“Craigslist Crazy”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

Craigslist.

Merely speaking this name aloud is an act of rebellion. The moniker carries a connotation of seediness. Of shady deals, of unfulfilled promise, of the fringe. Yet every day, this expansive website proves its worth as a tool for job postings, social networking and commentary.

My last employer cheerfuly posted opportunities with the company on Craigslist. Because they could be offered at no cost to the business and potentially reach thousands of readers from the county. Quite often, the connections made through this site resulted in missed interviews or undependable candidates. But the zero-cost factor remained attractive. I often likened it to casting a fishing net on the water. The catch could be unpredictable. Yet worth the chance that big results might come from this minimal investment.

After hours, I often pondered the variety of job posts on this website. There seemed to be much useful ‘chum’ for my newspaper column. With the sort of breezy, free-form writing one could barely hope to create accurately in a fictional environment. I reckoned it was a portal into genuine sociological study. And an opportunity to pursue my craft as a professional scribe.

A recent scroll through pages on Craigslist yielded several interesting posts:

NOW CASTING – Men Wanting To Be Fathers / 6063919264

(Cleveland)

“I’m a TV Casting Producer looking for a single man 35-40 yrs old (with no children) who would like to be matched with the perfect co-parent to have a baby with for a new series on a major cable network! Living together and romance is not necessary! MUST have a job, be outgoing, independent and serious about having and raising a child! Email back if this sounds like you!”

Living together and romance not necessary? This seemed basically like a divorce without any of the pre-split perks. I would guess some kind of agreement, not a pre-nuptuial but instead a non-nuptuial accord, might be involved?

Ladies Paid To Get Tickled / 6062588888

(Mayfield Heights)

“I’m looking for women that have very cute and ticklish feet that are willing to get them massaged and tickled for an hour and a half as well as your entire body. You will get $100 for the time. A pic of your feet must be sent. Put you(r) shoe size in the subject line. You must come to me. The smaller the feet, the better.”

I had to wonder over the time allotment. Not $100 for one hour but for 1.5 hours? That seemed guaranteed to create billing issues. Also, since tickling of the feet appeared to be a focal point, should this action not be paid at a higher rate than tickling the rest of the body?

Looking For Creepypasta Writer / 6043525242

(No Location)

“Hello, I am writing this as I am looking for any individuals that are talented writers. Someone that can specifically write creepypastas for me. The right person is probably already familiar with what creepypastas are, but if not, they are short stories that are meant to scare the reader/listener. I prefer stories that are on the unsettling/mindf*** side. A good story with a little character development – things that will keep the reader/listener interested. A great twist to an already well written story is fantastic too. I am looking for stories that would range from 20 minutes to an hour long if read aloud. I am of course, willing to pay for these stories. Upon doing that, I would like the stories to appear nowhere else online aside from my website, as that’s basically the point of my site… If I were to use your story, you will be given credit as the author under whatever name you’d like me to use. If I like your writing, we will work out a deal.”

I had never heard this particular term before. (Automatically excluded from any potential deal!) Not sure if the advertiser here is simply an editor/publisher or someone with a carnal interest in oddball fiction. I would guess the backstory might be more interesting than any of the actual manuscripts submitted.

Mature Woman For Phone Chat With Me / 6033118923

(No Location)

“Gentleman author seeking a strict minded, mature, female who believes in discipline to discuss various scenarios. These discussions help me to be productive in my writing of stories (for publications, movies). I pay by pp 60 cents a minute for conversations that often run an hour or more several times a week. Prefer women 35 and up. Reply will get you phone number and a time to call for more info.”

At such a generous rate of pay ($36 per hour) I was tempted to refer this ad to my friend Janis, who is in her early 40’s. It would be the sort of side income she might find useful for cigarette money. And certainly amusing during the slow evening hours after work. A greater reward than investing in satellite TV to pass the time.

Trivia Hosts Wanted! / 6047882226

(Cleveland)

“Do you love Jeopardy? Is Bob Barker your idol? Have you dreamed of becoming a game show host? Then this is the gig for you! Last Call Productions is a fun and professional live Trivia company that put(s) on hundreds of Trivia shows across the country in local bars in restaurants… Potential hosts must confidently be able to read trivia questions, play music (host must have their own smart phone or laptop [recommended]), handle audio equipment (can be provided by Last Call and easy to use), keep score (Excel scoresheet template provided), interact with Trivia teams, entertain the crowd, and other small tasks. Trivia shows last about 2 hours and are generally in the evening hours… $50 - $55 per gig.”

You had me at ‘Bob Barker!’ Depending on the travel costs and preparation time, this particular opportunity might average out to a reasonable wage. An entertaining way to spend the evening. If drinks were included, gratis, on behalf of the venue involved, this might become significantly more attractive as a potential opportunity.

Manager, Assistant Manager/VIP Floorhost (Crazy Horse Airport) / 6031425240

(Brook Park)

“The individual chosen should be able to learn, follow and administer specific and detailed training instructions on the art of hospitality and taking care of our clientele. Prior experience in the industry is appreciated. Applicants must: possess a patient, positive attitude and an outgoing and friendly personality. Have the ability to work with, train and manage a variety of people and personality types. Have a desire to work hard and give excellent customer service...”

