A Family's Gratitude
Posted by yankees_fan, Jan 9 2008, 07:54 PM
I visited my mother over the weekend, and I was amazed to see a stack of thank-you cards that she was sending out to the people who had offered condolences. Many of their neighbors made generous contributions in my father's name to various charities. My friend and his wife had a tree planted in Israel to honor my father. People have called, sent hand-written notes, e-mailed, and stopped by for a visit. My mother lives in a very tight-knit community, and people have gone out of their way to try to help my mother through this difficult time.
I can't begin to tell you how many people have personally offered their condolences to me. Friends, neighbors, relatives of neighbors, co-workers with whom I've had only a brief relationship - all of them have made it a point to express their sympathy. There have been times when I've offered condolences to other people, and have found myself thinking, "Does this help with their grief? How much does saying 'I'm sorry' help to ease their pain?" I've always been afraid that my words might ring hollow to a person who has heard it over and over again.
What I've learned in the last two weeks is that I shouldn't have worried. Each expression of sympathy, each pat on the back, each card in the mail are all a gift to a family that has lost someone. I'm humbled by the kindness people have shown. There's been financial generosity, and there's also been emotional generosity. A friend of my parents took the time to write a long letter to my brother and me, telling us how much she and her husband had enjoyed traveling with my parents. It both touched me, and made me laugh, for she so accurately captured my father's personality.
I think the thing that brings me the greatest comfort is the increasing awareness that my father made an impact on people. I know what he meant to his family. He was a husband, father, and grandfather. But, over the last two weeks, I've learned that he was a dear friend, a trusted neighbor, a great cast mate, and a man who was truly liked by many people. And, I've learned all about this because people have taken time out of their lives to express how my father affected their lives. I tend to think of our society as impersonal with a tendency toward selfishness and narcissism. But, I've quickly learned that I've been giving people far less credit than they deserve.
There are times when I'm struck by a reminder that my father isn't here any more. I have found myself reaching for the phone to call him, or catch myself after referring to him in the present tense. I've struggled with the images of the last moments of his life, of grasping his wrist and finding no pulse, of the difficult moment of looking at my mother and telling her that this wonderful man had left us. But, the sun comes up every morning, and I keep pressing forward with my life. I've found pictures of my father and have e-mailed them to my Mom and brother. I'm saddened by them, but also comforted by the memories of the moments that are captured in those pictures. There's one in particular that I keep on my desk at work. It was taken two years ago at a family dinner to celebrate my 40th birthday. In the picture, my father is grinning broadly, a healthy-looking 74-year-old sitting next to his beaming granddaughter. During the down moments, when I am remembering the difficult last days for my father, I look at this picture and think that he should be remembered not for his death, but instead for the life he lived and shared with his family.
I'm grateful for all of the warmth and kindness that people have shown. And yes, fellow Brambletonians, my blog shall return to its previous form. Stay tuned!
A Black Ribbon
Posted by yankees_fan, Dec 31 2007, 08:33 PM
I had a moment of panic tonight. I couldn't find my black ribbon. I mean, I tore up the house, walked around outside with a flashlight, stormed around the kitchen, but to no avail. Finally, when I decided to stop looking, I found it on the floor next to the computer.
The black ribbon was given to me just prior to my father's funeral last Thursday. The rabbi pinned it to my suit jacket, and instructed me to wear it for one week. He said to keep it on the left side of my chest. Because I am a "direct" descendent of my father's, the ribbon should be worn close to the heart. During the funeral ceremony, the rabbi made a small cut in the ribbon with a razor. This is to replace the old tradition of rending the garment. Rather than tear up a suit jacket or a shirt, the ribbon serves as a symbolic torn garment. I've dutifully worn the ribbon since the funeral. I'm supposed to wear it through Wednesday, and then I will put it away. I don't know what I'll do with it, but it doesn't seem right to get rid of it.
However, when I couldn't find the ribbon tonight, I can't even describe how awful I felt. It's not so much the symbolism; I could easily pin a different ribbon to my shirt and still fulfill my mourning duties. But, it was the thought that the ribbon that had been given to me was laying somewhere, rather than being safely affixed to my shirt. To me, it deserved a better fate than ending up in a Target parking lot. I know that seems silly, but it's as if it's a piece of my father that I need to hang on to.
Seeing the ribbon on the desk next to me while I am typing this is strangely comforting. It's been a week since my father died, and I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that he's gone. But, this whole issue with the ribbon tells me that I'm probably not completely ready to let him go. Logically, I know it's all part of the grieving process. Emotionally, I know that 42 years of memories are far more meaningful than a strip of black ribbon. But for now, I'm hanging on to that ribbon as my way of paying tribute to the greatest man I've ever known.
On the back burner
Posted by yankees_fan, Oct 18 2007, 06:51 PM
I've had a lot of fun writing my "tale" on this blog. And, I'll admit that my ego has loved the positive feedback from my online chums. I've certainly appreciated the fact that everyone has been a really good sport about seeing themselves lampooned online, even if the portrayals aren't always terribly flattering.
I haven't stopped writing because of writer's block or because I thought I neatly wrapped up the story. Rather, my life has just become too damned complicated to find the time and energy to be creative. In the last six weeks, I've started a new job (so far, so good) and have been dealing with an illness in my family. Both of those have taken up an enormous amount of my time, leaving me completely drained and grateful that I have a loving and extremely supportive wife (yes, that's the case, contrary to some of the jokes I've made here).
At some point, I'll resume the story and bring it to a logical and (hopefully) satisfying conclusion. In the meantime, thanks to all of you for your kind comments and applause.
Not quite The End...but getting closer...
Posted by yankees_fan, Sep 4 2007, 08:55 PM
Chapter 8 - Here I Come to Save the Day (sorta)!
