Full Version: The pain of radar
Ima gonna write some fiction some day.
| QUOTE (Cassandra @ Oct 6 2006, 02:46 PM) |
| Ima gonna write some fiction some day. |
And that would be different from what you normally write, how?
| QUOTE (Francis Parker Yockey @ Oct 6 2006, 10:07 AM) | ||
And that would be different from what you normally write, how? |
Nope friend, all the woo-woo stuff is 100% true....I couldn't make it up.
I was thinking more of a little boring-boy-on-girl-sex-masquerading-as-love story.
"Nope friend, all the woo-woo stuff is 100% true....I couldn't make it up."
OK.
Whatever you say.
OK.
Whatever you say.
Well, that was easy! 
(Seriously though...I'm not the only person this stuff is happening to. Maybe one of the only ones on the forums, but this is a micro-representation of the country...blow it up to reality-size and there is a "Cass" on every corner.
)
(Seriously though...I'm not the only person this stuff is happening to. Maybe one of the only ones on the forums, but this is a micro-representation of the country...blow it up to reality-size and there is a "Cass" on every corner.
)
Chapter 2
The problem with radar, or at least for the natural uninitiated, is the inability to control what comes in. Good, bad, second glances, hair raising on the back of the neck, visions floating in space . . ., its all there, and it all comes in.
And by radar, what he really meant was an innate natural psychic clairvoyance passed down from generation to generation from his families gene pool. He didn’t ask for the gift and he didn’t really want to explore too far into realms that use gifts such as his, but there it was, nonetheless.
He had, however, learned to listen to his radar from an early age if for no other reason than to avoid recurrences of those times where he just knew the outcome of an event before hand and yet he still insisted on rushing headlong down that path with, he would later realize, the predictable outcome that he had, in fact, predicted the very moment he chose to peer down that probable path.
Which may be why, despite his attraction, he hasn’t followed up with the Cheerleader and why he tries to limit his contacts with her to those few, infrequent copy machine interviews which seem to reoccur about every six weeks or so. Because, he tells himself, he just knows that no good would come from engaging in a dalliance of any kind, let alone a workplace dalliance.
The moments before he met his wife, however, he had a far different kind of feeling.
He was stationed at Fort Rucker, Alabama at the time, a 27 year young Army flight lieutenant. He stood six feet three inches tall and weighed in at a strapping 205 pounds of lean man machine. Back in those days his knees were still in top shape, or at least healthy enough to carry him on a five mile run six days a week followed up by an hour or so in the base weight room. After his workout he would shower, shave and then zip himself into his skin tight army gray Nomex flight suit. If the workout was in the morning, he would depart the gym to report to the flight line for his daily mission. If the workout came in the evening after his flight, he would head out to the Officers Club to hook up with base nurses willing to play Monte Hall with him in search of what lay behind flight suit zipper number one, two or three. The Lets Make A Deal line, coupled with a buffed out million volt smile worked for him just about every time.
The era of his military duty happened to coincide with the release of the Tom Cruise movie Top Gun, and military pilots once again found themselves in Top Demand on the dating scene. Yet for him, being stationed in the South presented cultural shocks which had to be overcome the morning after if he wanted something more than frantic up close stick and rudder instruction with coupled with touch and go landing practice, he being a West Coast boy and all.
Cultural shocks like the fact that the local girls thought he talked funny or the fact that the local girls didn’t get the references to jokes that would crack up the girls from Sacramento. Innuendoes, references, double entendres, the entire witty package he had worked on so strenuously to perfect out west landed with thuds on the local girls. But then, the local girls could be very cute and he was buffed out and he could still be charming enough to make it through the night and score mission objective, what with his Monte Hall “What’s Behind Zipper Number One, Two Or Three” routine. And well before morning he would get up and get out of there and get on with whatever he though he was doing in his life, with military precision at that.
And two weeks before his 28th birthday his neighbor in lovely Enterprise, Alabama, a young Jewish hottie whose husband was going through flight school on base let him know her girlfriend, Marta, would be coming out from Los Angeles for a visit and could he maybe show her around and maybe show her a good time?
And then she showed him a picture of Marta and he thought, well, she’s kinda cute . . ., sure, I’ll try to show her a good time.
And that was that.
The problem with radar, or at least for the natural uninitiated, is the inability to control what comes in. Good, bad, second glances, hair raising on the back of the neck, visions floating in space . . ., its all there, and it all comes in.