The thought of working in a professional ‘strip club’ seems intriguing. Guaranteed to produce stories that might be useful at a later time for a creative writer, if cloaked in anonymity. Even at an entry-level rate of pay, this opportunity might prove to be rewarding as an avenue to look just beneath the veneer of everyday civility in search of prose.

My Craigslist adventure in job seeking provided yet another moment where a column seemed to ‘write itself.’ And I had only begun to browse. Further installments of this kind seemed likely to follow.

Thank you, Mr. Craig.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“CRAGG”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

I have written frequently about my long-distance friendship with legendary California guitarist Davie Allan. His work in ‘chopper’ films from the 1960’s has remained notable ever since those hedonistic days of yore. It has been my privilege to review his work in print, write letters lobbying on his behalf and even provide liner notes for his recordings.

My genuine affinity for Davie’s music began when I bought a copy of the ‘Devil’s Angels’ movie soundtrack, while going to high school in the Pittsburgh area. Like many music fans, I was familiar with his ‘Blues Theme’ 45 but knew little else about his recorded history. My favorite radio station, WYDD-FM, was a ‘hippie’ inspiration, one of the genuine ‘free-form’ broadcasters that sought to buck the corporate trend of regular broadcasting. But they offered little of Davie’s work. My vinyl artifact, only about ten years old at that time, began to open the door. I could not have imagined where that path would lead. Davie and I became connected after I added a personal note of thanks to an order of CDs through his website, during the 1990’s.

A modern bonus from my association with Davie arrived recently, when he was interviewed by Terry and Tiffany DuFoe, the creators of ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go’ which is available via the Internet.

I found a podcast link, and enjoyed their conversation. But, because I was unfamiliar with the CRAGG creations, it seemed appropriate to investigate further. A bit of reading revealed that their live stream and archives were available on my Roku box, in addition to other platforms. I downloaded their channels immediately. (CRAGG TV and CRAGG Radio.) And then came… an epiphany of sorts. All the way from California to the heartland of Ohio.

Another frequent subject for this writer has been the odd expertise of my late friend Paul Race, Jr. from Corning, New York. His status as a veteran of Cornell University, collector, musician, illustrator and anti-social iconoclast were unmatched by anyone I have known. The universe of CRAGG literally hit all these buttons with precision. It was as if my old friend had been reincarnated in these kindred souls.

I clicked through a list of interview subjects that had appeared on their live program and it was an impressive roster of postwar, pop culture which included:

Rob Zombie, musician; George Romero, film director; Elvira, horror host; Robert Englund, actor; Billy ‘Crash’ Craddock, heroic Country performer; Samuel Z. Arkoff, film mogul; Gilbert Gottfried, comedian; Ronda Shear, of ‘Up All Night’ fame; Orion, Elvis impersonator; Del Shannon, 60’s icon; June Lockhart, TV mom; Arch Hall, Jr., movie cult hero and musician; Vincent Price, hero of all.

I corresponded with Tiffany via social media and learned that they were fans of ‘Dark Shadows’ which was another of the influences that helped create my own consciousness as a wordsmith. Her live stream of their household collection looked much like my own, populated with relics of Coca-Cola, Rock rebellion and golden age television. For people that I had never met, on the other side of America, they seemed undeniably familiar. And alike. Eventually, I messaged her with this conclusion:

“Your mix of songs and material is truly amazing. I never know what to expect. It is almost like I took an acid trip and had my life played back, record by record. Something like ‘Rock & Roll Confidential’ by Penny Stallings.”

Continued research revealed that Terry and Tiffany originated their streamcasts from an abandoned drive-in theater, from 6:00 – 10:00 p.m. PST on Saturday nights. A father-daughter team of great consequence. Included were Wicked Kitty and Fritz, the studio cats, along with CRAGG the gargoyle.

Their encyclopedic knowledge of all things from the ‘Baby Boom’ era seemed to be unlimited in scope. Terry was a disc jockey on AM and FM radio, while Tiffany was a prodigious child who reportedly ‘saw her first John Waters film at the age of ten.’

I was in awe!

This connection left me spellbound and I could not tune away. For weeks afterward, CRAGG was on my Roku whenever I was at home.

An old adage says: ‘Content is king.’ This truism echoed over and over as I listened to Tiny Tim singing “I love Rock & Roll’ followed by a show excerpt from ‘Hazel’ followed by a promo bit for ‘X Minus One’ from NBC radio in the 1950’s, a series which included scripts written by Issac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Robert A. Heinlein and Phillip K. Dick.

DuFoe & DuFoe seemed to tap directly into the zeitgeist of pop culture that would eventually come to bear fruit in the ‘Punk’ revolution of the 1970’s and in countless B-Movies offered to the masses with themes of teenage rebellion, horror, choppers and hot rods.

