True Lies

Sometimes it seems my lot in life is to keep other people's stories straight for them.

I tend to listen when people talk. You're supposed to do this to be polite but, it also helps in evaluating people and figuring whether you can trust them or not. It's always good to know how far you can throw them if need be.

Take the "psychologist/therapist" from the Amy/Abby threads. She's always French (for what that is worth) but she's sometimes born and raised in France and sometimes born and raised in America. But always French. Her birthplace and country of upbringing change whenever she is stumped by something pertaining to American pop culture. She was, for example, unfamiliar with the Madeline series of books for girls of grammar school age about a girl growing up in a boarding school in Europe. Now, i only know about these books because over the years my nieces have discussed them. They're kinda big in Europe as well as here and have been made into TV shows and films. I would bet that little French girls read them as well as, I believe, much of the story is set in France.

Well, I guess she had her little French head buried in books about Freud and Nietzsche all that time. And, when the American gym class sport of dodgeball came up, she had no knowledge of it (despite having suddenly been born and raised in America) because she had led a sheltered life in expensive private schools where such activities were not pursued. Okey dokey. Whatever floats one's yacht, I always never say.

But, enough about her. If you can fathom a "psyhcologist/therapist" who has zero knowledge of serial killer Ted Bundy, you've been way over served your bubble tea.

This is about a liar I worked with whom I'll call Ricky Varnish. Varnish is not his real name but it's real close and I'm being cute here because he used to paint with me and, when I wasn't calling him "Preacher my ass!", I was telling him he should tell people his name was "Varnish" cause he liked to varnish the truth. I was being polite with that last comment. The guy was what we in the business call "a fucking liar".

Ricky was a con man. He liked to portray himself as a preacher. There seemed to be one of those on every crew I worked on. Usually they were recovering alcoholics/drug addicts who, as part of getting straight, had to find Jesus. (Good for anyone who does find Jesus in the bottom of a whiskey bottle or at the end of a crack pipe. Good luck to you! No, I can't loan you $20 but I'm VERY happy for you!) But, Ricky took the presentation one step further. He had his own church. Not many guys went that far.

I don't recall where it was. Why remember a place that doesn't exist? He talked about it all the time though 'cause if people hear something often enough, they are inclined to believe it. You know- like if you want people to believe you are French, for example, frequently mention that you are French and- Viola!- you are French!

What Ricky wasn't good at was reciting passages from the Bible. Leastways, he never did this around me. I'm not at all religious and I can easily be fooled by phony bible verses. I think that John 3:16 means "Kick it HERE!" I didn't much care about his full-of-baloney calling. I wasn't buying it and he wasn't trying to sell it to me. I don't think the guy ever hit me up for money though he was into most everyone else on the crew for $20 or more even though few believed he was the least bit Christian, much less a minister. He saved the sizzle on his cheeseburgers for people with more money than us painters. He solicited "donations" for "(his) church" from the tenants whose lease's we were painting. It's not unusual in the south for a guy to have a little store-front church and a full time job. I worked with a couple of Black dude's whom I didn't doubt really were preachers with their own church. One of them, Jerry, regularly regaled us with scripture. He even rebuked me in the name of Jesus once. I was his boss but I wasn't in charge of paying him. My job was to tell our boss that he couldn't paint for shit and our boss decided to pay him a very low wage. Jerry had managed to get hired without bothering to nail down what his pay would be. It probably says somewhere in the bible that you shouldn't do that but our little Ceasar of a boss rendered unto Jerry what you might pay a guy just starting out in the trade though Jerry had his sights set on Ferrerman money. That wasn't ever gonna happen. I hoped that Jerry hadn't painted his own church but, that might have been where his "seven years" of experience came from. The guy was slow...

Ricky didn't earn his money either but he had some talent as a painter. Mostly though, he was able to talk his way through a job. At our last job together, it took FIVE tries to fire him. He kept talking his way back to work. A foreman would fire him and the boss would listen to him, feel bad for him, and send him to another foreman.The lead foreman fired him twice before it took. And when he was finally fired- for eternity this time- he talked his way into a maintenence position at the church my company was doing a massive remodel for. He also talked their minister out of $500 he needed to get the lights turned on at his home so that his fiance who was dying of cancer could have heat and light to read the good book by...and he never showed again.

