BEWARE!

Beware! A super-mega-stupendous winter storm of the century is descending upon us, with the dire possibility of a metorological Armageddon and the probable potential of a recurring Ice Age!

I'm merely echoing what the media has predicted. I meant no harm. And I'm nearly certain that they had no intention of causing a harmful mass hysteria.

Some might mistake my spontaneous sarcasm as a crude mockery of a dire situation.

It was only my innocuous way of showing how the media can perpetuate sunami-sized suppositions.

I had no intention to offend.

My readership is dwindling.

People prefer to read blogs containing safe subjects that they can relate to, like "My begonias are blooming."

They don't care to read things that might harbor dire underlying connotations.

I'm admittedly an enigma unto myself. I have always marched to a different drummer (I read Thoraeu's "Walden" when I was sixteen).

I never wanted to be cookie cutter sameness, or drearily mundane, or run of the proverbial mill. I abhore conformity. 

It might seem unnerving, but I'm glad that I am who I am.

Okay, let's get serious.

The upcoming winter storm is supposed to be massive. I've heard that it will effect more than half of the United States. That's frightening. Snow is bad, but ice is worse. Power outages can be devastating. Driving on ice is impossible.

I'm actually glad that I'm not at home. My furnace is electric. If there's a power outage, I'm doomed.

When I lived on the high plains of West Texas, I learned that the winters could be surprisingly brutal. One winter the night temperature dropped to four (4) degrees (Fahrenheit). And my furnace wasn't working! I was truly terrified that I wouldn't survive.

I put on several layers of clothing, grabbed lots of blankets, and slept on a futon near the fireplace with my cat Kitzee. The fireplace truly saved us.

Kitzee, getting warm by our TX fireplace

Right now, here in Rehab Hell, in Gainesboro, TN, it's 18 degrees this morning. The storm will arrive at noon.

Speaking of snow storms

There is a painting that haunted me ever since I was a child. The artist was Charles Christian Nahl (1818 - 1878). He was a German, who came to America and lived in Northern California for 30 years.

Here is the painting

The Dead Miner, 1867

The gold prospector is frozen to death. His faithful dog is grieving. There is a mining pick and gold mining pan near the miner. He clutches a photograph in his hand.

This painting always has a profound impact on me. It is absolutely heartbreaking and perpetually haunting.

Another painting, while I'm at it.

My parents moved to Southern California when I was six.

We often went to Knott's Berry Farm in Buena Park, which was a reconstructed western ghost town. It was designed  and owned by Walter Knott. He and his wife used to grow boysenberries and sell them by the roadside.

Knott's Berry Farm was fantastic when I was a child (and admission was free). When Mr. Knott and his wife passed away, the place was sold. It's now a gaudy amusement park.

Knott's, when I was a child

In one of the buildings in Knott's, there was a very large painting that mesmerized me. It was called The Night Watch. Every time we visited Knott's Berry Farm, I went to see the painting. I absolutely loved it.

This print doesn't do it justice. It is much more beautiful in real. It was said that the woman's eyes will follow you. That was true. Everywhere I went in the room, her eyes seemed to follow.

I never knew who the artist was, and couldn't find out. It wasn't until I was near fifty, when I learned the artist was Charles Christian Nahl, who also painted The Dead Miner.

The Night Watch is now in the Orange County Museum of Art.

Amazing that I loved both paintings since childhood.

I'll end now, because I'm having trouble with Blogger. I initially wrote this post last night, but it was deleted - and I wrote it again this morning.

Stay safe, warm, and cozy.

Jon,  hopefully not frozen

ALMOST WORKING FOR DISNEY

My parents first moved to Anaheim, California when I was eleven and I attended junior high school there. Then we moved to a different town in a rural area where I went to high school.
After I graduated at sixteen, we moved back to Anaheim and I was delighted.


At that time, Anaheim (in Orange County) was a fantastic and thriving place to live, with lots of opportunities.
Huntington Beach was only about six miles away from my parent's home. Knott's Berry Farm (in Buena Park) was two miles away.
Disneyland was five miles.

On summer evenings I often walked to Knott's Berry Farm - just to hang out, watch the tourists, and smoke cigarettes. I started (secretly) smoking at sixteen because I thought it made me look cool and tough. It probably only made me look trashy - but that was close enough.

Every summer night at exactly 9:00 p.m. Disneyland would shoot off a display of fireworks. We never got tired of watching the fireworks from our back yard.


Knott's and Disney were undoubtedly the biggest attractions in Orange County at that time, and getting a job at either place was a prestigious endeavor. 
Naturally, I eventually applied for work at both places (at different times, of course). And I was hired at both places. But neither job worked out.

Knott's hired me as a cook in their famous chicken dinner restaurant. The problem is - as a new employee (and a very young one) I didn't have regular hours. They kept me "on call".

Sometimes I had to work in the afternoon. Sometimes it was evenings. Often it was on weekends. Occasionally week days. The inconsistencies infuriated me beyond redemption. I finally told them to put their chicken where the sun don't shine and I quit.

I admittedly didn't know much about working for Disneyland. I did know a gay "reindeer" who was in the Disneyland Christmas Parade - but that's another story for another time.
No - I'm not kidding.

Becoming a member of the "Disney Family" was like being recruited into the CIA. There were more Disney rules than the rules God had in the Old Testament.

For my initial interview, I was interrogated by a gigantic, rotund black man wearing Uganda attire. I knew this was simply a ploy to see how I would react (Disney employees have to deal with all types of foreigners and ethnicities). I got along good with the guy. No problem.
I was hired as a ride operator.

My enthusiasm for joining the Disney clan began to rapidly diminish when I was presented with all the rules and regulations of how I should behave, act, dress, and look. 

I had the "cute", wholesome blonde blue-eyed appearance that exemplified the Disney image - - but in my rebellious youth I wasn't about to be transformed into a plastic Ken doll.

They scrutinized everything from your hair and clothing to shoes and fingernails. 

I'm not sure if this photo will be readable, but it's a letter concerning their shoe policy:

With each new rule my panic increased, until I decided that I was going to be transformed into a Nazi. I balked and backed out.

In retrospect - a thousand years later - I regret my rash decision. I think working for Disney would have been a positive and interesting experience.

I would have never thought about this, but yesterday I was going through an old plastic storage container and found all of my Disneyland rule and regulation books.

 

 The male employees were called "hosts" and the females were "hostesses"

These aren't readable on the blurry photos, but I thought I'd include them anyway.