As an overgrown kid from Ohio, their stream-of-consciousness was irresistible,

I listened to an episode of ‘Kitchen Sink Radio’ from 2011, where Tiffany was interviewed, and she seemed very much like part of the family... her father, like one of our crew at WTCC/WCIC – channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, when I worked there in the 1970’s. People well-versed in the genres of Garage Band Rock, low-buck Sci-Fi and B-Movie abandon. Originally, like me, from ihe heartland.

One quote in particular caught my attention. She spoke about Terry’s desire to broaden the scope of terrestrial radio:

“He had... an idea, back in the late 70’s, of doing a radio station, he actually pitched this idea to AM/FM in Illinois where we’re from, that he wanted to do a free-form radio station that could literally be a hodgepodge of everything, that somebody who is very eclectic could listen to it and one time, you know, hear a Buck Owens song and then the next, hear a Ramones song. And… I guess it was before its time. It didn’t end up coming to fruition...”

Once again, I was back at my vintage RCA with the ‘Tone of the Golden Throat’ listening to WYDD in Pittsburgh.

I had been inspired by the station to think of radio as an educational tool. My hope was to provide a varied tonal palette in the spirit of our family record collection. One that dependably offered vintage recordings of Blues, Country & Western, Gospel, Folk and early Rock & Roll. But my attempts to swing an apprenticeship at local stations in New York, through Cornell University, yielded nothing but frustration at the commerce-driven industry. With a detour to local television I encountered on-air cohort David Bly, a librarian by profession and a faithful disciple of popular music. His notion that broadcasts should inform and uplift listeners was in sync with my own. What followed was an undisciplined stream of art and energy.

CRAGG brought these echoes of yonder days to a logical conclusion. It gave me a renewed sense of focus.

Another vibe from the realm of bygone culture came as I tuned into CRAGG TV and saw that they were offering a replay of the John Hayes classic “Grave of the Vampire.” I recalled seeing it on the WNEW late movie while I was studying at Cornell. Beyond pushing the reasonable limits of a cinematic feature to convey shock and entertainment, the film also offered William Smith, ‘chopper’ film hero, in a starring role.

More than spellbound, I was caught in a time warp between my youth and the harsh light of modernity.

I sent Tiffany You Tube links to video clips from my New York television show. It was the first time since my friend Paul passed away in 2014 that I felt truly excited about reviving those memories. I reckoned that she and Terry would understand our cause.

And share in continuing the journey!

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Farewell, Jimmy Breslin”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

I moved to Ithaca, New York in 1978.

As a boy from Columbus, Ohio, the very thought of living within the borders of New York gave me pause. Or to be more specific, it made me tremble with the fear of metropolitan environs and a political climate not given to folksy, midwestern habits. I felt trepidation from the first moment of my life at a cultural and educational crossroads like Cornell University. Yet after only a few short weeks, I realized that this seismic shift in my life was a blessed happening of circumstance.

New York was a rite of passage. Like so many before me who came from the heartland, I had arrived.

Newspaper columnist Jimmy Breslin was already a renowned figure. And, an iconic personality in the city and in the Empire State. So it was that one of my first encounters with his image came through advertisements for Piels Beer. Looking a bit ruffled, as if he had just come to a local bar after covering some sort of political or sociological mayhem, which induced rabid thirst, he offered a blue-collar opinion on the brew:

“When Piels came to me to do this, I said ‘I’m not Bert or Harry, I’m Jimmy Breslin, a writer.’ But, beer is a subject that is not exactly unknown to me. So I tried one. I liked it! It’s good beer. I tried another. It’s better than good. It’s a good drinkin’ beer. That’s how I describe Piels. It’s a good drinkin’ beer.”

My friend Paul Race, from Corning, explained the characters of Bert and Harry Piels. They were cartoon fellows, voiced by the comedy team of Bob Elliott and Ray Goulding. In a vintage series of ads they had described the quality and appeal of this brew.

I had wanted to be a newspaper columnist since the age of ten, thanks to reading Mike Royko. So Breslin immediately caught my attention. He was brash, opinionated and clearly a product of his environment. I quickly became spellbound by his work. Plus, he advertised beer. No one drowning in pretentiousness and self-worship would do a commercial for beer. It was like a USDA stamp of quality. Authenticity. What some call ‘Street Cred.’ This guy spoke my language:

“I don’t know any other columnists, and I don’t know what they do. I work the single! And nobody does what I do, anyway… Pick up any newspaper in the morning. Count the words in the lead sentences. There will be at least 25 in all of them: Guaranteed. The writers just want to tell you how many degrees they have from this college or that university.”

Friends who were active in the field seemed to naturally gravitate toward an air of gentle snobbery, which I resisted. While they read the New Yorker, I read Easyriders and Biker Lifestyle, both ‘chopper’ magazines. And I read newspaper columnists like Andy Rooney, Art Buchwald, or Erma Bombeck. Also Rock critics like Lester Bangs and Legs McNeil. Hunter S. Thompson was ever-present. But Breslin came across in the guise of a regular fellow. Someone gifted with the grasp of creative writing, but likely to be in the next row at a baseball game, or on the next stool at a local bar. His authenticity worked like a magnet. It drew me to his prose. Then, charged me with energy for my own pursuit of the craft. I was young, strong-headed and loud. He sounded like a patron saint:

“Rage is the only quality which has kept me, or anybody I have ever studied, writing columns for newspapers.”