Barbara Munsey lit her ninth cigarette of the day, and took a deep drag. She felt the familiar, calming sensation as the tar and nicotine made a beeline for the delicate passages of her lungs. What the hell; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. She hacked a few times as she glanced at the clock on her night stand. The glowing LED digits read 6:19 AM. Time to get out of bed. Sighing, she stuck the cigarette on a makeshift ashtray on her night stand, and dragged herself out of bed.
Within minutes, she was seated at her kitchen table, poring over the latest edition of The Loudoun Easterner. She lit a cigarette and glanced over at the counter, where the percolator was bubbling and hissing its way through the day's first pot of coffee. Between the coffee and the cigarettes, Barbara had enough fuel to work around the clock. She could hear her husband and kids padding around upstairs. She had left out a fresh box of Entenmann's donuts; at least nobody could accuse her of not providing a hearty, nutritious breakfast for her family.
The percolator exhaled a final steamy hiss, signaling that the coffee was ready. She poured the coffee into her Think Snow mug and carried it into the study, where she sat down in front of her computer, ready to begin a day of posting vitriolic screeds on the Broadlands board. She reached into the pocket of her robe, and extracted a battered pack of Virginia Slims and her lighter. As her computer booted up, she lit another cigarette.
The phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, which displayed "SUPV SNOW". She picked up the phone. "Hi, Steve," she said. She heard a muffled voice on the other end. Sighing, she said, "Steve...Steve..STEVE!" The muffled voice at last stopped. "You're holding the phone upside down again. Turn it over," she instructed.
"Now can you hear me?" asked Supervisor Snow.
"Yes, Steve, loud and clear," responded Barbara, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She hoped it would be a quick discussion.
"Did you read the d-mail I sent you last night?" asked the supervisor.
"E-mail," corrected Barbara.
There was a brief pause, and then the supervisor, sounding slightly annoyed, said, "Right, e-mail. Anyway, what did you think?" Barbara took a nervous drag on her cigarette. She had meant to read the message, but then started watching Emeril, and got caught up in his etoufee recipe.
"Um, I think there's a problem with my e-mail. Why don't you refresh my memory?" asked Barbara. The supervisor sighed, and she could hear him moving papers around on his desk. "Steve, you can just go to the 'Sent' file and see what you sent me," she said.
"Oh, okay," he replied. A few minutes later, he said, "Okay, here it is. I told you that some people from Bram...um...bull....TON and Bro..ahd....lands need my help."
"With what?"
"Oh, they have quite a feud going online," he replied. He explained that a disagreement between rival message boards had turned into a nasty battle, resulting in property damage, minor injuries, and a prisoner of war. “Both sides have decided that things have gotten out of hand, so they want someone to come in and negotiate a truce.”
“I see,” replied Barbara. “So, you’re going to do what – find someone to negotiate the truce?”
The supervisor sounded offended. “You seem to forget that I’m an elected official,” he sniffed. “Part of my job is to ensure that residents of South Riding…”
“You mean ‘Dulles North’,” corrected Barbara.
“Right, Dulles North,” agreed the supervisor. “As I was saying, part of my constituent service role is to intervene in matters that affect this county.”
This is not going to end well, she thought. “Look, Steve, are you sure you want to get involved?”
“It’s an election year, Barbara,” he replied. “I have to get out there. I don’t have a chance in hell if I don’t.” Barbara didn’t disagree. He was in trouble. She was, however, concerned about his failure to grasp some details, such as not knowing the names of neighborhoods in his district. Or forgetting the name of his district. And occasionally forgetting the name of the county. But, she conceded that he always seemed to figure things out. He’s a tough old bird, she thought, He’ll find a way to make this work.
Later that night, a large crowd gathered in the Briar Woods High School gymnasium. Several Loudoun County Sheriff’s deputies were on hand to keep order. The mood was tense, and several small skirmishes had erupted, but were quickly broken up by the deputies. In the meantime, Supervisor Snow was in the cafeteria, where he was briefed individually by representatives from The Brambletonian and the Broadlands board.
At precisely 8:00 PM, Supervisor Snow strode into the gymnasium. He walked to the center of the basketball court, where he was handed a microphone. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for coming out to this historic meeting. Tonight, we’re here to resolve the simmering tensions between...between…” Snow quickly glanced at his notes. “Between The Broadlands and The Brambletonian.”
“Brambleton eats s*it!” yelled a voice from the Broadlands side.
“At least we’re not stuck with a crappy OpenBand contract,” yelled a Brambletonian. The Brambleton side burst into applause.
“People, please!” Supervisor Snow waved his arms in an effort to calm the crowd. “Look, I know there are some bad feelings, but let’s behave like adults and talk this through.” He glanced at his notes, but looked up to find the Broadlands leader standing in front of him. The leader pointed to the microphone and held out his hand. The supervisor shook his head, but the leader stepped closer, pointing insistently at the microphone. Meekly, the supervisor surrendered the microphone.
“Attention, Brambleton residents. We come in peace. We are not a harmful community,” announced the leader.
“What’s with this drama?” asked Yankees_Fan. “He’s just some a**hole yuppie from Broadlands, and yet he’s trying to sound all dramatic. What’s he going to say next – ‘Klaatu barada nikto’?” A ripple of laughter broke passed through the Brambleton side.
“SILENCE!” bellowed the leader. “We are giving you an opportunity to end this peacefully. That is, provided you meet our conditions.
“First, you will release your hostage. You will compensate him financially for the time he was kept from his family.
“Next, you will agree not to prosecute any Broadlands resident for crimes they may have committed during this war.
“Finally, you will agree to immediately and permanently shut down The Brambletonian. TOB will serve as your sole source for community dialogue.” The leader smiled at Supervisor Snow, who looked horrified. Snow reached for the microphone, but the leader stopped him.