And by radar, what he really meant was an innate natural psychic clairvoyance passed down from generation to generation from his families gene pool. He didn’t ask for the gift and he didn’t really want to explore too far into realms that use gifts such as his, but there it was, nonetheless.
He had, however, learned to listen to his radar from an early age if for no other reason than to avoid recurrences of those times where he just knew the outcome of an event before hand and yet he still insisted on rushing headlong down that path with, he would later realize, the predictable outcome that he had, in fact, predicted the very moment he chose to peer down that probable path.
Which may be why, despite his attraction, he hasn’t followed up with the Cheerleader and why he tries to limit his contacts with her to those few, infrequent copy machine interviews which seem to reoccur about every six weeks or so. Because, he tells himself, he just knows that no good would come from engaging in a dalliance of any kind, let alone a workplace dalliance.
The moments before he met his wife, however, he had a far different kind of feeling.
He was stationed at Fort Rucker, Alabama at the time, a 27 year young Army flight lieutenant. He stood six feet three inches tall and weighed in at a strapping 205 pounds of lean man machine. Back in those days his knees were still in top shape, or at least healthy enough to carry him on a five mile run six days a week followed up by an hour or so in the base weight room. After his workout he would shower, shave and then zip himself into his skin tight army gray Nomex flight suit. If the workout was in the morning, he would depart the gym to report to the flight line for his daily mission. If the workout came in the evening after his flight, he would head out to the Officers Club to hook up with base nurses willing to play Monte Hall with him in search of what lay behind flight suit zipper number one, two or three. The Lets Make A Deal line, coupled with a buffed out million volt smile worked for him just about every time.
The era of his military duty happened to coincide with the release of the Tom Cruise movie Top Gun, and military pilots once again found themselves in Top Demand on the dating scene. Yet for him, being stationed in the South presented cultural shocks which had to be overcome the morning after if he wanted something more than frantic up close stick and rudder instruction with coupled with touch and go landing practice, he being a West Coast boy and all.
Cultural shocks like the fact that the local girls thought he talked funny or the fact that the local girls didn’t get the references to jokes that would crack up the girls from Sacramento. Innuendoes, references, double entendres, the entire witty package he had worked on so strenuously to perfect out west landed with thuds on the local girls. But then, the local girls could be very cute and he was buffed out and he could still be charming enough to make it through the night and score mission objective, what with his Monte Hall “What’s Behind Zipper Number One, Two Or Three” routine. And well before morning he would get up and get out of there and get on with whatever he though he was doing in his life, with military precision at that.
And two weeks before his 28th birthday his neighbor in lovely Enterprise, Alabama, a young Jewish hottie whose husband was going through flight school on base let him know her girlfriend, Marta, would be coming out from Los Angeles for a visit and could he maybe show her around and maybe show her a good time?
And then she showed him a picture of Marta and he thought, well, she’s kinda cute . . ., sure, I’ll try to show her a good time.
And that was that.
***
What intrigued him about Marta’s photo was that she wasn’t like the kind of girls he usually dated. Its not like she wasn’t cute or anything, because there were some requirements his shallow mind refused to overcome. It was more that he was happily plowing his way through a Big Beautiful Blond era (bottle will do fine so long as cuffs and collars match up) and here comes this little petite brunette with a great set of knockers, her own million volt smile and a reputation as a “fun girl,” whatever the hell his Jewish Hottie neighbor meant by that.
But, then, his Jewish Hottie neighbor never failed to smile when she spoke about Marta and his Jewish Hottie neighbor also made a point of letting him know Marta’s parents were rich. Like Brentwood Rich. Like Marina Del Rey Yacht Club Rich. Which he didn’t quite get, being more familiar with the trailer park scene back home or the low rent apartments of the local girls during those times he would not quite spend the night.
And so it was set. He would come on over to the Jewish Hotties house on what turned out to be the night before his 28th birthday. He and Marta would hang out and if they hit it off, well, she would be in town for another five days or so after that.
The timing though, caught his attention. Which is to say, Marta was definitely making a larger than usual blip on his radar, and that came to him as something of a surprise.
Not that he should have been surprised. He had been told, at a reasonably young age, exactly how his life would unfold, and when major life points he could expect to hit. He had also been told roughly when he would meet his wife and under what circumstances. His reader was one of the best he had ever met, a little old lady named Dean out of Walla Walla, Washington that his mother took him to see for a “life reading” shortly after his 21st birthday. With his mother, taking her children to see a psychic for life readings was something of a milestone event akin to other families where dad took son to see a prostitute for his first “life event.” It was just one of those things that happened in his family. The life readings thingy, not the prostitute.