I wrote my own first column for the ‘Learning Web’ bulletin, sponsored by Cornell, while serving an apprenticeship at the local television outlet. While clunky and lacking graceful style, it opened the door. One of those who visited the broadcast studios was an editor at a genuine local newspaper. Our friendship brought together the creative elements. Jimmy Breslin made me believe that an everyday person could write professionally. My mentor from the paper offered some useful technical details on how this could be accomplished, in real terms.

Humor also proved to be a useful tool. Not of a comic variety, but simply as a matter of personal style. Breslin wrote with the good-natured honesty of someone who was both curious and open-minded, sometimes sounding like a favorite uncle in a moment of genuine wonder:

“I intended to concentrate throughout the summer on matters of extreme urgency: ocean waves breaking in the sunlight and swirls inside oyster shells and the mystery of the sound of ice hitting the sides of a glass. In the afternoon, the ice makes only this gentle, clicking, almost tinkling sound. Yet at night it sounds like gravel being poured into a barrel. Why is ice louder at night than it is in the daytime? Let me put on my shoes and we’ll go out and investigate.”

When I left New York to rediscover family roots in Ohio, he remained somewhere in my head. Time was required to adjust back to old traditions living in what my friends colorfully described as ‘flyover country.’ I stopped seeing ads for Piels beer. And stopped thinking of myself as a wanderer seeking knowledge in a foreign land. But the dice had been cast.

Recently, I heard of his passing on the day of an ‘Author Series’ at the Ashtabula Library, where I had been invited to speak about my books. His career was a topic visited early in my remarks. When asked about my influences as a wordsmith, I named them with pride. “Harley-Davidson, Mad Magazine, Mike Royko and Jimmy Breslin.” An ad in the back of ‘Iron Horse’ soliciting motorcycle fiction stories had first caused me to consider writing in that genre. Added to these other influences, it made for a creative stew of ideas.

Breslin had appealed to the man-child I was, helping me to evolve as a writer and personality. Now, he seemed to speak from beyond the horizon as I struggled along with my cane and a reusable Giant Eagle shopping bag full of books:

“When you stop drinking, you have to deal with this marvelous personality that started you drinking in the first place.”

Perhaps my greatest lesson from him was to feel comfortable writing as myself. To follow the advice I had been given as a fledgling scribe by my ink-slinging father, “Write from your own experiences.” Breslin made that endeavor seem not only possible, but indeed, reasonable.

Rest In Piels, Jimmy B.

Questions or comments about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, Ohio 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Wrangler +10”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

We needed a couch. We got a puppy.

It has already become an old story in the Ice household - how I took a shopping trip with Wife 2.0 in 2007, while we were hunting for furniture. Our destination was a store called “Refound Treasures” which was then located in Huntsburg. My spouse had seen a suitable ‘davenport’ advertised at this bargain emporium, one that would replace our beloved green monster, which had come from her mother in Wisconsin. When we arrived, the store was loaded with all sorts of interesting stock. Trinkets, tchotchkes, sports artifacts and household goods. So much to ponder that our mission was temporarily sidetracked by curiosity. It took more than a half hour of browsing to remember our intended purpose. Only then did we realize that the couch we wanted had been sold.

On the way to my truck, a cacophony of barking brightened our mood of defeat. Young puppies were in an outside pen by the store. Their playful clatter provided a welcome distraction. As we paused to look, one of the business owners approached. She explained that a neighbor’s Border Collie had unexpectedly visited their Golden Labrador Retriever, named Liza. The result was a litter of eleven babies. What we saw were five of the group.

Some puppies had longer hair, ostensibly like their father. But one was a black, canine nugget, with what appeared to be a white cross on his chest. Pure Lab. No genetic evidence that his sire had been a different breed. He poked his nose through the fence. My wife uttered words that would live in infamy: “Can I just hold him?”

The store owner obliged, graciously.

Dog magic is potent stuff. It is known to melt even the hardest of human hearts. As the chubby fellow licked and wrestled and yapped and pawed at my spouse, more of her reckless words filled the air. “How much would he cost?” she asked.

“Fifty dollars,” the owner smiled. “And we will take care of all his shots. He is seven weeks old.”

I had been straining to imagine how we would afford a new couch. The idea of buying a pet for a house already populated by three cats and a Pomeranian seemed indefensible. Even foolish. But it was my wife’s silence that spoke loudest. She held the puppy out, for a better view. “What do you think?” she asked. “Isn’t he cuuuuuute?”

My stomach felt like I had swallowed a rock. Of course the little fellow was cute. Damned cute. They are all so damned cute at that age. So. Damned. Cute.