“One final thing: If you do not abide by our conditions, then God help you. Brambleton will be overwhelmed by our tactical, intellectual, and physical assets.” He handed the microphone to the supervisor, and walked back to the Broadlands side.
There was murmuring from the Brambleton side. Finally, the crowd parted, and a woman stepped forward. She took the microphone from Supervisor Snow. She turned to the Broadlands crowd and smiled disarmingly. After introducing herself as Cdmurphy, she addressed the crowd:
“We are willing to release our prisoner. He’s eaten several pounds of pork, and Flipped is really tired of having him around. He’s safe and sound, and we’re going to do the right thing. Because that’s what Brambletonians do.
“As for the damage you’ve caused: you break it, you buy it. We should not and will not be liable for the costs of your campaign of fear. We’ll pick up the pieces and rebuild, though. Because that’s what Brambletonians do
“You can do all sorts of mean and destructive stuff to us. You can give us bad cable service. We’ll persevere. Because that’s what Brambletonians do
“You can run our stop signs and drive fast down our streets. We’ll band together and make things better. Because that’s what Brambletonians do
“You can defecate in our pools. We’ll scoop it out, sanitize the water, and dive right back in. Because that’s what Brambletonians do.
“But, you don’t f*ck with our message board. If you try, we’ll kick your ass. Because, more than anything else, that’s what Brambletonians do.” The crowd roared. Threats began to fly between the two sides. Supervisor Snow, sensing what was about to happen, ran for the exit.
Moments later, a punch was thrown. Nobody was sure who started it, but within seconds, a full-scale donnybrook had erupted. The sheriff’s deputies, badly outnumbered, tried to restore order, but they quickly retreated to the safety of the cafeteria.
The war of words had now escalated. Time would tell who won this battle, and whether it signaled the end of the war.
It's still going on...
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 31 2007, 01:18 PM
Chapter 7 – Diplomacy or Force?
With the captured operative safely ensconced at Flipped’s condo, the Brambletonians pondered their next move. There seemed to be two camps within the Brambleton community. On one side, a group was convinced that holding a hostage meant that the Brambletonians had the upper hand, and could thus unleash an attack of mayhem upon Broadlands that would leave their community in tatters.
On the other hand, there was another group that felt that having hostage was a bargaining chip and could be used to bring the battle to an end. Both sides posted a series of increasingly-vitriolic posts on The Brambletonian before it was finally decided to bring the matter to a vote.
Fox Cinemas graciously offered the use of Theater 16, where the residents gathered. Each side had 15 minutes to present their case. In the end, a show of hands decided that the more diplomatic approach was preferred. But, a show of force remained as a viable option if diplomacy failed.
After a series of nominations and votes, it was decided that Patt and Boopie would be responsible for contacting the Broadlands leader and setting up a meeting. Patt offered to meet Boopie at his house, where they could discuss their strategy.
Patt arrived at Boopie’s house the next evening. It didn’t look like anyone was home, but he rang the doorbell and waited. Finally, he could hear footsteps, and the door opened. A woman poked her head out. “Yes?” she asked.
Patt stepped back and looked up at the house number. Satisfied he was in the right place, he said, “Good evening, ma’am. I’m here to…Mom? MOM? What the hell are you doing here?” Patt’s mother covered her face with her hands and ran back into the house. Patt started to follow her, but stopped short.
Just then, an apologetic Boopie came to the door, clad only in a towel. “Patt, sorry I’m late. I was in the shower. Come on in,” he said.
Patt stared at Boopie. “I…I…I always figured you were kidding,” he mumbled.
Boopie looked uncomfortable. “I was kidding. At first. But, apparently your mom read the posts and became curious. So, we met, and, well, we got along famously,” explained Boopie.
Patt held up his hand. “Stop. Seriously, I don’t want to hear another word,” he told Boopie, who nodded. Patt’s expression softened. “Look, I’m glad my mom’s happy, but promise me one thing.”
“Anything, Patt. You name it.”
“Do not EVER call me 'son'. I swear, I’ll kick your ass, got it?” warned Patt. Boopie nodded in agreement, and the two men shook hands. Boopie excused himself and ran upstairs to get dressed. After he came back downstairs, the men sat down and hashed out a plan.
Several hours later, the leader was scanning the Broadlands board, hoping to find some sort of ransom notice regarding his captured operative. He was discouraged to find that it was only business as usual on the Broadlands board: intellectual discourse without a hint of rancor. Despite the circumstances, the leader found himself smiling, smug with the knowledge that his community’s board was far superior.
But, wait…there it was. It was a new thread, buried deep in another discussion. There was a simple message (“LET’S TALK. CALL 703-555-1212”), but no further details were provided. That has to be those Brambleton kidnappers, he thought. He reached for his phone (remembering to block the Caller ID as he dialed) and held his breath.
“Yo.”
“Who is this?” the leader demanded.
“Never you mind,” the voice replied. “Is this the leader?”
“Yes. Where’s my comrade? I wish to speak with him,” said the leader.
“Well, that might be a problem,” said the voice.
“What have you done with him? If you’ve harmed one hair on his head, so help me, I’m going to leave your community in shambles!” thundered the leader.
The voice sighed. “Listen, leader guy, lose the tough-guy persona. You’re not intimidating anyone,” Before the leader could protest, the voice added, “Your guy can’t come to the phone because he’s eating. Jason J75 dropped off a bunch of pork, and your guy is eating it like it’s going out style.”
“Oh,” replied the embarrassed leader. “Okay, um, so he’s okay?”
“He’s fine,” the voice assured him. “Look, let’s get down to brass tacks. We need to meet in person. But, obviously both sides need protection.”
“Obviously,” agreed the leader.
“So, we propose that a meeting be held in a public place, and that we have an impartial mediator,” suggested the voice. The leader concurred. They decided on a date and time, and the voice said he would contact the neutral third party.