No doubt a crack dealer got that money. There was no fiance. Ricky was a crackhead. He was one of those that would binge and purge. He appeared normal compared to most that I've known- just goofy. Really goofy when you consider that during one of his purge periods he managed to blow $2000 in one night at a titty bar outside Dothan Alabama without even, um, getting blown, according to the fella's with him that night. Only an INSANE crackhead wastes money like that! You had to question his commitment to the drug. The two G's had probably come from donations he had received for the victims of a tornado that had hit a nearby Alabama town that year. Maybe some of those victims had only g-strings to wear...

You just never know. I like to err on the side of caution. From the safety of the internet people can be what they want to be. This side of a Nigerian Prince, who cares? But if I ever work with another painter who tells me he's a preacher, I'll tell him the Ricky Varnish story. I might then give him twenty bucks just to go away.

The Game Of Life

The other day, the Chicago Cubs suspended Milton Bradley for the final 15 games of the season effectively ending his reign of terror and ineptitude. He was by far the worst free-agent signing in the history of Chicago sports. The team can only hope that some General Manager, one stupider than our own Jim Hendry, will take a chance that this once-decent ballplayer might jell with his team like Hendry foolishly thought Bradley might with the Cubs. It could happen but, I doubt it. It could happen if, just to get rid of the clown, the Cubs pay his contract and a GM picks up on that and decides: "What the Hell- he's free..."

Can you imagine a team and a city being so happy to be rid of a guy that they would pay $21 million for him to go away? Or not even play at all? You can if you can imagine a guy who has enough talent to make it to the major leagues but not enough heart or common sense to stay.

In the movie "Field of Dreams", Burt Lancaster played a character named Moonlight Graham, a guy who had played one game in the majors but never got to bat. The season ended, his contract with the New York Giants wasn't picked up and he went off to Minnesota and became a doctor.

There was, in baseball, an actual player named Moonlight Graham who played in one game for the New York Giants in 1905. He did not bat. If a man ever played an inning in the majors, his stats are in the Baseball Encyclopedia. You can look it up. As for him being a ghost and getting a big league at bat with Shoeless Joe Jackson and some other ex-ballplayers who live in a cornfield in the hereafter, well, the official encyclopedia of baseball doesn't cover that. You just gotta believe the movie.

The man played a part of one game in the majors and never got a chance at the plate. But, he was a big leaguer. A ball player. A part of history.

Milton Bradley is in the book too even if he never plays another inning. He, however, is not in the same league as Moonlight Graham or any other man who played the game at it's highest level. You see, Milton Bradley doesn't give a damn about baseball, the city of Chicago or it's fans. He only cares about himself. What a shame. Chicago is the greatest city in the world, home to the greatest fans in baseball, who watch fairly decent teams play year after year in the best ballpark for baseball that there ever was or will be.

Bradley is pissing all that away. He'll collect his $21 million- the Players Association and, perhaps, Al Sharpton will see to that. Fuck him. Take the money. Cash in your dream. You were not worthy anyway.

Late in September of 1905, a young man named Moonlight Graham stood in right field for the New York Giants.

THAT man, was a ballplayer.

Saturday Morning At The Agenda Cafe

I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I was thinking of breakfast but, why I chose The Agenda Cafe is just beyond silly. The service is terrible there. One waiter, everyone competeing for his attention.

There was a new customer this morning. She was kinda mousey looking. She perused the menu quietly then DEMANDED to know why there weren't any introverts on the menu. The waiter seemed confused.

"We serve blacks, Mexicans, gays and lesbians, women, handicapped people, gun-nuts, all varieties of disenfranchised Republicans- "

She cut him off. "But, no introverts! Why don't you serve introverts!?"

"Well", he replied, "there doesn't seem to be much of a call for those. What with all these other groups screaming for attention, why should we cater to introverts?"

"Because we want to be left alone!"

The waiter, puzzled by the incongruity of her declaration, decided to give her what she seemed to want. He left her table to attend to attend to some left-handed diners puzzled at the injustice of their tableware. Why aren't there left-handed forks, knives and spoons...

I left the cafe myself. Clearly I wasn't even going to get a cup of coffee this morning. I headed off to Mickey D's where everyone gets served eventually and they do not discriminate. Fed, and with a large black coffee to go, I walked past the Agenda Cafe and noticed the introverted gal curled up in a ball in her chair, rocking back and forth. Even through the glass I could hear her demanding to be left alone.