Driving home, my wife snuggled with the dog. “We’ve got a baby!” she sang. “We’ve got a baby!” Her enthusiasm could not be hidden. “So, what do we call him? Spike? Bowser? Muttley? Maybe Doggie McNugget?”

I frowned over the steering wheel. “My brother has a dog named Levi. He’s a Shepherd – Lab mix. Levis are blue jeans. So lets name this guy ‘Wrangler’ because that is another kind of jeans.”

Wife 2.0 ignored my sarcasm. “Wrangler! I actually like that!”

It did not take long to realize that the name fit him well. Our new friend was rambunctious, rowdy and mischievous. He chewed on everything. Pens, pencils, our television remote, rolled newspapers, undergarments with elastic, even the phone line for our home computer.

Aided by my father-in-law “Papa Rick” we went through the typical training routines. He had grown up outside of Milwaukee and knew more about dogs than anyone I had ever met. Plus, he had been a military police officer during the Vietnam era. So questioning his advice would have been insane. Also, quite possibly, unpatriotic.

I did not want to lack patriotism, or be a bad doggie daddy.

Wrangler was always hungry. He out-consumed the Pomeranian despite being slightly smaller. As he grew in size, his appetite also increased. Eventually, my wife brought home a dish of glazed, salt-dough fruit from our local church auction. They were all painted in appropriate colors. She wanted to use them in a teaching exercise. Our ornery pooch gobbled them down while we were busy with household chores. Too soon, he realized his mistake. We had to take him out into the yard. He had just enough energy to void his belly, then lay in the grass. This cycle repeated over and over until he felt better.

My wife fought back tears. I could not help remarking on the event. “Well, this certainly explains the old phrase ‘sick as a dog!’” She wasn’t amused.

Our Black Lab had an oversized head and paws after about six months. He looked gangly and awkward. But his personality drew many fans from the neighborhood. While the Pomeranian yipped and yapped at anyone passing by, Wrangler was content to chase wandering cats. Or sun himself on the lawn.

“He’s a quiet dog,” my spouse observed. “I like that.”

Papa Rick called him a marshmallow. He reckoned that we were too gentle and unconvincing with our training regimen. But on a summer afternoon, as my stepdaughters were playing soccer, a stray mutt entered the yard. It was large and rippled with muscles. A German Shepherd I did not recognize.

Wrangler stood tall. Suddenly, I did not know him or his demeanor. He uttered a low growl while approaching the territorial intruder. His white teeth glistened. No harm would be permitted to the girls. He crouched on his front legs, ready to strike. The stray dog lost its nerve and ran.

My wife was duly impressed. “He’s a hero!”

Eventually, he grew into proper proportions. But the Pom was still ‘Alpha Dog’ despite his enormous disadvantage in size. He led the Black Lab around like a schoolboy. Both pooches enjoyed riding in the truck, though with my wife and stepdaughters, that made for a full load. We enjoyed summer outings to the Thompson Ice Cream Stand, to Trumbull Locker, for smokies, or to the Harpersfield Covered Bridge.

These stories came back from memory as I contemplated that this month, our beloved ‘furkid’ was about to turn ten years old. My wife and girls had moved to their own residence beyond the county line. And the old Pomeranian had crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But Wrangler continued his quest for tasty treats and kitties to chase. He looked a bit chunky and moved with less speed than before. Yet he was still a puppy at heart.

His favorite place remained next to the desk during late-night writing sessions. Somehow, I guessed that his canine spirit helped to offer inspiration. He was my muse with paws and a wagging tail.

I would not have it any other way.

Comments or questions about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, Ohio 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Face to Face”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

Note to Readers: I often say that the best columns write themselves. What follows here is an example of that truism, delivered with the kind of authenticity and passion that is impossible to resist. Or to manufacture artificially. This is a tale from the era of “Thoughts At Large” which was my former column for the county’s most successful weekly print publication. It ran for 16 years and encompassed diverse subjects including local history, politics, religion, music, sports, transportation and culture. Along with fanciful flights of fiction that I spun out of a literary fabric based on friends from the area. Read on and decide for yourself if this was a worthy cause or merely a detour from reality:

It was a winter night, around five years ago. I had just finished my work routine in Geneva and was passing through Chardon on my way home to the rural hinterland of eastern Geauga. Only a need for fuel and snacks lay between my stop in the county’s capitol city and home. I made a mental count of the beer bottles still left in my refrigerator. Plus, the pork rinds, potato chips and pretzels that were nestled by the microwave. I added a percentage for error, knowing that my memory was not always accurate. A walk inside was deemed necessary. I could not finish the night without a proper ration of supplies on hand.

The convenience store was nearly abandoned at such a late hour. Innocuous music wafted from their PA system. I pondered a cup of coffee. It would help with the last leg of my journey to Thompson. While pouring the cup, I noticed a tall fellow arriving to begin his work shift. His jacket was covered with snow, almost as if he had walked to work. But the night seemed too cold for such an activity.

I approached the counter with my coffee and a package of donut sticks. The frosty fellow had already taken his place at the register. He had the look of a computer nerd, overgrown with healthy meals. “Find everything you needed tonight?” he said, politely.