Moments later, an e-mail arrived at the office of Supervisor Steve Snow. His top aide read the message, and excitedly brought it into the Supervisor’s office. Handing it to his boss, the aide said, “This is it! We’ve been looking for something that will cast you in a good light, and we’ve found it.”
The supervisor glanced at the note. “What is it?” he asked.
Quickly, the aide explained that the Brambleton and Broadlands communities needed their supervisor’s help to resolve a feud. The supervisor nodded as the aide described the request.
“Sounds great, but I have one question,” said the supervisor.
“What is it, sir?” asked the aide.
“Why did they contact me? Why didn’t they contact Tulloch or Delgaudio?” asked Snow.
The aide looked stunned. “Um, because, sir, these are in your district,” he said.
The supervisor looked surprised. “Really? I thought they had finished building out South Riding,” he said.
“Sir, it’s not South Riding. It’s Brambleton and Broadlands. They’re both planned communities in Dulles North,” the aide replied.
“You don’t say. Well, they must be brand-spanking new!” The aide didn’t respond. “Anyway, I’d like to help out these new folks. Do me a favor, lad,” requested the supervisor. The aide nodded. “Run over to the AAA in Fairfax, and get me a TripTik. I need to be able to find these places.”
The aide bit his lip. “Sir, that’s not necessary. They’re, um, just a couple miles away,” he told the supervisor.
“Okay, whatever it takes. Just pack my bags and gas up the car. We’re going to step in and save the day for Bramblelands and Broadton!”
No more writer's block!
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 22 2007, 03:32 PM
Chapter 6 - Infiltration
The annual Brambletonian party was 24 hours away, and the leader of the Broadlands underground organization was meeting with one of his operatives. It was to be their most daring mission yet. Instead of entering the neighborhood under the cover of darkness, a member of the underground group was going to attend the party. His mission was to "mix, meet, mingle, and look for opportunities to wreak havoc". This was a criticial mission, and the leader was trying not to appear nervous. He scheduled a meeting with the underground operative at the Dunkin' Donuts in Broadlands.
Both men arrived to find a construction site, but no donuts. "Son of a bitch," mumbled the leader, "I had figured they would have finished this place by now." The men walked over to the Quizno's, where they sat and talked.
"I don't have to tell you how important this mission is," said the leader. He fixed his gaze upon the operative. "So, I'm going to give you one chance to back out. If you don't feel ready to do this, tell me now, and we'll abort the mission."
The operative stared back at the leader. "I'm ready, sir," he replied. "I've been boning up on the intel that I've received, and I'm ready to move in and make this a success." The leader nodded in approval. They made idle chatter for a few more minutes until the leader looked at his watch and announced it was time to leave. Outside, the men shook hands. There was no turning back now.
The Day of The Party...
The underground operative awoke early, and spent the day reading through the various Brambletonian threads. By noon, his eyes were burning and his head was pounding. Good lord, I have never seen a more self-absorbed pathetic groups of people in my life, he thought. He had reached the saturation point, and felt that any further research would drive him insane. To relax, he perused the Broadlands threads. Now, this is what it looks like when a group of sane, rational people get together, he thought. To prepare himself for the mission, he meditated for a half-hour and then took a long nap. He awoke feeling confident and refreshed. To kill time before leaving for the party, he watched some old sitcoms on TV.
He parked his car in the Harris Teeter parking lot, and walked to the party. It was nearly 9:30, and the party appeared to be in full swing. He rang the doorbell, and was instantly greeted by Becca. She smiled warmly at him and introducted herself. Before he could give his name, she urged him, "Come on in and grab a beer. There's plenty to drink and eat." With that, he followed Becca inside and began to mingle with the guests.
He quickly spotted the beer, and helped himself to a cup. He chugged it down and then decided to have another. Four beers later, he was feeling much less thirsty and beginning to really enjoy himself. A woman approached the keg with a cup in her hand. Before she could serve herself a beer, the operative said, "Allow me," and filled her cup, expertly tipping it to the side to prevent a foamy head.
She smiled and thanked him. "I'm Mollysophia," she said. He tried to make the connection in his mind, but suddenly panic overtook him. He had forgotten everything! All he could think about was the Broadlands board. Think, damn it, think!
Mollysophia looked puzzled. "Are you okay?" she asked.
He tried to smile. "Uh, sure! I'm great. I'm just feeling a little, um, queasy," he replied.
She nodded understandingly. "Maybe you should slow down on the beer," she suggested.
He shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just walked over here after getting coffee at Starbuck's. I think the cream might have been bad," he said.
She looked surprised. "You walked all the way from a Starbucks? The closest one is in Broadlands, right?" she said.
Crap! "I, I, mean...Caribou coffee," he said quickly. She still looked puzzled. "You know, 'The Carr', right?" he said nervously.
"You mean 'The Bou', right?" she corrected him.
F*ck! This is going from bad to worse! "Um, right. Would you please excuse me?" he said, quickly walking away. He strolled into the living room, where he encountered a group of people laughing and talking. He summoned up his courage and joined the discussion. A woman was talking about a recent shopping experience, and mentioned Wal-Mart.
"Oh, man, I love Wal-Mart!" said the undercover operative. The group turned and looked at him. "I mean, I know it's not the most politically correct thing to be a Wal-Mart fan," he continued. He paused, and when nobody said anything, he decided it was safe to proceed.
"You know what really fries me? It's these little independent stores. All they do is bitch and moan about Wal-Mart. I mean, what gives? As if we have some obligation to pay a higher price? Look, if my kid wants a Power Ranger, I'm not going to suck up to some local merchant. I'm going where it's cheap! I don't care how they treat their workers as long as that Power Ranger is discounted!" He looked around, waiting for words of encouragement and support.
Instead, the woman tossed her drink in his face. "You're an a**hole," she hissed, as she walked away. Confused, the man looked at the back of her t-shirt as she walked away. What the hell did "Go Bananas" mean anyway? Shaking his head, he made his way back to the bar. He found a smiling man standing near the keg, genially conversing with the party's host. The host excused himself, leaving the operative and the genial man.
The man looked at the operative and stuck out his hand. "RCB," he said with a grin. The operative smiled back, quickly searching his memory for details about RCB. He needed to keep this conversation going, so he said to RCB, "You're the one who likes politics, right?"
RCB nodded. "Absolutely. I think that most of the people in this neighborhood are well-meaning, but lean the wrong way politically, if you get my drift," he said.
The operative patted RCB on the back. "I'm with you, my man. They're so wrapped up in this whole Ann Coulter-ish political agenda. If Bush told them to s*it in their hats, those damn lemmings would do it without hesitation," he said, grinning. RCB stared at him blankly. "Come on, RCB," said the operative, "It's time for you to stop being such a political milquetoast! Go out there and shout it from the rooftops! Death to the Republican party! You know that us Socialists gotta stick together, right?"
People outside the house could hear the sounds of a struggle and various shouts ("Get this commie bastard out of my sight!" "Get this crazy man off me!"). Several party-goers ran up the stairs and separated the two men. RCB was breathing hard, the collar of his shirt torn. The operative sported a shiner under his eye and a defiant expression, which quickly turned to a nervous grin when the party host approached.
"Look, we're all here to have fun," El8 explained gently, "and I've been hearing that you're acting strangely and upsetting people."
"Me?" protested the operative. "Look, I'm a Brambleton resident and I think it's appalling that people are being so rude to a neighbor!"
The party goers congregated in the room, surrounding the man. One person asked, "Where do you live?"
The man gulped nervously. "I, um, live on Regal Beagle," he announced.
"Regal Wood?" someone replied.
The man cursed himself for watching an episode of Three's Company that afternoon. "Right, right, I mean, Regal Wood," he said.
"What's your name?" asked another party guest.
This was it. Do or die time. "My name," said the man, "is F. F Sarwar."
Candy whispered into Hoyaseanm's ear, "He's lying. That's not Sarwar." Hoyaseanm nodded. "Ask him what he thinks of Verizon," suggested Candy.
"F? Mr. Sarwar?" The operative turned to Hoyaseanm. "I was just wondering. What do you think of Verizon?" he asked.
"Verizon?" replied the operative. "Hell, they kick ass! Say what you want, but do NOT knock Verizon in my presence." A deathly silence fell over the room. The operative realized that it was all over. He was a dead man.
Later that evening, the leader logged on to the Broadlands board. He was horrified to see a new thread titled "WE HAVE YOUR SPY. YOU'VE MESSED WITH THE WRONG COMMUNITY MESSAGE BOARD". With a shaking hand, he reached for the phone and called his second-in-command. When the man answered the phone, the leader croaked, "Our operative has been compromised. Cease all activities. Pass the word at once." He hung up the phone, hoping it wasn't too late.
But, it was too late. The Brambletonians were planning their revenge.
The next chapter...
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 14 2007, 12:03 PM
Chapter 5 - Battleground
Gotta Get Down was suffering. It was hot, she was pregnant, and she desperately craved pellet ice. Despite the well-meaning suggestions of her fellow Brambletonians, her ice jones hadn't been satisfied. Each passing day reminded her that pellet ice was eluding her, and she found herself growing increasingly frustrated.
One afternoon, she opened her door, and immediately cursed the voluminous door spam that tumbled to the ground. She flipped through the usual deck building and house cleaning ads as she walked through the house. She reached the kitchen and was about to throw away the flyers, when one caught her eye. "PELLET ICE AT HOME!! The IcePro XT makes cubes, shaved ice - even pellet ice! FREE TRIAL! Call your local Home Ice representative Michael Roch at 703-555-3056".
Pellet ice? At home? It sounded too good to be true. But, Gotta Get Down was a woman who needed that pellet ice. She picked up the phone and called the number on the flyer.
"Home Ice. How may I direct your call?"
"Hi, I just received a flyer, and I'm interested in trying the IcePro XT", said Gotta Get Down.
"Of course," replied the voice on the other end. "Did you receive our flyer?"
Gotta Get Down said, "Yes. It was in my door. I live in Brambleton."
"Excellent. Can you give me the name of the the sales rep listed on the flyer?"
Gotta Get Down glanced at the flyer. "Um, it's Michael. Michael Roch," she said.
"Mike? Did you say Mike?" replied the voice on the other end.
"Yes," agreed Gotta Get Down. "Mike. Mike Roch."
At the same time, RCB was at his home, convening the first meeting of the Brambleton Protection Council (BPC). RCB welcomed several Brambletonians, including MFLetou, Hoyaseanm, and Bish. RCB welcomed the group and asked them to follow him into his kitchen. He offered drinks to the group, and poured Bish a glass of Chardonnay. Just as he did this, he suddenly straightened up. "Stop," he told everyone. The room quieted down. RCB cocked his head, and glanced toward the window.
"Damn it! I thought I heard something. Wait here!" he instructed the group. He reached into the waistband of his Haggar slacks and pulled out an impressive-looking Glock. He pointed to the floor and ordered everyone down. He gripped the gun and walked toward his back door.
"This is crazy. Why don't we just call the cops?" said Hoyaseanm.
RCB put a finger to his lips. "By the time they get here, the intruders will be gone," he explained. He winked at the group. "It's time for a little frontier justice." He flung open the back door and sprinted across the deck. "STOP! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!" There was a pause. "I SAID LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS, A**HOLE! Demuéstreme sus manos!" There was silence from the back yard, and then an angry voice bellowed from somewhere in the yard.
Bish took a long gulp of wine and whispered, "Who is it?" Nobody answered. Moments later, RCB trudged back into the kitchen, tucking the gun back into his pants. Everyone looked at him expectantly.
