the same continent.

"What happened?"

"The principal sent Long home with a letter."

Minh Clampette took Long to school that morning. Because it was the first day, there was a meet the parents, check out the classroom, get to know the place kind of thing. Minh noticed this plump kid named Austin.

SIDENOTE: "Plump" kids are rare commodity in Vietnam, so the ones that are around get a lot of play.

Anyhow, Minh chased Austin around squeezing his cheeks and saying inappropriate things like, "You're so cute, so fat, so cute."

And Austin was running away screaming,

"Leave me alone!"

And Long was chasing his mom who was chasing Austin yelling,

"Mama Clampette, leave him alone!"

SIDENOTE: The last time I checked, Austin's therapist said he was progressing just fine.

So after work I went to my parents house. I wanted to check on Long, inspect the note and make the necessary travel accomodations for the kid.

"Long, let me see that letter."

The kid didn't move. So I figured he didn't hear me or was still in some sort of shock from the whole experience.

"Long, did you hear me, I want to see that letter."

Still nothing. His lack of attentiveness irritated me.

"Zimbabwe, somewhere remote, without electricity or running water, that'll teach you to ignore me," I thought.

But, before I have the kid deported, I decided to give him another chance.

"BLT (Bao Long Trinh), I said get me that paper," this time with a little more volume which could be misinterpreted by the next door neighbor as screaming.

The kid walked over, ever so slowly, bends down and said,

"There is no note."

A long pause on my part.

"What?" I mumbled.

"She embarrassed me auntie, I made the note part up."

An even longer pause.

"You made it up?'

He nods.

"Oh my god LT, that's brilliant."

He flashed me a smile. I guess he thought I'd be mad, but I am an rabid fan of all evil plans.

SIDENOTE: My therapist said I was progressing just fine.

"Okay LT, I have to get some stuff done for my catering, but I will be back to help you with the note."

LT didn't wait for me. When I came back from doing my errands, I was presented with this official document from a big Judge Judy fan.

Long explained to his mom that "Mr. Huff, the principal" said that if she signed the paper and said she is sorry and promised not to to mess with any other hot commodities, then she didn't have to report to his office Monday. Notice the signature and the words, "I'm sorry."

Welcome to Beverly (Hills that is) Mama Clampett.

new strategy

The premise behind "morning thought" came from my friend Ed.

"Write just one thought a day Han, just one thought."

Easy enough! Gotta love Ed, he never gives me more than I can handle.

THEN...

I looked at my blog and realized I haven't had a thought since Thursday. Four days nothing!

Time for a new plan, or a different friend?

morning thought

Why are old women viewed as "sweet" and "adorable" by everyone except the daughter(s) that they gave birth to?

My mother is a pill and not in the medicinal benefits sense of the word. She is more the side effect...the increase in blood pressure, dizziness, upset stomach and bouts with depression.

Please consult your physician before approaching mom.

remember when

I get all my stories second hand. I prefer it this way. None of the uncomfortable emotional baggage that comes from talking to the actual person it happened to. Anyhow, this story I'm about to relay to you is from my personal observations and fourth and fifth person accounts.

Remember When was a store on Niles Blvd for over twenty years. Before I came into the picture, it sold antiques. After I came into the picture, it sold beanie babies, hot dogs, ice cream, drinks and snacks. The proprietors were Sue and John.

I've been inside the place about thirty to forty times in the past six years. Sometimes by my own choosing. Sometimes by Sue's urging. I wouldn't say we were friends. I'd call us acquaintances.

A few observations about Sue:

1. She gave away too many freebies.

2. She has rubber band timing. Her store hours were perimeters. Actual hours vary.

3. She likes to talk.

A few observations about John:

1. Grumpy-once he told me he'd "rather be dead" when i asked him how he was doing.

2. Grumpy and mean-especially to his wife from several of my third and fourth sources.

3. He works for NASA in some capacity. It's not an observation, but the fact that he has a full time job is important to note here.

For as long as I've been in Niles, the consensus was that John was a jerk. He was unhappy to be at the shop. Unhappy to help her out.

About a month after the store was closed I found out that John had taken a second mortgage out on their house to pay for the shop. In all twenty years, the shop never made a dime. For twenty years John helped Sue out at the shop after work. For twenty years he was there almost every weekend.

"I could have retired five years ago if I didn't have to keep paying for the shop," John told a friend of mine.

The shop was Sue's life. You didn't need a first, second, fourth or tenth person account to see that. And underneath the grumpiness and meanness, Sue is John's life. I guess I just needed to chop down all the people standing in the way to find the truth behind this story.

karma

My number of bait used to actual fish caught ratio is pathetic. The bait shop at the Skyway Pier where I fish sells a dozen greenbacks (bait fish) for around three dollars. If I were to buy bait at that price, each fish I catch would cost me a thousand dollars and unquantifiable aggravation.

Not to jeopardize my retirement funds anymore, I decided to shell out two hundred dollars for a net. With each cast, I can catch ten to a few hundred greenbacks. The dollar per fish goes down exponentially with this method, but really does nothing with the unquantifiable aggravation factor.

****

The guy that's been fishing ten feet from me for the past two hours shouts, "Hey, are those greenbacks?" He hasn't said so much as a hello to me the past two hours, but I knew our paths would cross the moment my net drops.

He hurries over to my spot as I'm emptying my bait into my cooler.

"You got greenbacks?" he inquires again.

"Yeah, some."

"Hey, can I buy some from you? My buddy and I are running low. We just can't seem to keep them alive."

He stores his greenbacks in a bait well with no aerators. I had noticed this when I first arrived. Even with aerators, his fish won't live for more than a few hours, so it came as no surprise that his bait are all dead. I wonder what the guy's bait to fish caught ratio is.

"You can have some on my next drop."

My first cast yielded me about seventy small greenbacks with a few big ones mixed in. I'm here for another five hours, and unlike other fishermen, I don't bother to keep my bait alive. I ice it to avoid the body from disintegrating.

"You sure, you want a coke or a bottled water or something, we have lots of drinks."

"No thanks, I'm good," I tell him.

I came up with a better yield on the second drop, about a hundred sixty small greenbacks and ten nice large ones. By the way, I don't have Rainman like math skills in anything other than fishing. And for those (and when I say those, I mean my whole two followers), it could have been thirty fish total, but you know this is a fishing story so I'm trying to keep with the theme.

"Help yourself."

"This guy better not take all the big ones," I am thinking as I'm putting away my net.

"Your pole fell over," his friend coolly mutters.

The guy runs back to his spot. I look inside my cooler to find all the nice sized bait gone.

"What a dick," I mumble.

"That was my brand new pole!" the man who took all my large greenbacks and left me with nothing but small ones shouts at his friend.

While he was picking through my cooler, a fish took his bait, dragged his pole over the pier and into the Gulf of Mexico. And for the next thirty minutes, the man couldn't say anything other than

"Mother f---king big fish. That was one mother f---king big fish."

And ten feet from him, someone flashes a "Mother f---king karma" smile.