Do we need another minority group in this country? I don't think so. We are all minorities in the sense that each individual is special in their own right and has their own particular wants and needs that often are contrary to the majority. In fact, the silent majority of the individual is the largest minority in the whole world. I'm the only Ferrerman in the world. I don't feel the need to shout out for Ferrerman rights or to complain that the rest of society discriminates against Ferrerman. Sure, at times, some do discriminate against Ferrerman. Not everyone "gets" Ferrerman. Not everyone likes Ferrerman. Not everyone understands Ferrerman. No one truly knows what it's like to be Ferrerman. People want to change Ferrerman...

Should I then suffer in silence at the top of my lungs like others do? Should I organize a "Million Ferrerman March On Washington"? I think that if I did, it would fall short of that count by about 999,999. Should I start a blog about the superiority of Ferrerman as opposed to the inferiority of non-Ferrermans? Some say I already have but, they are wrong about that and haven't been paying close attention. There's that discrimination again...

No, I'll just go on in life as I always have, not belonging to any group that would have me as a member. I'm a Groucho Marxist in that respect. I'm still an infrancinophile- fighting for the true underdogs in life, those that need taking up for. It's what a Ferrerman does.

Thumbs Up!

My thumbnail finally fell off. I tell ya, if a part of your body falls off and you hold it in your hand, count your blessings if it's just a thumbnail.

About five weeks ago I was using one of those fold-up ladders you may have seen around. You might have one in your garage. If you do- shoot it. Kill it now before it kills you.

They're actually pretty good. This one is made by Keller, a known, good maker of ladders. It's a type I, solid hunk of aluminum, 17 feet extended. That it folds into four sections makes it practical to transport. It would sorta fit in a lot of car trunks and definitely fit in any truck. I like it. It just took some getting used to and, that first day, it almost took my thumb.

If I'm boring any lame-ass IT guys with this, sorry! Go on and think about how your advice column didn't work out. It wasn't because the world wasn't ready for a male advice columnist. They were ready for Jeff Zazlow some 25 years ago. The world just didn't need your sorry-ass take on things.

Anyway, I was breaking the ladder down to extend it when it collapsed REALLYFAST on my thumb. I had one side locked in and was fixing to do the other when it snapped shut. I almost got my hand out in time. It caught the tip of the thumb about 3/4".

I invented new swear words as I danced around the yard, horrible, disgusting words never before heard on this planet. I know this because I checked.

I cannot print them here because the copyright process is a slow one and though I seem to be stymied with that right now, I don't want someone with more legal smarts than me beating me out of my copyright. I already took the risk when I did some consulting of potential users of these words.

I first called the United States Navy. Sailors are known for their colorfull language. I had visions of government contracts on my mind. I spoke with an Admiral, a lifer. He told me that in his 25 years of service he had never heard such vulgarity. "The Navy has no use for such filth!" he declared before giving me the number for the Marines and telling me "Have a nice day, asshole!"

I didn't have any luck with the Marines either. Evidently they are not allowed to talk like "Full Metal Jacket" anymore. Who knew? And the Longshoreman's Union and the Teamsters wouldn't return my calls after several messages and hang-ups.

So, I found a copyright attorney who is gonna see what he can do. Mr. Smucatelli has the worlds prettiest receptionist. This gal is stacked. Damn good looking. Sally is kinda young though, maybe too young for me. I was certainly interested in her but, I don't think she reciprocated. I gave her a copy of my words. Well, she asked.

"Oh my!" she declared. "Are these the kind of things you would say while making passionate, violent love to a woman?"

Heavens no. I could never talk to a woman like that!

"Well, there goes my weekend" she sighed. "Yours too".

I don't know what she meant by that. You know how women are. They cab be very msyterious.

So, no word back yet from Smucatelli or Sally about the status of the copyright. But, I'm glad that the nail is off, a new one is on it's way and that raw, nasty flesh beneath the old nail is tougher than it looks.

Who knew?