"Um, why don't we just go down to the basement," he mumbled. He was walking toward the stairs when MFLetou grabbed his arm and asked, "Who was in your yard?"
RCB shook his head and mumbled, "There was a piece of paper blowing around the yard. Mrs. Red went out to get it. She's not very happy with me right now."
Despite the incident, the meeting proceeded without incident. RCB had prepared a PowerPoint presentation, highlighting the areas of the neighborhood where Brambletonians had been victimized. He discussed the options that were available to the Brambletonians, including hiring armed guards ("Too expensive and too risky"), installing a neighborhood-wide alarm system ("Insanely expensive"), and electing a Democratic Board of Supervisors ("Your taxes will go through the roof").
The meeting had been going on for three hours, and finally Hoyaseanm said, "Look, these are all interesting options, but you're running this committee. What do you say?"
RCB smiled. "I'm glad you asked that. I've taken the liberty of calling in some favors, and I've made arrangements to guarantee that no interlopers get into our neighborhood." He clicked to the next slide, which depicted a blueprint. "This is the Great Wall of Brambleton. It'll provide safety, security, and it's a lovely conversation piece. With a team of documented immigrants, we can have this sucker built in three days." The weary committee agreed, and the meeting concluded.
THREE DAYS LATER
A group of neighbors gathered at the Community Center as RCB presented the "official" unveiling of the Great Wall of Brambleton. A hastily-assembled stage was erected, and RCB was handed a microphone. "Welcome, fellow Brambletonians. I apologize for the noise that you've been hearing for the past few days. But, as you can see, we are about to put the finishing touches on a unique and amazing security system." He pointed up Legacy Park Drive, where a crane was lowering a large cement panel into place. A group of workers quickly attached it, finishing off the wall.
The assembled group applauded. RCB grinned. When his neighborhood needed a leader, he had stepped up. Board of Supervisors? State Senate? Hell, RCB could see himself marching into the governor's mansion. After that, who knows? He could picture himself on the steps of the Capitol, his hand placed on the family Bible, his other hand raised in the air....
"RCB?"
RCB snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, what is it?" he asked.
"One small question, sir," asked a woman, who introduced herself as Kimchee. "The wall is very impressive, but..."
"But what?" asked RCB.
Kimchee pointed around the perimeter of the neighborhood. "There are no doors. Yes, you're keeping people from coming in, but we have no way of getting out, either." The crowd began to shout angrily. One wag, probably a Democrat, did a passable Ronald Reagan impression, intoning, "Mr. RCB....tear down this wall!"
RCB dropped the microphone and slunk off the stage. The presidency would have to wait. In the meantime, he needed to find some men to knock down a wall.
And so it continues
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 12 2007, 02:51 PM
The Board Wars
Chapter 4 - Assessing the Damage
Through a series of Private Messages and over-the-fence discussions, Brambletonians were asked to gather at the stone amphitheater near the Fox Cinemas. It was a chance to discuss the acts of aggression that the underground Broadlands crew had committed against the Brambleton residents. Residents were reminded to not discuss this in the discussion threads. The circulated PM ended with another reminder that postings should reflect “business as usual”. Ever compliant and unwilling to challenge the status quo, Brambletonians dutifully discussed pool feces, conservative dogma, and other ongoing issues.
The crowd gathered at the amphitheater under darkening skies. A man stepped to the stage and raised his arms, quieting the crowd. He introduced himself as “El8”, and said that he was the Brambletonian’s system administrator. “I think that the site provides a valuable service for Brambleton residents,” he told the crowd, “and I’m appalled that someone has used it to target people for some twisted type of revenge.” The gathered residents applauded in a show of support for El8. “I can’t speak for the whole community, so I want to ask anyone who has something to say to please take the stage.”
Residents took the stage one by one, each discussing the act that had been perpetrated upon them. Residents were horrified to hear of the extent of this campaign against them. One resident, who identified himself as “Weaz”, said, “It’s a little scary to think that a person – or a group of persons – would devote so much time and energy toward trying to hurt us. It’s even more painful because this happened on my birthday.”
After more than two hours, the crowd began to drift away. It had been agreed that residents needed to be vigilant, especially those “night owls” who tended to post during the late night/early morning hours. Any suspicious activity would need to be reported, but nothing was to be discussed in the discussion threads.
Shortly after the meeting, a man breathlessly burst into the Wendy’s restaurant in Broadlands. After glancing around, he noticed a man sitting at a table in the rear. He quickly walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
“How did it go?” asked the leader of the underground crew.
The man held up his hand, asking for a moment to catch his breath. “Okay, good news,” he said. “They have no idea what’s going on.”
The leader looked pleased. “Nobody tried to guess who was behind all of this?” he asked.
The man shook his head. “No, they just talked about what had happened. I think a lot of them hadn’t realized just how widespread our attack was. It was great!” He grinned with delight.
The leader pulled a small pad out of his pocket and clicked open a pen. “Okay, I need specifics. Who talked at this meeting?” he asked.
The man also pulled a pad out of his pants pocket. “Okay, let’s see. Some guy talked about his kidney stones and defended the current administration’s Iraq policy,” he reported.
The leader nodded. “That’s MFLetou. He’s the guy with the bumper stickers. Go on,” he urged.
“Um, some guy talked about how he bought in Brambleton solely on the basis of being promised a golf course,” the man reported.
The leader shook his head. “That has nothing to do with us, although I should have thought of that. Go on. What else happened?”
“Some woman talked about chardonnay. It didn’t make much sense to me,” he added.
The leader glanced at his notes. “Hmm…oh, wait, that’s Bish. We left her alone. She…um…scares me, quite frankly. Okay, who else talked?”
The man said, “Um, some guy said that the Yankees are making a late-season surge, and that he was confident this was going to happen all along.”