But Dean, as good as she was, also let slip some negative info, such as she saw him having two wives and she felt one of those wives might die early. The negative info just kind of slipped out and Dean tried to cover up, but the rung bell can’t be un-rung. The info was out there, not that he thought much of it. He was after all 21 at the time and the future seemed so far away and unrelated to his then present experiences that he didn’t think too much of anything other than, would he be getting laid maybe hopefully some time in the next six months or so . . . ?
What intrigued him about Marta’s photo was that she wasn’t like the kind of girls he usually dated. Its not like she wasn’t cute or anything, because there were some requirements his shallow mind refused to overcome. It was more that he was happily plowing his way through a Big Beautiful Blond era (bottle will do fine so long as cuffs and collars match up) and here comes this little petite brunette with a great set of knockers, her own million volt smile and a reputation as a “fun girl,” whatever the hell his Jewish Hottie neighbor meant by that.
But, then, his Jewish Hottie neighbor never failed to smile when she spoke about Marta and his Jewish Hottie neighbor also made a point of letting him know Marta’s parents were rich. Like Brentwood Rich. Like Marina Del Rey Yacht Club Rich. Which he didn’t quite get, being more familiar with the trailer park scene back home or the low rent apartments of the local girls during those times he would not quite spend the night.
And so it was set. He would come on over to the Jewish Hotties house on what turned out to be the night before his 28th birthday. He and Marta would hang out and if they hit it off, well, she would be in town for another five days or so after that.
The timing though, caught his attention. Which is to say, Marta was definitely making a larger than usual blip on his radar, and that came to him as something of a surprise.
Not that he should have been surprised. He had been told, at a reasonably young age, exactly how his life would unfold, and when major life points he could expect to hit. He had also been told roughly when he would meet his wife and under what circumstances. His reader was one of the best he had ever met, a little old lady named Dean out of Walla Walla, Washington that his mother took him to see for a “life reading” shortly after his 21st birthday. With his mother, taking her children to see a psychic for life readings was something of a milestone event akin to other families where dad took son to see a prostitute for his first “life event.” It was just one of those things that happened in his family. The life readings thingy, not the prostitute.
But Dean, as good as she was, also let slip some negative info, such as she saw him having two wives and she felt one of those wives might die early. The negative info just kind of slipped out and Dean tried to cover up, but the rung bell can’t be un-rung. The info was out there, not that he thought much of it. He was after all 21 at the time and the future seemed so far away and unrelated to his then present experiences that he didn’t think too much of anything other than, would he be getting laid maybe hopefully some time in the next six months or so . . . ?
And then it was time for him to meet Marta. He had finished a inclement weather flight in a UH-1 Huey that day under full instrument conditions and he was just a little stressed out but he was looking forward to meeting up with Marta. He didn’t really know what to expect but then, he had a feeling about her that he couldn’t explain away. The thought, ok, he hoped, that he might see some action with her, but that alone couldn’t explain away his anticipation. There was just something about this Marta . . ., something he thought he couldn’t place his finger on . . ., yet something he well knew.
So he hit the gym after his flight to assault a stack of metal weights followed by an extra long session in the sauna to sweat out his anxieties. A shower and a shave later and he had run out of any further delays which could prevent him from walking out to his pickup truck for the short drive over to the Jewish Hottie’s house.
It was time to go and meet his future, it dawned on him. Denial swept away, he just knew on the drive over to the house that this was a meeting with long term consequences. His radar was on full alert, but no necessarily the alert associated with incoming danger, but rather the hyper vigilance of awaiting the return of the fleet. He wasn’t about to meet someone new, he realized, rather he had an eery feeling he might be about to reacquaint himself with an old friend.
And as he parked his truck outside the house he held back for a few moments. And he asked himself, are you ready to do this? He knew he could turn the key on the ignition and drive away. And he knew he could suck it up and walk into that house and meet his future . . ., and either decision scared him at that very moment.
And yet, like a good lieutenant, he made a decision, right or wrong, he made a decision, and he swung his spit shined combat boots out of his pickup truck and crunched his way up the gravel driveway, nervous finger pressing on the door bell.
[to be continued . . .]
So he hit the gym after his flight to assault a stack of metal weights followed by an extra long session in the sauna to sweat out his anxieties. A shower and a shave later and he had run out of any further delays which could prevent him from walking out to his pickup truck for the short drive over to the Jewish Hottie’s house.