Old soldiers

In the past few weeks I have had three "regulars" leave nice posts on my blog, questioning why I have such a problem with the dregs and why it must persist. These aren't ninnies, mind you, but three people rather new to the threads who have wondered what exactly has been going on and why. I WILL NOT reveal their screen names and I did not, as per their request, publish their comments. They do not care to be part of the witchhunt. They've read my blog and agree that the penis pic's were a lie and a very wrong thing for A770 to do. They get that. What they don't get it why I care. Well now, that's a good question.

They also get that she's most likely not a therapist at all. Yes, Ferrerman, it's the internet and people pretend to be people that they aren't. Even with the lie about the penis pic's, is this THAT big of a deal?

Not really. I saw through it about 10 months ago. These three came to conclusion on their own but, admittedly, I fueled that doubt with my posts on the matter. "She" may be a 300# dis-abled longshoreman named Chuck for all I know or care. If Chuck wants anonymous people on the internet to believe that he is female, French therapist with a practice and students and a lab filled with assistants- why should I care? Actually, I don't really care. But, s/he, Chuck/Angelique started this silly shit and it's been real and it's been loads of fun but, it's not real fun anymore.

There are two people who know the truth about the lie of the penis pic's. One's me and the other is Chuck/Angelique- A770 for short. That's it. Nobody else. Everyone else has a position. They either belive her, believe me or don't care. When that fucking retard rashional was making noise about sueing me for defamation of her character, I invited her to prove it. Show the cops in her city the picture(s) and the love-letter e-mails that she sometimes added were also sent and pursue a criminal or civil case. Just do it.

She didn't. Because, there was no proof. There was no proof because it did not happen.

The lie is out there, where all lies are. They're just there. If you want it, pick it up. If you don't, keep moving. Sure, I was pissed about the lie at first. You would be too. But, if a few anonymous girls who don't know me- will never know me- believe the lie of someone else on the internet (that they don't actually know either!) told them to be true, what difference does it make? For me, this isn't real life. It's just the internet. For too many of them, it IS their real life. It's all they've got.

So, we've come full cycle with her lie about the penis pic(S). (Sometimes there was one, others there were several thus the (s).) For a time, in a effort to get me to cop a plea, she offered that someone might have hijacked my Facebook account for the sole purpose of sending her dick pic(s). If I would have apologized for that, everything would have been okay...

But damn, I'm hard-headed. You just can't get me to admit to anything that I didn't do. I am not a team player, in that respect.

I also did not out anyone's real life name. So, no, I won't be apologizing for that either. That silly shit is not even worth discussing.

The three commenters seemed to just want the forum to return to the banality of the back and forth of what the Amy/Abby threads used to be before the Tribune bailed on Topix. They seemed bemused by the imaginary tea parties and just accepted it as part of the threads. Again, if 770 wants to pass herself off as a therapist, a psychologist or whatever, it doesn't really matter. Hey, the bubble tea is free, right? It doesn't matter.

Yeah, fine. It's silly and stupid but it's harmless enough. I don't guess these people care that there is a secret society of introverts and I respect that. They just want to discuss vegan breastfeeding and whatever else is in the letters each day. If they have strong opinions about a subject that go against the grain of the regulars, they still might wind up being ridiculed in a story by 770 but, it won't be seen in the Forum threads like they used to so, who cares?

These three, from what I've seen of their posts and what they told me here, have lives and just want a little diversion during their workday. And they would like this diversion to be good, harmless fun. I agree. Only one actually said this in so many words but, yes, if I quit posting this would all stop. I didn't *have* to but, it could help.

Sadly, this is true. It started with her lie but i kept fighting. The lie grew and now every post I make is seen as inflamatory and/or threatening. Things have gone beyond ridiculous. These assholes are so entrenched it isn't funny anymore. It WAS funny to me for a long time and it might have seemed funny to these three and other posters at times but it has now become a chore. I'm tired of it. I won but there is no peace in occupation.

So, for the innies who left, I will leave. And for these three anonymous posters, I will leave. But, most of all, I will leave for me. 'Cause this shit's gotten old.

And, uh, these dregs fight like a bunch of pussies anyway...

We had an entire floor to do at the Ridgeway Hotel in Memphis. I was running the job and it was in good shape. The deadline was that Friday and we would make that with ease. There were, of course, televisions in every room and I hoped my guys would work and not involve themselves in game shows all morning. We had no idea how those televisions would change our lives that day.

Someone came into the room I was working in and told me to put on CNN. A plane had just crashed into a building in New York.

