BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

This blog is really about nothing. This is not to say that any of my previous blogs have been about something, however, this particular running off at the keys is pretty much about more nothing than any of the previous nothings… Or somethings… Or nothi-somethings… Well, you get the idea.

As the title suggests, it is about the ever important PB&J. Yes. The iconic peanut butter and jelly sammich.

Now, as sammiches go, the PB&J is just about the closest you can get to the land of childhood comfort foods. At least, for my generation it is.

You see, while we tail-end baby boomers (Yeah, I was born in the last year of what qualifies as the baby-boomer generation) never dealt with anything quite like the depression, we DID see a horrendous recession. We remember only being able to buy gas on Sundays. We remember hamburger being a luxury, and steak a far out dream affordable only to the elite… And, yeah, we even remember when the expression “Far Out” was cool… Along with other hallmarks of the era such as “cool”, “keep on truckin'”, and “lid” (not that I was ever…ahem…intimately associated with what a “lid” actually was… ummm… ahem… that’s my story and I’m sticking to it…) Of course, there I go digressing again…

My point is, back then, money was tight. When the company for which my father worked at the time went on an extended strike (read several months) money got even tighter. Dad was against the strike, but he walked the line for strike pay, and picked up other work where he could so that food stayed on the table and bills got paid. Mom worked too. It was the beginning of a different era – two parents, both with jobs. Life was changing drastically.

So, with money tight – and at times non-existent – even the truly wonderful childhood memory of the fried bologna sammich was relegated to specific occasions. Yes, SPAM/Treet, and fried bologna were more often than not a staple on the supper table. Don’t get me wrong. Mom and Dad made sure we ate, and ate as healthy as we possibly could. We kept a garden and had fresh vegetables. But, it wasn’t at all unusual for the aforementioned processed animal parts to be the center of our entree on the supper table. And, to set the record straight, let’s remember that I happen to like SPAM/Treet and Bologna, so I wasn’t complaining. Still, I also like turkey, steak, fish, etc…

But, back to the PB&J. That particular sammich became the common lunch. Not just because it was something kids would gladly eat – well, most kids anyway – but because it was cheap and relatively nourishing. You could get a large jar of Peanut Butter (actually a legume, not a nut, for those keeping score), a loaf of bread, and jar of jelly for next to nothing. Even better for us was the fact that we had fruit trees and grape vines in our back yard, so Mom made jelly and put it up, further reducing the overall cost.

There you had it – Cheap, full of protein, and even a handful of vitamins. Yes, a dab of sugar too, but hey, we were kids…

So…why all this sudden nostalgia? Simple. I just had myself a PB&J while standing over the sink and thinking about where my current manuscript is heading plotwise. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad are both gone, and I have no homemade jelly or preserves, but I made do with the storebought kind.

Of course, being an old guy who tries to be health conscious, the jelly was low sugar and the bread was whole grain instead of the “too soft” white bread with a bunny on the package that had been the staple in my youth… But, it still had the same effect, and it transported me back to my childhood.

As I stood there eating it, however, one other thing came to mind… The fact that our economy is crashing like a 1 year old who is just learning to walk, and now in my late forties I am witnessing the same things I saw when I was in my single and early double digits. Maybe even worse…

Up to, and including a PB&J for lunch…

I guess my daughter will get to tell this same story years from now… For my money, that’s a damn shame.

More to come…

Murv

Okay, so I have this piece of rental property. I could go into this long diatribe about the problems I am having with said property, etc, but that is a whole ‘nother story, and one that doesn’t truly bear exploring in a public arena. Suffice it to say, the property is going to be vacant for a while due to a need for rehabbing that shouldn’t have been needed in the first place… But, I don’t want to digress.

Anyhow, since the property will be semi-vacant – there will still be contractors in and out of it all the time, just no one actually living there for a bit – I went ahead and had a security system installed. Mainly, this is to protect the property against vandalism, but it will also be something that will reduce insurance costs for both future rental tennants and me. So, when you consider the fact that I got a great deal on the system since I was already having the one in my own home upgraded to begin with, and it is going to save me money in the long run, it becomes a win-win situation.

But, on with the “Bad Murv” portion of the tale.

Yesterday, the installer was on-site to put in the system. Of course, I had to be there to let him in, tell him where I wanted motion sensors placed, sign off on the job, etc. So, rather than let him in then run off, I hung out since the installation wasn’t going to be an all day process. Anyhow, while the young man was working he was chatting with me and asked what I do for a living. Well, of course, I told him I write books.

He asked the typical followup question, which was, “What kind of books?”

I gave my standard reply, “Mystery suspense novels about serial killers and that sort of thing.”

Then he asked me if , “I liked it.”

Well, this is where “Bad Murv” happens. Obviously he was referring to the occupation of being an author, but since I had mentioned serial killers I couldn’t pass it up…

Without missing a beat I replied, “Yeah, it’s okay. I used to like it more, but the last time I killed someone I almost got caught.”

The poor guy froze, the power drill in his hand stopped, and he just stared at me wide-eyed as the color in his face seemed to be fading right before my eyes.

After a short pause I laughed, told him I was just kidding, and that I only write about serial killers, I’m not actually one myself. Fortunately, he caught on to the joke and all was good.

Of course, I couldn’t stop there… When I had to get on the phone to answer the verification questions with the monitoring service the young lady told me that it could take up to 4 hours before the monitoring on the new installation was live. After that she asked me if I had any questions.

Being the ka-ka disturber I am, I replied, “Yes, if someone breaks in and wants to kill me within the next four hours is it okay if I just go ahead and kill them back?”

Fortunately, she got the joke right away. The poor girl laughed so hard I thought she was going to pass out.

More to come…

Murv