“Yes, thank you.” I nodded. “It will be good to get home on a night like this.” I guessed that he did not live on a gamer’s diet of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, this is lovely weather, I think. Great to ride here for work. Especially this time of year when it is brisk at night.”

I was unprepared for his comment. “Ride?” I exclaimed.

Mr. Frosty chuckled audibly. “Yes, ride! I take my ten-speed here, it would be silly to foul the environment driving a car just over the hill.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” I replied, pretending to agree.

“I stay in shape on my bicycle,” he added. “That matters, too! I ride all year round.”

My political skills were aroused. “Indeed. That almost sounds like a story I would read in the local newspaper. Wonderful! Environmental consciousness and health discipline.”

Suddenly, Mr. Frosty’s voice shifted in tone. “Local paper? I never buy that thing. They have a horrible writer on the team. Can’t stand his weekly column.”

I took a deep breath. My face had gone red. I could feel the blood warming in my cheeks.

“Really?” I said.

He slammed the register drawer. “His name is Ice. That sounds fake to me. I am sure he would not put his real name in the newspaper because he is so bad at what he does.”

I was going numb. “Undoubtedly so!” Silently, I thanked God that my identity remained a mystery to this agitated clerk.

“He writes about things that never happened,” Mr. Frosty continued. “About Rhonda Ronk, we’ve never had a Rhonda here. About Carrie Hamglaze. Who is Carrie Hamglaze? And what is Irish Tea??”

My lips strained not to let a belly laugh escape. “I have... no idea!”

“I am surprised the other writers do not get together and have him fired,” he admitted. “They should all have him banned from the paper. He is making them look bad.”

My lungs were out of breath. “Other writers could do that?”

“They SHOULD do that!” he roared.

The coffee tasted cold. “Was he joking, perhaps?” I posited. “Writing a bit of satire? Trying to lighten the mood of local court reports and legal transactions?”

“Satire?” Mr. Frosty coughed loudly. He enunciated the word like it was a bit of foreign terminology. “The guy has no talent. None at all. I wrote a letter about him and mailed it last week, to the editor. He is a complete moron! I wrote another letter to our company office. We shouldn’t be selling a newspaper that would hire anyone like him!!”

My face was blistered with the imprint of unseen hot coals. “Well, thanks for ringing me out. Have a good night, sir.”

He sounded unsatisfied. Almost as if I should have volunteered to listen longer. “Yeah… have a good one. Good night to you.”

As I walked back to my truck, the feeling began to return in my cheeks. This verbal ‘dressing down’ had arrived like a mortar strike. Or a boxer’s knockout punch. I never saw it coming. Yet it was clear that my new ‘frenemy’ had invested the time to read my columns word for word. I was impressed and intrigued. Such devotion to fortifying his opinion was laudable. I could not be angry. Instead, I respected his harsh critique, even as I disagreed.

He had actually read my work. Thus, the mission was accomplished.

At home, I opened a brew and took my Pomeranian and Black Lab for their nightly walk. The air felt crisp, more so because of the heat generated by the fuel depot encounter. Undeniably, it felt good to be away from the blast furnace of opinion. Still, I considered the effort required to examine each column in depth even as a reader recoiled with negativity toward what I had penned. I could think of no better example of genuine study and preparation for a real debate. It was humbling to consider.

Would I work so hard to refute someone or something which I considered to be so abhorrent?

My day ended in reflection at the keyboard. I returned to the craft as always, ever ready for the inspiration of daily life to carry me forward. Years would elapse before I could render my story of this face-to-face encounter in print. Yet the meaning was indelible. From that night forward, I have gone forth with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, dedicated readers are receiving the message.

And they are ready to respond.

Comments or questions about Words on the Loose may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, Ohio 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Beer for Breakfast”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

I always believe that the best newspaper columns seem to write themselves.

A recent Sunday morning in the Ice household proved this observation, once again. As I was making a pot of Java with our trusty Bunn coffeemaker, my notice was taken by a half-empty bottle of beer that glistened from between mustard and cayenne sauce in the refrigerator. It had been carelessly plopped into the bottom door tray, owing to a desire not to waste consumables of any kind. Even at the end of a night spent soothing overloaded brain cells, I retained the primal discipline of my forebears. Simply pouring the last two swigs of brew down the kitchen sink drain would have been unthinkable.

“Waste not, want not.” I had been told it was a quote from Benjamin Franklin.

Hours later, while making my morning beverage, the authenticity of this thought did not matter much. I reckoned whatever historical figure had uttered the phrase was spot-on with their logic. Still, the uncapped bottle looked out of place between unorganized condiments. This image stuck in my head as I worked to prepare a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and a single burrito topped with cheese. Then, I felt the nudge of an unseen muse. Song lyrics began to form, over a simple guitar pattern typical of Country & Western music:

“Leftover High Life, in a bottle, oh so clear

Leftover High Life, my breakfast is beer

Leftover High Life, a taste of last night’s brew

Leftover High Life, the spotlight’s on you.”