My God! How could that happen?

We stopped to watch the drama. We speculated on how a pilot could make such a mistake. Was it a small plane with a novice at the yoke? What about all those poor people in their offices, working, minding their business. How many victims could there be? What an unfortunate tragedy! You just never know...

Then the second plane hit. This was no longer an accident.

I turned to Mr. Minor, a combat Marine veteran of Vietnam.

"We're at war. With who?" He did not answer. He had a thousand yard stare in his eyes.

We had to get back to work. Just had to. Our hearts and minds were in New York but we had work to do. Soon, important people came on the job. We didn't have until Friday anymore. Memphis International Airport was shut down, stranding thousands of passengers and every hotel room in Memphis was needed, NOW. Lou and Rodney came in from the shop. This job had to be done today and they promised me more men. The prissy hotel manager came upstairs to demand that the work be done NOW. We couldn't pull off. The nature of the beast of construction is that you do what you can, sometimes getting ahead of yourself and so, few of the rooms were ready for occupancy. The mornings initial dilemma, that the half the paint delivered was the wrong shade, needed to be addressed. Lou made the call to paint the rooms on one side the correct shade, the other side the wrong shade. Whatever. The building was either going to be remodeled in a year or demolished. Who would care? It just HAD to be done, NOW.

Hotel security decided to give us all name tags. Jose Arrellano, my Mexican friend, was the first to get one. They hadn't seen fit to question his citizenship, I thought. It's funny what people think- and don't think about- in times of crisis. Jose handed me my name tag.

I didn't exactly get extra help. I got two men to replace the two who left at three thirty. Their day was done. If we were, in fact, at war, I asked Lou, could I shoot them for desertion? In all seriousness he replied, "No".

With the help of the men who stayed and the men who joined, we got the job done. Housekeeping came on and cleaned up our mess as we moved along. We had stayed apprised of the horrific events on TV and heard all the facts and rumors as we worked to make shelter for our fellow Americans. The horrible carnage was replayed over and over. Someone had done a horrible, cowardly thing to our country and we were angry and afraid. There had been nothing we could do about it but our jobs.

The hotel manager reappeared to verify that we were done. I think it was around nine o'clock that night. He immediately noticed that the rooms on either side were different colors. He was not happy about this. Not at all.

"Motherfucker", I said to him, "there maybe 20,000 people dead in New York City and you fucking care that the colors are wrong?!"

He objected to me talking to him like that. My next trick might have been to slug him so, to avoid that I threw up my hands in contempt and walked away. If I didn't have a job the next day because of that, it was a job I didn't need to have. There seemed to be more important concerns in the world...

I had ridden to work with Harry that September morning. We got in his truck and rode away in silence into the night. We didn't want to talk about prissy managers, buildings tumbling down in fire and smoke or unseen, unknown enemies. We wanted to get drunk.

We stopped at a gas station for 12 packs. The price of gas was now $5 per gallon. I would NEVER patronize that store again. But, we got our beer. And 14 hours and four beers into the worst day in our american history, I went to sleep wondering, fearing, what kind of a world I would wake up to.

My work often brings me into the homes of complete strangers. Friends, usually women, have asked if this ever bothered me, creeped me out. I'm not much at being a guest and I sure do prefer the comfort of my own home to others but, you gotta do what you gotta do to make a buck. So, no, I've never been scared in other people's homes. I have been a little creeped out after the fact.

Joe D. was an old bachelor. He was probably in his mid-fifties at the time. There was no wife or ex-wife to speak of and no photo's of the children in his Berwyn home. I recall that I had to delay work on his kitchen for a few days because I had taken sick. When I called him to advise him of the rhyme and reason to the delay, he assured me that my being sick was not a problem for him and I could come over and work. Um, no. That was why I was calling. I couldn't perform the work.

I got better in a couple of days and called and arranged a new start date. When I arrived at his house, he was on a three-way call with his mother and one of her friends.

"Ferrerman finally showed up, ma and Mrs Garflinerhuffle! He's actually here! You said he wouldn't show but he's actually here!"

A yellow flag arose in my mind. I was just a painter. Why was I the center of this guys universe? Why were his mother and Mrs Garflinerhuffle so concerned about my arrival? Weird and creepy but, I know how hard it is to get contractors to show up and people do get anxious.