It was time to go and meet his future, it dawned on him. Denial swept away, he just knew on the drive over to the house that this was a meeting with long term consequences. His radar was on full alert, but no necessarily the alert associated with incoming danger, but rather the hyper vigilance of awaiting the return of the fleet. He wasn’t about to meet someone new, he realized, rather he had an eery feeling he might be about to reacquaint himself with an old friend.
And as he parked his truck outside the house he held back for a few moments. And he asked himself, are you ready to do this? He knew he could turn the key on the ignition and drive away. And he knew he could suck it up and walk into that house and meet his future . . ., and either decision scared him at that very moment.
And yet, like a good lieutenant, he made a decision, right or wrong, he made a decision, and he swung his spit shined combat boots out of his pickup truck and crunched his way up the gravel driveway, nervous finger pressing on the door bell.
[to be continued . . .]
His Jewish Hottie neighbor knows and sees all
You lost me at Jewish hottie.
family's, not families.
family's, not families.
| QUOTE (Francis Parker Yockey @ Oct 6 2006, 10:16 AM) |
| You lost me at Jewish hottie. family's, not families. |
Thanks, I can always use an editor.
You know, all of my writing is first draft with just a touch of spell check. This shit just pours out of me with only a little thought before hand about the general direction for the day's writing.
If I can stretch this out to 20 chapters or so I might edit it like it was some real writing.
Yeah. Learn to spell dumfuck
So thrilled by this most recent new AV.
| QUOTE (Mam @ Oct 6 2006, 12:22 PM) |
| So thrilled by this most recent new AV. |
And you sound like my kind of people. Nothing wrong with a little bible thumping.
| QUOTE (Green @ Oct 6 2006, 05:18 PM) | ||
Thanks, I can always use an editor. You know, all of my writing is first draft with just a touch of spell check. This shit just pours out of me with only a little thought before hand about the general direction for the day's writing. If I can stretch this out to 20 chapters or so I might edit it like it was some real writing. |
Same.
Francis Parker Yockey is an asshole!
Chapter III
It was a Friday and it was 3:00 p.m. and it was time to blow out of the office for the week. He had his weekend planned with Marta, two nights at a bed and breakfast in the hills above Ojia, California, with nothing to do but screw, smoke weed, sip margaritas and screw again. He and Marta were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary and for today, this day, they were happy.
It hadn’t always been a happy marriage, even though it started out, like most marriages, with much promise some twenty one years earlier when he pressed the door bell on a brick rental home on a cold December night in L.A. “L.A.” as in Lower Alabama, right outside Fort Rucker, where the Army trains its helicopter pilots. Which he was. An Army Helicopter Pilot, that is.
He waited a count of ten for the door to open, shivering in the cold night even though he was still dressed in his flight suit and flight jacket. Even though Lower Alabama could see summer days to hot and steamy you could pass out from heat exhaustion after spending only minutes outside, the winter climate could swing in the opposite direction towards frost and chill and down right miserable crunchy frozen grass kind of cold. And he was cold, coming from that other L.A., sunny Los Angeles.
And on the count of eleven, just as he was about to spin on his heel and make a run for his pickup truck, the porch light snapped on and the front door opened and there stood this little petite woman of about 30 years of age, 5'3" with a frizzy permed out brown hair afro and cute smile.
“Hi, I’m Marta,” she greeted him, “you must be Mike.” He just smiled back at her like a big oaf dressed for battle and said, “yeah, hi.” “So you coming in or what?” Marta giggled.
It was a Friday and it was 3:00 p.m. and it was time to blow out of the office for the week. He had his weekend planned with Marta, two nights at a bed and breakfast in the hills above Ojia, California, with nothing to do but screw, smoke weed, sip margaritas and screw again. He and Marta were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary and for today, this day, they were happy.
It hadn’t always been a happy marriage, even though it started out, like most marriages, with much promise some twenty one years earlier when he pressed the door bell on a brick rental home on a cold December night in L.A. “L.A.” as in Lower Alabama, right outside Fort Rucker, where the Army trains its helicopter pilots. Which he was. An Army Helicopter Pilot, that is.
He waited a count of ten for the door to open, shivering in the cold night even though he was still dressed in his flight suit and flight jacket. Even though Lower Alabama could see summer days to hot and steamy you could pass out from heat exhaustion after spending only minutes outside, the winter climate could swing in the opposite direction towards frost and chill and down right miserable crunchy frozen grass kind of cold. And he was cold, coming from that other L.A., sunny Los Angeles.