As the eggs sizzled, I tapped my foot. The melody would not go away. I started to sing out loud, while standing in the kitchen. Then, I took out the beer bottle for a moment of contemplation. Bubbles weakly formed around the inner rim. I pondered the words in my head. The oldsters in my family had taught that waste was a sin. Did this include, I wondered, the waste of a good song lyric?

I found my iPhone and typed the lines into its “Notes” application. There was no need to risk the moment to an impulse of laziness. Though I was shy about composing a song that appeared to endorse the ill-advised habit of drinking beverage alcohol as a start to the day, I remembered it had been done before. “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” which was penned by Kris Kristofferson actually described having a ration of suds for breakfast. So while the action might be construed as reckless, it had some real foundation in blue-collar culture.

As I savored my meal, more words began to appear from the ether. Soon, I was at the computer, with a fresh cup of coffee:

“Leftover High Life, you humble splash of brew

Leftover High Life, pale and true

Leftover High Life, like me just set aside

Leftover High Life, this is your time to ride.”

News headlines flickered on my television, in the living room. Yet I was focused on the task of finishing my composition. Would this moment of inspiration provide cause to take out my guitar and record a quick take for You Tube? It did seem likely. In yonder days, I had created a basement studio which was suited for such visits from the muse. A soundproof room equipped with tape decks and assorted music hardware. My modern version was less true to the craft, but easier to employ. Simply, my smartphone propped up on the desk. Still, the approach remained intact. Making “art for art’s sake.” In the tradition of Country Music itself, telling a story. Or as a writer might term the habit, “acting as a reporter with guitar.” Stream-of-consciousness put on paper and into the memory chip of my handheld device.

Eventually, the morning had grown late. Text messages pinged my phone. The television blared ominously about Russian covert operations and partisan mayhem in Washington. My Black Lab had filled his belly on Kibbles & Bits seasoned with bacon drippings from breakfast. His snoring was audible, even from my spot in our home office. Daylight beamed through the kitchen curtains. But my focus remained clear:

“Leftover High Life, a guilty pleasure there

Leftover High Life, tell me, do I dare?

Leftover High Life, one more drink for me

Leftover High Life, come on, set me free.”

My choice for any recording would be an old Applause “roundback” acoustic waiting in a corner behind the bathroom door. I had acquired it from a trade in 1985, with a friend-of-a-friend who lived in Ashtabula. The journeyman axe was a budget version of an Ovation guitar. Though plain and unremarkable, it had become my favorite for recording demo tracks, over the years. I reckoned that literally hundreds of songs in my personal archives were plucked out on the instrument. Everything from “Four-Thirty in the Morning, Day Before Christmas Eve Blues” to “I’ve Got the Only iPhone in the Trailer Park.” I always felt connected to cosmic energy with that plucky plectrum in my hands.

From the nothingness, words continued to appear. Almost as if an old cowboy were speaking from beyond the grave. Or a weathered laborer with tuneful reverberations in his heart and calloused hands on the fretboard. I typed them out on the keypad of my laptop, anxious that they might escape before my brain cells could misinterpret their flight:

“Leftover High Life, love you like my old truck

Leftover High Life, never down on my luck

Leftover High Life, opened up but never flat

Leftover High Life, you know I’ll drink to that!”

The new day had grown to fullness when I was done writing. I felt a bit like the “sleeping prophet” Edgar Cayce. Almost as if I had slipped into in a trance. The television had switched over to decorating tips and recipes. My breakfast was done, but those beer remnants were still in the refrigerator. It was too early to seriously consider finishing off the last of the golden beverages. Too early in the real world, one not liberated by song or rural culture. But in the clairvoyant state of redneck inspiration, my bottle-and-a-half could be viewed differently.

They were the keys to a cultural wormhole which connected sane and safe banality to the rowdy, reality of a wordslinger and tunesmith, carrying prose for hire:

“Leftover High Life, sweet like mountain rain

Leftover High Life, you get me through the day

Leftover High Life, sunshine on the dew

Leftover High Life, I put my faith in you.”

I closed my laptop after the last line was finished. Once again, a column had written itself. Now, after the adventure in print, it was time for refreshment. “Miller Time” at last.

Questions or comments about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365, Chardon, Ohio 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Job Seeker Serenade”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

Seeking employment has never been a chore that carries any real joy as an experience. For anyone.

Personally, I consider it labor - without a job. A unique conundrum of experiences. The only reward is a sense of relief in the aftermath. A breath drawn carefully, once gainful work has finally been secured. But because my long-term retail career has seemed to operate on a duration schedule of six to seven years before a closure or business sale, I have regularly been in the position of looking to get hired.

Suggestions sent from OhioMeansJobs.com can vary unpredictably with the nature of open positions. One might guess that they use a ‘scattergun’ algorithm to calculate search results. This works for a variety of job seekers. Independent visits to Indeed.com or CareerBuilder.com typically produce a similar effect. On some days, my efforts yield lightning-strike accuracy. On others, I simply close the laptop PC, drowning in hopeless futility.