Joe D. wasn't all that bad. Just a little out there I guessed. There wasn't a lot to the job and I finished in a timely fashion. We did the walk through and he was pleased with the work. He cut me a check.

"Why don't you come on down to the basement", he asked, "and have a beer with me? The fridge is broken and the beer is warm but, come on down stairs and let's have a beer."

Well I had heard about that broken fridge and the warm beer the entire time I worked in his house. It seemed to me that a smart guy would have iced that beer down in anticipation of a celebratory beer. Warm beer does not appeal to me but, neverminding that, I had a wife and kids to get home to so I begged off despite his overly persistent pleas. That persistence raised another yellow flag to me. The thought occurred to me that I could go down into that basement and never come back up- alive. He was old and I could take him but, not if I drank a drugged, warm beer. John Wayne Gacy had hinted that he had not acted alone and he took the names of his accomplices to his grave when he finally finished those awful clown paintings when the State got around to executing him. I'm being flippant of course but, better to err on the side of caution. I cashed the check and went home.

Nine o'clock that night, Joe D. called to advise me that I had left a tool at his house and he wanted me to come over and get it. He wanted me to come over "now". All my stuff was accounted for. I asked him to describe it. It's been years but, what ever tool it was, was not mine. I heard a male voice in the background. Joe then told me that his carpenter had discovered something wrong with my work and Joe needed me to come over "now" to remedy it. I asked him to describe the work. It had nothing to do with the scope of my work, work that he had signed off on earler that day. He protested that his carpenter said I needed to fix the problem and, again, it needed to be done "now".

"You tell your genius carpenter to fix it himself. I'm done with you." I hung up the phone. I think he called back several times, I may have answered once more but, it was late and I turned the phone off. I would never work for this clown again.

A few years later, I did some work for a very beautiful woman, in Bartlet Tn. I think it was her kids bedroom. There wasn't a lot to it. I painted the room and hung a border. She wasn't at all creepy like Joe D. had been. A deeply tanned brunette she was quite, smoking hot. I liked her a lot.

You never know about women. Sometimes you read signals wrong. Why did she change her daisy dukes five times that afternoon? Why did she throw herself down on the bed, her crotch in my face as I knelt down to do something by the bed? Why was she looking at me like that? Why had she brushed her ample breasts up against me as I reached up on a shelf to retrieve something she had asked for? She had seemed to be topless, brushing her hair in the bathroom with the door wide open earlier. Why? And, to this day, I will always wonder why I didn't backtrack to check what I thought I had seen...

Well, I know why. I was married and loyal to my wife. I wasn't a cheater. Surely I was mis-reading all these "signals" that weren't really there because, let's face it, I'm a guy and that's what we do. Her kids were in the house that whole day, playing. It was just my imagination running away from me that anything sexual would happen that day. She was an extremely desirable woman who just happened to be very sexy. I had met her husband that morning. She knew I was married. The kids were in the house for Gods sake. I'm such a tool. She couldn't have been topless with the door wide open...

I finshed the job to her satisfaction, collected the check and went home to the wife and kids.

Nine o'clock that night, the phone rang. It was her husband. He was supposed to have gone to the casinos that night with his brother. He was calling to tell me that I had left a tool at his home and that I should come over to get it right now. I asked him to describe the tool. It wasn't mine.

Suddenly, there was a problem with the border I had hung in the kids room. It needed to be addressed "now". I countered that it was late for both me and the kids and that I could look at it the next day. The kids, he said, wouldn't be a problem as they were at a sleep over. Well, I said it's late. He persisted. It was STILL late. He persisted... Call me tomorrow I said and I hung up.

They say that nothing good happens after midnight. I guess in my timezone, you could say nine o'clock. I don't think this couple were serial killers of painters like Joe D. may or may not have been but I couldn't see any good coming from a late night visit to their home. My first thought had been that the husband might have thought something had happened between his wife and I. Maybe he wanted to kick my ass. My second thought wasn't much better. Couples sometimes like to share... Some guys like to watch... It wasn't my idea of a good time anyway you sliced it.

Common sense tells you not to venture into bad neighborhoods during the day and most definitely not at night. That's a no-brainer. Work takes you into a lot of unfamilar territory and you do what you gotta do. I just prefer to do it during business hours. It's good to be safe at home.