“Bulls*it,” said the leader. “That’s Yankees_fan. He gave up on them back in early June. Okay, what else?”
“Some guy named Bam talked about how ‘those bastards’ locked his dog in his garage,” reported the man.
The leader frantically flipped through his notes. “We did that? Are you sure? Anyway, it sounds like they’re all worked up,” said the leader. The man agreed. “Okay, good. What are they planning to do to prevent another attack?”
The man described how everyone agreed to be vigilant. The leader took some additional notes and thanked the man. “By the way,” said the leader. “How did you manage to blend in with the Brambletonians?”
The man chuckled. “No problems there, chief. I drove really fast through the neighborhood. I ignored stop signs. I talked about the problems I’ve had with FiOS, and I let my kids do whatever they damn well pleased while they were at the park.”
The leader gripped his shoulder. “You were magnificent. Let’s call the others, and begin Phase II,” he said.
“Right now?” asked the man.
The leader nodded in agreement. “Right now,” he confirmed.
TO BE CONTINUED….
The Saga Continues...
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 10 2007, 08:18 PM
The Board Wars
Chapter 3 - Fallout
As the residents of Brambleton awakened that morning, they quickly came to the realization that something awful was happening. The worst part was that the evil actions performed upon the Brambletonians took many forms:
* Maeve heard a knock at the front door. She opened it up to see a sweaty, balding man with a bad comb-over and shirt unbuttoned to reveal numerous chains and medallions. Next to him was a rather used-up looking woman, chewing bubble gum with her mouth wide open. Maeve looked at them both.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely.
The man winked at her. "So, should we just come in now?"
Confused, Maeve responded, "Come in? I'm sorry, you must have the wrong house."
The man winked again and grinned at his female companion. "She's a funny one, ain't she?" He turned back toward Maeve. "Look, don't play hard to get. We saw the invitation, so we figured that we'd take you up on the offer." He began to step inside.
Worried, Maeve called out to her husband. Moments later, the strikingly handsome and muscular Yankees_Fan came to the door. He looked at the pushy combed-over man, who now stood in their entry foyer. "Who the f*ck are you?" Yankees_Fan demanded, stepping toward the man.
The man put up his hands defensively. "Look, if you're not interested, I'll leave." He quickly walked to the door. "But, you shouldn't lead people on like that," he added, grabbing the woman's hand.
"Lead people on? What are you talking about?" asked Maeve, following the exiting couple. The man stopped, and pointed to the planting beds in front of Maeve's house. Maeve was horrified to see a neatly-stacked pile of white rocks.
* Beergutvt stepped outside to enjoy the fresh morning air. He glanced upward, and nearly screamed. He quickly stepped across the street to get a better look at what he had spotted. There it was, spray-painted on his roof in giant orange and blue letters: GO 'HOOS! BEAT TECH!
Residents began to gather in the streets, discussing the horror that they were witnessing. Each story seemed to be worse than the last, and neighbors were unsure which tales were true, and which were apocryphal. One rumor that was quickly dismissed was that the remaining retail space in the Town Center had been rented to a Dollar General Store. That was simply implausible...however, on this day, it seemed that ANYTHING was possible.
As the neighbors spoke in whispers, word was passed along: Do NOT discuss any of this on the Brambletonian. Act like it's busines as usual. One resident had already posted a message stating, "Who did these awful things to us?", but quickly changed it to, "Why do SAHMs sit around eating bon-bons all day?"
The residents were fearful, but they abided by the request. Not a word was spoken outside the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, the shadowy underground organization responsible for the mayhem met at the Starbuck's in Broadlands. As they sipped the bitter, acrid coffee, one member suggested that it would have been better to meet at Caribou Coffee. Their leader, who was already in a foul mood, wasn't amused ("This isn't time for your silly f*cking jokes," he snarled). The leader had brought along a laptop, and connected to the Web via Starbuck's "free" Wi-Fi.
Morosely, the leader swigged his coffee and seethed as he stared at his laptop screen. "This makes no sense," he said. He clicked several times with his mouse. "Nothing. Not a damn thing. How can that be?" he asked.
"What do you mean by 'nothing'?" asked a team member. The leader flipped his laptop around, displaying the Brambletonian home page. The team member squinted as the leader clicked through the various threads. "You're right. How can these Brambletonians, who've never been known for their discretion or their ability to shut their traps, not say ANYTHING about what we did?"
"Yeah, what about that Flipped fellow?" asked a team member. "We went through the trouble of parking a Jeep CJ-7 in his space, and he hasn't said a word."
"It doesn't seem right," agreed the leader. He took a final sip of his coffee and shook his head. "Maybe we weren't aggressive enough," he said.
A team member shook his head. "I disagree," he protested. "Look, I think we weren't completely merciless, but leaving a slashed Frosty on a front porch in the middle of the summer sends a very clear message," he continued.
"But, think about it," said the leader. "These idiots post if they have a hangnail. But, after we spend countless hours of manpower and thousands of dollars to demoralize them, it's not even mentioned."
"Does that mean they're on to us?" asked a team member.
The leader sighed, and paused for a moment. "What I think it means is that they realize something is going on," he said. "But, since they haven't yet figured out who's responsible, they're acting like nothing's wrong.
"But, believe one thing," he continued. "They're worried sick. They're probably gathering in common areas and discussing the devastation. It's just like the stuff they normally talk about online, only they're having these discussions in person."
The team fell silent, pondering their leader's hypothesis. Finally, one spoke up, "So, where does this leave us?"
The leader grinned. "It leaves us in the right position to launch phase II. By this time tomorrow, they'll HAVE to talk about what happened.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Just for the fun of it...
