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Published Story, Paris and Other Thoughts

Rick Copper — Mon, 14 May 2012 15:07:07 +0000

Blogging isn’t a part of my daily life. Unemployment? Sure. But fiction writing and creating job proposals consume my day as much as Conscious Cup coffee comforts my stomach and coats my arteries with happiness.

However, time has come for a blog solid as skin on refrigerated week-old jello pudding.

My mind is in Paris at the Hotel Saint Christophe in the Latin Quarter. cozy. I know.My body will be as of this Friday. For a whopping nine days I will be wandering rues et arindossments of Paris, five of those days spending quality time with Wendy Rohm at her writer’s workshop. Yes, it will be awesome. Yes, I cannot wait. However, much as my right hemisphere fervently desires to take over this entire week, I must force my left to re-route this floating floatilla of right and do some organization.

Groceries to keep Daniel Agee, Heather Hirsch and Kate in food so they can be sated with nutrition. Kate is old enough to handle it herself, but Heather’s guidance will be a blessing. Sam will be with his mother, he takes care of his own person on a daily basis as it is. For those who think this may be a good time to rob the place, no. Daniel shows no mercy, Heather is lethal with a field hockey stick and Honey is a frothing man-eating Labrador capable of drowning any would-be robber with slobbery licks. don't allow their innocence to fool you.Kate’s dog, Calypso, kills be merely breathing on anyone. Dachshunds do not have glorious breath.

Kittens do. Kittens, soft balls of fun, can cure any person of grumpy gills. A kitten is what I wrote about in my most recently published story. Attachment is here… and here. It may take you to the Monday Morning memo home page. Keep clicking on main photos/images. You’ll get to it eventually.

Paris. City of Light. Been told by a few this will be cathartic. Certainly plan on it.

Why Levon Helm's death hit me harder than Dick Clark's

Rick Copper — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 20:50:11 +0000

Simply put, Levon Helm meant more to me than Dick Clark

This isn’t a rant about anything negative regarding Dick Clark other than the often-disabling effect of his own personality. He certainly did some good. He ushered in fledgling musical acts, opening doors to the mass public on American Bandstand. He took over New Year’s Eve from Guy Lombardo, becoming a New Year’s Eve fixture with the sometimes aply-titled "New Year's Rockin' Eve."

My issue? He became a caricature of himself, opening up a place in Branson; battling those in court who desired to say “soundtrack of our lives’ without his permission; insisting on continuing his New Year’s Eve countdown when it was clear he shouldn’t; his loathing of the numbers 13 and 11. OK. My last comment was harsh. Still don’t take it back. He suffered from narcissism and hubris, making his persona more important than what was necessary.

Quite the opposite of Levon Helm.

To me, The Band's drummer, multi-instrumentalist and sometimes singer left an indelible impression far deeper in music than Dick Clark. Helms’ impression rolls like a soft, undulating kettle moraine as opposed to a rock (pun not intended) suddenly exposed in a dirt road forcing you to pay attention to it or lose your axle.

Levon Helm oozed purity. Love for music showed through his sound, not through his ego. I love to think of some of the songs he helmed (pun TOTALLY intended): The Weight; Cripple Creek; The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, all songs which, to me, bring a smile with every listen.

Helms' barn concerts up at his farm in upstate New York close to Woodstock were legendary. His last tour not only felt like a farewell tour, it became one. A silent, subdued farewell brought on by his knowledge of his inevitable death performed through the love of music, not the love of self. If Dick Clark had known he was going to die, had cancer rather than a heart attack, I’m sure he would have had some sort of bombastic tour in his honor.

Dick Clark, for all the good he did, became vapid. Levon Helm, up until the day he died, still had substance.

April Fool's Post Review and Life Evaluation

Rick Copper — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 14:02:26 +0000

Can't really tell anyone why I called this a "review" of April Fool's Day. Perhaps a review of life in generalm the second half of my title, is more appropriate. This definitely occurred yesterday in the form of an epiphany involving ice skates.

Is there any irony in having an epiphany on April Fool's Day?

Maybe. Maybe. After a completely crapped-out Friday regarding finances and immature stupidity from supposed adults, I had to re-assess. My conclusion of life in general came down to this: The earth will continue to rotate regardless whether I am here or not.

Let it be known this is nowhere near an admission of depression; "giving up" or some sort of suicide note (I'm too damn curious about the future to ever commit suicide). It's just a statement of fact. As such, I believe it is up to me to do whatever the hell I want to do regardless who it impedes.

I write what I write. My fiction is my fiction, no others. If it is liked, loved, loathed, it means nothing to me. These collective or singular decisions of those deciding to read my works cannot, to a large degree, be influenced by me.

My other work, as a marketing consultant with my new company, elfelibre? It also is me being me. Pretending to be someone else is not going to benefit anyone. I'll take this Popeye approach and apply it to how I can help media companies improve their bottom line. And yes, I can help. How? Simple. I'm damn good at it. I can see what happens when I leave ad work to others. Frankly, it's not pretty; strategically, legally or graphically.

I was told I was useless, did nothing and "skated" for the past few years. All I can say is I am still skating. I have my edges sharpened, honed to the point where uneven pond ice cannot deter me from cruising on it. And to the person who informed me of this perceived lack of value? You better strap your skates back on, you're slipping.

If it's yellow…

Rick Copper — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 11:37:55 +0000

If it’s yellow let it mellow.
If it’s brown, flush it down.
flickr. creative commons license.Most of us, especially those of us who grew up in an arid state such as Colorado where water is a precious commodity, lived with this axiom. I’m not convinced it went far enough.
What of other colors?
If it’s grey should it not go away?
If it’s green, flee the scene?
If it’s blue, I feel for you.
If it’s grape, let it escape.
If it’s tan, let it go man.
When chartreuse, something’s loose.
If it’s black? Thin Mint attack.
If it’s white, run with fright.
If it’s orange, wow.
If it’s pink, into the drink.
If it’s red, most likely dead.

Petco Loses a Customer over $5

Rick Copper — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 13:25:28 +0000

Oh Petco, you lost a customer over five dollars. Five American dollars.

Been a customer of Petco’s since Honey (see totally adorable photo) was a tiny pup, so a little more than five years. Most times I’ll go there for toys, rawhide chews, leashes etcetera. They have a great selection and I can always find what I need. Never have had any need for Honey and Katecustomer service as the store is pretty much self-serve.

Until now.

What I needed was merely decent customer service, talk to a manager who would realize holding back five dollars from a loyal customer isn’t exactly a wise decision. Hell, there’s a PetSmart right down the street.

Allow me to repeat this – Decent. Customer. Service.

Nothing unreasonable really. I had built up a lot of “Petco Points” simply by going to this store in the beginning of December to buy $300 worth of dog and cat food, clippers, shampoos, etc to donate to the Huntley, Illinois Animal Shelter - Animal House Shelter. It’s a no-kill shelter and a very worthy cause.

Ergo, I receive in my e-mail three $5 off coupons (yes, do the math 5% off per $100 spent). Naturally, they had a limited time stamp on them. Set to expire in less than three weeks, they contained simple instructions

“print these out and bring them in to get savings on what you need for your pet”

Something akin to that. I don’t have the email anymore.

So I printed them out. Did it in blazing color too. Problem was, the way Petco had set up the coupons, only two of them would print out with their UPC code and corresponding number. Knowing full well this could be an issue, I re-printed. Same thing happened.

Prior to walking into the store, I tell Daniel Agee “watch. they won’t accept the third coupon. I’m going to have a hissy fit, run to the reptile section and set everything free.”

Went to the back. Grabbed a 40-pound bag of Iams Large Breed dog food (the green package - as in color, not eco-green, settle down) hoisted it over my shoulder and went to the cashier’s section. I set the bag down, hand over the coupons and explain the situation to the cashier.

As expected, he said he couldn’t do anything about it. Of course he couldn’t. I was a cashier for a while as a youngster, I knew that. No cashier is going to stick their neck out for an unverifiable five-dollar coupon with the possibility of losing their job for it. I wouldn’t… unless I was already quitting.

However, I would have called the manager. He didn’t, so I had to ask. Manager came over. I explained it to her, she sized up the situation and this is what ensued:

“Nope. Nothing I can do about it.”

“Problem is, when you - your company - requests print-outs, this is what could happen.”

“Do you have the email?”

At this point, I pull out my Sprint-issued Samsung Android smartphone and start searching, slowly searching. My theory is if enough people get behind me in line, I win. Pressure on her, like ocean water on a deep sea diver, will cause her to swim towards the light, so to speak, before suffering from the retail bends. Unfortunately, it was mid-afternoon and not enough customers were in the store for this plan to work.

“looks like I don’t. This system is archaic. If you - your company - would have simply said to bring in the email on your smart phone OR print out the coupons…”

“I can’t do a thing about it without the coupon code.”

“sure there is. look up my history with my Petco cardmember code. Not like I didn’t earn it.”

“Sir, I have to turn all of these coupons in at the end of the day. If there is no verification this is a coupon, we lose the five dollars.”

“it’s five dollars.”

“Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. This will simply be the last time I am in here.”

I paid, got the ten dollars off, and left. I thought about releasing the reptiles, but the ferrets were between me and terrariums. Ferrets are god-awful smelly creatures difficult to catch and yes, it would have been hilarious. However, jail time, as brief as it may have been, was not on yesterday’s agenda. Plus, all the ferrets and reptiles had suffered enough already… and snakes give me the heebie-jeebies.

Buh-bye Petco. Hello, PetSmart.

There's Always a Reason

Rick Copper — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 13:27:27 +0000

It's chaotic, this life. You'll immediately recognize why some things happen; others you won't recognize for a long time what pattern was created, how the jagged edges fit right into your own puzzle.

Case in point. Susan was a beautiful blonde Scandinavian girl (as if her heritage had anything to do with it) whom I knew in college. We worked together. UC-Davis bookstore. She was a year ahead of me.

As her graduation date approached, she had a lot to do. Finals. Finish papers. Finish projects. Finalize her living arrangements, nothing more intensive than most other seniors were going through.

We were upstairs in the bookstore office. I was sitting, going over some sort of data needed to get a marketing job done for the late spring push. flickr. from prayitno. much cooler than 20 years ago.Susan was telling me all about what needed to get done before graduation.

She started spinning.

Her head tilted back, eyes to the ceiling, arms spread out as if an albatross catching a thermal off the Pacific. Spinning faster, she collapsed. Before I could get around the desk to catch her, she had landed on her back on the linoleum floor. To this day I can still hear her head hit.

Blood started pouring out of the back of her head, as if someone had dropped a glass bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's pancake syrup. People started dialing emergency. People left to get a mop. People left period. Kneeling down, I gently put my left hand under her head, my right on her forehead and pressed to quell her blood flow. I held it as someone else knelt down to hold her shoulders. We stayed in this position until paramedics arrived.

Once they got her on the gurney, everyone went back to what they were doing. I stayed on the floor with paper towels trying to soak up and wipe off Susan's dark sticky blood. Someone, Dotty I recall, saw me and knew I was in shock. I was fine, but not ready to reassemble myself for my own reality. I was still in Susan's.

Paramedics said what I did most likely saved her life. I think they said it to make me feel better, but I don't know for sure. I know at the end of work and classes I bought a dozen red roses and went to see Susan at the hospital. She was all bandaged up, but awake. She thanked me for the flowers, her mother thanked me as did her friend Diane.

I saw Susan one more time about a week later right before graduation. She came in to say goodbye, wearing a smart-looking hat like a floppy beret. Neurologists had found nothing, explaining it was stress and some people's brains just handle it differently than others. Synapses out of control. She thanked me again. We hugged. I never saw her after that.

This isn’t meant for a drift into melancholy. Throughout your life, people float in and out. It's as if we have our own personal dandelion. These seeds, a single dandelion's seeds, hundred or so popping off and flying about? Those are your people, connections coming in and out.

Some will be your age, going through identical life patterns and situations. Having babies at the same time, starting careers, moving up corporate ladders, coming back down. Others won't. They'll be older… or younger. But somehow, some way, there will need to remain in your life.

They stick. They stay. Not as if they are stalkers designed to follow your every move. No, they burrow their way into the soil of your soul, finding a place to grow so they become a part of you.

These are the ones who matter. These are the ones who shape you; change you; twist you; turn you toward growth into a better, well-rounded complete person.

Christmas Musica

Rick Copper — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:42:00 +0000

Christmas music certainly puts people in the mood. On occasion, it’s nice to hear the melodies of some sleigh bell patter directing us to good will toward men, softly pat a baby on its head, be nice to the Christmas donkey, feed your local reindeer, etc.

On occasion.

I don’t need to hear it everywhere I go. Whether vocals, no-vocals, Muzak – it’s everywhere, virtually inescapable. Department stores. Grocery stores. Hospitals. Coffee shops. Elevators. Radio stations insisting on running the damn stuff 24/7 for six weeks.

Makes me nauseous.

I like it in selective pieces, when I want it. I am not about getting it forced upon me. This isn’t Cuba damn it, it’s America.

Ergo, it’s not on in my car.

However, I can listen to it every night from 8pm-midnight on WXRT.

It’s rockin’ Christmas. Non-secular tunes Hey, that's not very Christmas-friendly. Yes, I know.designed to make me smile. No listening to The Lord coming down to bless us on this special time of the year when Christ was born even though it was the Romans who designated this time of year as his birth. Ssssssh, please don’t waste your time getting into any argument about this with those blindly ignorant of history – facts are facts. There is a fact Romans decreed this time as allowable to celebrate Christ’s birth. There is no fact about when he was born or the color of his skin.

Whew – threw quite a digression at you there. Back to Christmas music.

My favorite coffee shop, Conscious Cup on Crystal Lake, those crazy nuts who battle against big business, namely the evil empire who cannot be named, play Christmas music from a selection of CDs.

All of them bad. Hate it, but here’s the kicker.

Not. Every. Day.

Today I am listening to a selection of acoustic versions of popular rock songs from various artists. Hell, even Bon Iver is more tolerable than listening to some trashed version of Lennon’s “So this is Christmas.”

It’s nice. No Santa today, no secular or non-secular jing jing jingling.

Thank you, Conscious Cup. Thank you WXRT.

Screw you Menards.

Be Your Best Bob

Rick Copper — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 12:57:29 +0000

Days come when you tend to lose yourself, if only temporary. It’s those times when you think back.

I read a blog the other night, it was poignant. I slammed my keys on it in a day or so ago, hit the previous button above this and you can read it, but for this I’ll focus on where my mind went last night in my sleep.

I thought of Bob.

Wish I could remember his last name, but it doesn’t matter. He was always Bob to me. Bob was my neighbor when I lived in Elmhurst. Bob had lived there for the better part of three decades. I lived there for a decade, four years around Bob.

Bob, if you haven’t guessed, was an older man.

Bob loved my little kids, he loved all little kids.

Bob smiled. A lot.

Bob got cancer – brain cancer. He had an operation. They shaved his head, gave him one hell of a nasty scar. He’d walk around our neighborhood, letting kids touch the scar.

Bob still smiled. A lot.

Bob’s cancer returned, with a vengeance. So he planned. Not for his eminent demise. Not for his funeral.

Bob planned a party.

It was a colossal affair. He rented out a banquet hall. There were members of his family, his friends, Has nothing to do with Bob, but he'd laugh at this, so there.neighbors, about 300 people. We joked as we stood in buffet lines, loading up on antipasto, carved roast beef with horseradish sauce, red jacket rosemary potatoes. You name it, Bob had it there.

Kids ran around, stealing desserts off silver dessert platters, hiding under tablecloths, gobbling up goodies before they were caught. People sat at their tables, introducing or re-introducing each other. For a few hours we laughed.

Bob smiled. A lot.

His son put together a vignette of photos, photos of Bob’s life woven together with music of Bob’s choosing.

Emotional. Enlightening. Funny. Sad. Everything was there.

Bob smiled. A lot.

Bob died soon after. On his face was a smile, as was on all of ours.

Bob lived a life he wanted to live. He lived with honor, distinguishing himself as a leader without ever grabbing the scepter and leading the parade. Wasn’t his style.

Style was his style.

He was human. I’m sure he had his moments of self-doubt, reflections on why it happened to him as he sat in his house or when he was snow-blowing his elderly neighbor’s craggy broken sidewalk. He might have reflected, watching as progress rolled around him. In the midst of teardowns, Bob’s house remained what was – a modest Cape Cod slowly being surrounded by McMansions.

He never showed it. Dignity. Poise. Bravery. There was no single word to encapsulate the wonder of Bob.

So where does this lead? Go ahead and lose yourself, wallow briefly if you must. But over all, be your best Bob.

Redhead Writing

Rick Copper — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 13:44:52 +0000

I’m not going to ride on Redhead’s coattails and pretend my writing skills are to her level. They’re certainly different. She’s, to me, far better at going for the throat with panache than I. Diplomacy as never been a skill I mastered and at this point in my life, I’m not about to dramatically alter my course.

Usually, I read her blogs, get a good chuckle or learn something. She’s a smart one. Yesterday, though, she got to me. Right in the heart. I felt for her.

You can read it here. If you do not read her missives on a consistent basis, I’d recommend it. If this is your first, it’s a damn good one for a jumping-into-the-deep-end cannonball.

Here’s my take.

Facebook is for discovery – old friends, new friends, So stole this from Redhead Writing. Cuff me.business acquaintances, neighbors you may want to know better. It can be for reflection, to spread exciting news, to keep up on what everyone is doing.

Do you have friends who tell you all about their day; what they ate for breakfast; how they lost their car keys; found a quarter in their couch; describe in graphic detail about their dog vomiting; go on about how their God is better than anyone’s God; blah blah blah? It may be “blah” to you, but for them it is important to share. Here’s the kicker.

You. Do. Not. Have. To. Comment.

Hell, you don’t have to see their posts at all. Block them. Eliminate them off your friend list if you choose. However, show some class. I secretly - without comment - eliminated someone who shall remain nameless because they verbally smacked their recent wife the day of their divorce. I knew both of them and thought “shit, that is so crass.” Bam. Gone.

It didn’t help his cause he misspelled “annulment” as “analment,” though. Criminy.

Facebook is not for belittling, humiliation, making comments of a personal nature or write personal attacks. If you choose to attack, do it with love. Attack someone you already know for Christ sake.

I’m really good at it. Sarcasm is a skill I have mastered. But seriously now, I only pick on my cousins, daughter, sister and friends I consider close.

I do consider myself Erika Napoletano’s friend. But, I have never met her in person. Someday I am sure we'll sit down, have a coffee, meet face-to-face. However, for now, I don’t really know her well enough to go after her in such a manner.

Neither do you.

Facebook. Tread lightly.

Ana

Rick Copper — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 14:03:45 +0000

Keep your eyes wide open. Watch your peripherals.

I don’t tell my two kids this because I want them to be alert, wary of strangers. This is not borne out of fear. I want them to be aware.

Sights. Sounds. Surroundings.

You never know what will come, what will impact your life, what will happen if you keep looking at the big picture. Everything around you impacts you one way or the other.

Sitting in Le Caprice, a nice French restaurant in Manhattan with its older sister housed in London. The fare was fine. Expensive, but fine. Guinness was magnificently tepid.

I looked around. Patrons. Wait staff. Hostess. Old. Young. Betwixt.

My waitress, Ana, a fine young woman in her upper 20’s hailing from Moldova. Came here as an employee of an imported wine company. Company had their own store in Manhattan. She was an account executive. Sales. 2009, when the bottom fell out, they closed. Off went her job.

How did I find out all of this? I asked. I talked. We talked. A lot all three times I went into Le Caprice (French for “the underwhelming underperforming domestic sedan”). She was very intriguing, very insightful.

Very frustrated. Wanted to go back to school, get her MBA. But, education costs money, borrowing means debt. Education expense, to her, is ruining America as bright minds get wasted on account of soaring tuition.

We talked more. Deeper. After a few hours of getting to know each other, her understanding my lust for writing, me hers for more education, she came up with this gem.

“You know we can’t commit suicide, you and I. Can’t kill yourself. Your curiosity won’t allow it. Today’s curiosity, tomorrow’s, twenty years from now. You just want to know what in the hell is going to happen. You can use that.”

Genius.