And on the count of eleven, just as he was about to spin on his heel and make a run for his pickup truck, the porch light snapped on and the front door opened and there stood this little petite woman of about 30 years of age, 5'3" with a frizzy permed out brown hair afro and cute smile.
“Hi, I’m Marta,” she greeted him, “you must be Mike.” He just smiled back at her like a big oaf dressed for battle and said, “yeah, hi.” “So you coming in or what?” Marta giggled.
“Would you like a beer,” Marta asked him and he nodded in affirmation. He found his place to the couch and noticed the TV was playing some cable evangelical show with a man and wife crying and pleading for cash for Jesus. “That’s the Jim and Tammy Show, Mike. Don’t cha just love it? I mean, camp and all. You can’t get that kind of entertainment back on Los Angeles. Look at Tammy’s makeup run when she cries! Do you think its all staged? Anyway, you wanna smoke a joint?”
He had to tell her that while he had nothing against smoking weed, his employer did, and he would have to pass, but thank you anyway and hey, that beer tastes might good. And he’s thinking, ya know, she’s really cute! What’s she packing in that sweater? 36Charlies? And they look Standard Issue and not Silicone Remanufactured, another good point in her favor, he’s thinking, while in the back of his head he’s already plotting out how to cop an impromptu topographical field inspection.
“But if you want to smoke, that’s alright with me,” he told her. “Cool,” she replied as she fired up her joint and teased an exhale of pungent smoke in his direction. “But I’ll smoke the rest of this in the garage. Be right back,” she said, leaving him sitting on the couch.
He had to tell her that while he had nothing against smoking weed, his employer did, and he would have to pass, but thank you anyway and hey, that beer tastes might good. And he’s thinking, ya know, she’s really cute! What’s she packing in that sweater? 36Charlies? And they look Standard Issue and not Silicone Remanufactured, another good point in her favor, he’s thinking, while in the back of his head he’s already plotting out how to cop an impromptu topographical field inspection.
“But if you want to smoke, that’s alright with me,” he told her. “Cool,” she replied as she fired up her joint and teased an exhale of pungent smoke in his direction. “But I’ll smoke the rest of this in the garage. Be right back,” she said, leaving him sitting on the couch.
And he waited on the couch for a few minutes and Marta and her friend giggled and laughed out in the garage and every few moments they would pop back in and Marta would stick her head in the living room and ask if he was doing OK. “Yep, I’m doing fine,” he would reply and Marta would giggle off and he would catch a glimpse of her little butt, guessing that she was maybe all of a size 4 petite, just a cute little thing with a little ass and big boobs and a giggle and a stoned outlook for the evening. Things were looking real promising, he figured.
And then she was back and sitting on the couch with him and they were both real friendly and talkative and telling about places they had been in Los Angeles and places they wanted to see and for a moment he could forget that he was stuck here in Lower Alabama on active duty flying helicopters and chasing local trailer trash talent in his off time. And she would sit just a little closer to him on the couch when she came back from the kitchen on her frequent trips to collect another beer for him or chips and dip for them or a dash to the bathroom to fix her hair or whatever girls do in there. And she laughed at his feeble jokes and made him feel at ease and in the space of about two hours or so she was sitting right next to him and touching him innocently on the arm and leaning in to share her stories with him. And he would listen intently as she listened intently to him and their eyes focus on one another, pupils subconsciously dialating, noses flaring, phernomes flying.
And then her friend came in the room and said she was turning in for the night and don’t you guys worry about it, enjoy yourselves. And then they were alone for the first time and for just a second, it got awkward.
And then she was back and sitting on the couch with him and they were both real friendly and talkative and telling about places they had been in Los Angeles and places they wanted to see and for a moment he could forget that he was stuck here in Lower Alabama on active duty flying helicopters and chasing local trailer trash talent in his off time. And she would sit just a little closer to him on the couch when she came back from the kitchen on her frequent trips to collect another beer for him or chips and dip for them or a dash to the bathroom to fix her hair or whatever girls do in there. And she laughed at his feeble jokes and made him feel at ease and in the space of about two hours or so she was sitting right next to him and touching him innocently on the arm and leaning in to share her stories with him. And he would listen intently as she listened intently to him and their eyes focus on one another, pupils subconsciously dialating, noses flaring, phernomes flying.
And then her friend came in the room and said she was turning in for the night and don’t you guys worry about it, enjoy yourselves. And then they were alone for the first time and for just a second, it got awkward.
and then what happened?
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