Posted by yankees_fan, Aug 9 2007, 08:04 PM
A few years back, while posting on a baseball message board, I began writing a story about various posters who were located throughout the U.S. What began as a lark turned into a minor obsession. I needed to add a chapter everyday, lest I disappoint my fellow posters. In the end, the story ran out of steam, but I enjoyed the exercise of doing something creative. With that in mind, I thought I'd give it a shot here. If nothing else, I can use the mental stimulation.
The Board Wars
Chapter 1 - The Opening Salvo
In a series of idyllic neighborhoods located in an upscale suburb, a quiet war was beginning to brew. It began innocently enough, with a series of teasing, good-natured jibes. While it was unsaid, the underlying theme behind the messages was, "Our neighborhood is better than yours." A flurry of posts appeared one week, but quickly disappeared when the next controversy kicked in. In fact, if you had asked the majority of the posters, they would have trouble remembering some of the cutting remarks they aimed at members of a neighboring community.
But the members of that neighboring community didn't take it so lightly. On the surface, they blithely went about their business, taking the time to fire the occasional potshot at the Brambletonians. Nobody outside Broadlands suspected that an army of sorts was taking shape. Their underground warfare team convened around a neighborhood pool to discuss their plans. To ensure secrecy, a team member had hurled a Baby Ruth candy bar into the pool. Amid mumblings of "What is this, Brambleton?", the disappointed Broadlands pool patrons had retreated, leaving only the shadowy organization members.
"So," hissed their leader, "What shall we do about this Brambletonians?" He spoke the last word contemptuously. "They seem to be awfully proud of their little message board. They seem to forget that WE were here first."
"But, we're still an HOA-sponsored board," replied one of the team members. The leader fixed him with a withering stare. Nervously, the team member added, "Of course, their non-HOA board is piffle. It's a lightweight piece of crap."
Their leader looked pleased. "Yes, you're right, my brother-in-arms," he agreed. His face, hidden in the darkness of the evening sky and the hooded sweatshirt he was wearing, became sinister. "Yet, these Brambletonians seem to be growing in numbers. They multiply like...like..."
"Cockroaches?" offered one of the other team members.
"Yes, cockroaches!" The leader clapped his hands with delight. "They're nothing more than silly cockroaches. Except, they're cockroaches with big houses and fancy cars and FiOS." He paused. "Can anyone tell me what we do with cockroaches?"
One team member raised his hand and said, "I'd recommend calling Paramount Pest Control. Last year, when we found carpenter ants, I called Paramount. In fact, I posted a recommendation on the board!" Several team members murmured in assent.
"Oh, for the love of..." started their leader. "Okay, so I guess subtlety is lost on you addle-brained suburbanites." The insult seemed incongruous, given the leader's 5,000 square foot (above grade) house and three cars. "What I was getting it is that you CRUSH a cockroach. Right? Does that make sense?" asked the leader. The team enthusiastically agreed.
The leader reached into his pocket, and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. Written on the paper were the names of several Brambletonians. "Each person on this list is a member of that inferior underground board. We're going to take them down a peg," announced the leader.
"Is anyone going to get hurt?" asked a nervous team member. "I mean, I'm all for teaching them a lesson, but I don't want anyone to be harmed physcially," he added.
The leader pulled back his hood and stared at the team member. "Our goal is to humiliate, not injure. Now, are you with me or not?" asked the leader.
It was unanimous. They were all with him. He gathered everyone closer, and began to dole out the assignments. The mayhem was to take place that night. The shadowy Broadlands organization exited the pool area, and began to fulfill their assignments.
The next morning, Brambletonians awoke to another glorious morning in the nation's first Verizon-enhanced community. Everyone went about their daily routine, not suspecting that they were about to be rocked to their very foundation.
Chapter 2 - Bastards!
RCB whistled a jaunty Bob Seger tune as he stepped out of his spacious, well-appointed home. He strolled down his driveway, where his neatly-bagged copy of The Washington Times awaited him. He glanced at the headlines as he strolled back toward the house. Suddenly, he stopped short. Something was amiss. He looked up, and was relieved to see that his roof was intact. But, what was wrong? He did a quick mental inventory. Windows? Check. Door? Check. Vinyl siding? Check.
Vinyl? VINYL? His knees buckled as he staggered toward the side of his house. With a trembling finger, he touched the siding, and felt the tell-tale sheen of vinyl. Someone had come onto his property during the night, and replaced his siding with vinyl. RCB fought back a wave of nausea as he sprinted toward his front door, his newspaper tumbling harmlessly to the ground.
Meanwhile, several miles away, Wiitard padded from his bedroom to his glistening home entertainment system. He flipped through a stack of jewel boxes, looking for the appropriately violent game that would jump-start his day. He found one of his favorites ("FAP - King of Onan") and pulled the disc from the case. He turned toward his beloved Wii...and nearly screamed. The Wii was gone. In its place was a early-80s era Nintendo 2600. With one cartridge. "Space Invaders?" moaned Wiitard. He crumpled to the floor, knocking over the Nintendo and unplugging it from the 19" black and white Philco that now sat on his TV stand.
MFLetou deftly steered his car toward the parking garage entrance. "Good morning, Irwin," he greeted the guard. The guard nodded and pressed the switch that opened the underground garage door. MFLetou waited for the door to open fully (no sense in risking a scratch on the roof of the car), and then began to pull into the garage. He glanced in his rearview mirror and was startled to see Irwin doubled over. Irwin was pointing at MFLetou's bumper, and howling with laughter.
MFLetou slammed on his brakes and leapt out of the car. He ran around to the back, and stopped short. A cold sweat formed as he spotted the stickers that had been affixed to his rear bumper: "HILLARY '08" "MICHAEL MOORE SPEAKS THE TRUTH" "DON'T BLAME ME; I VOTED FOR KERRY". "You've got to be kidding me," murmured MFLetou, as he frantically tugged on the corner of one of the stickers. He felt sick when he realized that the stickers had been super-glued to his bumper.
TO BE CONTINUED...
on A Family's Gratitude