What follows here are a few examples gleaned from my most recent adventure in unemployment:

Administrator Assistant, Cemetery Office, Western Reserve Memorial Gardens

Chesterland, OH

(Indeed.com)

Part-time, $11.00 an hour.

“We are currently seeking a part-time Cemetery Administrator near Chesterland, OH. The Administrator provides prompt and accurate assistance in all cemetery administrative matters. These services include property transfers, deeds, accounting reports, processing documentation related to burials, cremations, processing sales contracts as well as various clerical functions… Typical schedule is 12:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. but some occasional Saturday mornings may be needed.”

>> Not a profession I am familiar with by any means. But it seems likely that the customer service skills I have developed over many years of retail management would be useful in this sort of endeavor.

Give Away Free Government Cell Phones

Cleveland Metro Area

(Craigslist.org)

Sales commission, $700 - $1200 weekly.

“This is a unique outreach program that allows you to give away free smart phones that include 350 talk minutes and unlimited text messaging and 500 megabytes per month. (Some refer to this as an ‘Obama Phone.’} ...Must be 18 years old and older… All agent(s) must go through an application, background check and drug test (Federal government requirements). The background check has a fee of $75.00, this will be reimbursed to you after successful 30 phone applications have been given away.”

>>This job seems guaranteed to provide many interesting tales of interacting with people in need. Suggested venues for giving away phones include payday loan stores, public libraries and the local Social Security office.

Propane Cylinder Filler, 2^nd Shift – Airgas

Oakwood Village

(careerbuilder.com)

Full-time, health benefits and 401K.

“The Propane Cylinder Filler will be responsible for liquid Propane and Propylene in compliance with federal, state, local regulations, and the standard operating procedures of Airgas. Responsible for meeting all safety standards in the filling, loading and unloading of cylinder gasses per Airgas procedures. High school diploma or GED preferred.”

>>Obvious perhaps, but this listing immediately had me pondering a life path taken in the manner of Hank Hill from the notable “King of the Hill” cartoon series.

Donation Door Attendant – Goodwill

Painesville, OH

(monster.com)

Full-time. (Description says 29 hours per week, however.)

“The Donation Door Attendant will maintain positive donor relations through actions and friendliness. This person greets people who are donating goods, thanks them, and gives the donor tax receipts according to agency policies, procedures and practices. The Donor Door Attendant represents the agency in a positive way to the general public by his/her actions and friendliness… Able to work weekends, evenings and holidays as required.”

>>I have often thought that my personal penchant for collecting would make working at a Goodwill or Salvation Army thrift store something guaranteed to be both memorable and rewarding.

Sports Photography – Indians Baseball Insider LLC

Eastlake, OH

(OhioMeansJobs.com)

Intern, media pass given.

“Selected applicants will be responsible for following and attending the home games for teams in the Northeast Ohio area including but not limited to the Cleveland Indians, Akron RubberDucks, Lake County Captains (Eastlake, OH) and Mahoning Valley Scrappers (Niles, OH). The primary responsibility for applicants will be to attend games for one of the minor league teams on a regular basis to provide photos for the site, and if possible, to attend a few games for the other teams to provide pictures for them. You will be given a media pass to access all home games and food and beverage(s) will be provided before each game by the team. There is no cost to attend any of the games except how you get there.”

>>I did a bit of this while working for Gazette Newspapers as Sports Editor, around ten years ago. If nothing else, the job would bring lots of summer entertainment, for free.

Dog Facility Cleaning and Maintenance – The UltiMutt Inn & Pet Resort

Burton, OH

(SimplyHired.com)

Full-time, $10.00 - $13.00 per hour.

“We are an activity based luxury dog hotel and take pride in the care of our guests and the cleanliness of our facility… Duties will include but are not limited to, daily facility cleaning and maintenance. The ideal candidate will… be physically fit and capable of handling all size dogs… Some dog interaction will be required.”

>>We are dog fans in the Ice household. I can only wonder if my Black Lab might be put off by the scent of other canines on my clothes when I returned home from work.

Website Needs A Model – Biker Apparel

Open location

(Craigslist.org)

Paid by the photo, $10.00 each.

“We are building a website for biker apparel. Mannequins just don’t work. Compensation: we send you free apparel, you take the pictures and send them back to us and we pay $10.00 for the picture. We have many different design(s) so this could be an on going (sic) source of income. Send us a recent picture so we can (see) what tops would fit you best. See sample photos.”

>>While this particular job would not be appropriate for myself, I could certainly create a series based on the opportunity: “Women Actually Submitting Fashion Photos via Craigslist.”

Each of these job listings represents a unique opportunity to rejoin the work force. I could find sufficient cause to tackle any of them in the pursuit of a dependable income. But perhaps most compelling, from a personal perspective, is the opportunity they yield to once again come before readers with a bit of prose to provoke thought and discussion.

For a creative writer, any life experience brings inspiration – even the humble chore of securing a regular paycheck.

Comments or questions about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent