Secrets to Success

A very wise man once told me that there are only two secrets to success, and the first one is to never tell everything you know.

Several Shades of Gray

I started to write a book like "Fifty Shades of Gray", but I didn't have THAT many... might have enough for a pamphet... or at least a flyer.      

Salt Marsh Sunrise

Dawn…tidal creek on the salt marsh….James Island, South Carolina

After a four hour drive from Augusta, I pulled into the front yard an hour before dawn. I turned the ignition off and just sat for a few minutes. It was so quiet. The only sound was the whir of the central air conditioning unit trying to kick off the blanket of humidity indigenous to the Carolina low country.

Though I can only see her silhouette against the starry tapestry of the moonless sky, a dozen years’ worth of summertime visits completes the picture.

At least fifty years old, solidly constructed of cypress, the house is surrounded by a broad deck , features more beds than the room for them, and is located on the edge of a James Island tidal creek.

On the east side of the house, framed by two massive oaks draped with Spanish moss, are the landing boards that threshold the wharf. The sun-bleached walkway stretches almost a hundred yards over the ebony pluff mud and stiff reed grass to the floating dock. A hinged gangway allows the dock to independently rise and fall with the tides . Positioned underneath are four rusty red Styrofoam pontoons, lashed with stainless steel metal bands.

Like a true beach house, function rather than style dictated her design. And her function was for making great memories... casting for the “browns” racing the tide out of the tributaries, pot-bound, blue crab freedom fighters sinking their claws all the way to the bone of a careless finger, dances on the dock to beach music, low country boils washed down with ice cold Budweisers…and the laughter of close friends…indelible, audio fingerprints.

Rose was the magnet that drew me to the low country. She and her family lived in Augusta, but the bulk of their summers, and mine, were spent here on James Island.

With her short black hair, olive complexion, and  ice-blue eyes was a five foot four inch whirling dervish of laughter, energy, and passion; Rose was always ready for an adventure!

The first time we crossed the Mississippi River during a road trip to visit my family in Dallas, we found a path that led us down to the riverbank. We threw our clothes on the grass, and baptized ourselves in the chocolate waters of the mighty Mississippi. And then, our hair still dripping, we laughed while we made love beneath a cathedral of primal river oaks, our secret rite of passage to the West.

Our vision did not match the reality.

Driving from Augusta to Dallas... and bored. We thought it would be a great idea to skinny-dip in the Mississippi River… we were idiots.

We took the first exit after crossing the bridge and drove down to the riverbank. We were laughing as we stripped off our clothes. Then, holding hands, we jumped off the bank into the chocolate brown waters of America’s septic tank.

Before our feet hit bottom, the force of millions of tons of water moving at about five knots grabbed our legs, and turned our romantic interlude into a writhing, choking, gasping fight for survival until we were swept into an eddy a quarter mile downstream.

Naked and bruised, we scrambled up the bank. Crawling on our hands and knees through an endless thicket of prickly blackberries interspersed with bayonet plants, we finally made it back to our car. But it took us an hour to de-thorn ourselves enough to painfully slip on our clothes, ease into our seats, and find the nearest shower to detox ourselves.

Rose, and by the number of cars scattered about, at least ten others were soundly snoring inside the house.

I found one Topsider on the floorboard, and blindly groped around under my seat for the other shoe until the sharp point of a safety pin convinced me to call off the search and step out on the damp lawn barefooted.  

The lush Bermuda felt great until I met some of the locals. 

With military precision, a blanket of red ants covered my feet before giving the order to bite in perfect unison.  

I would have screamed like a girl, but couldn’t chance waking a witness!   

So I just slapped as many of the little bastards as I could off my feet and legs as I jinked and hopped my way to the marsh and jumped of the edge of the landing, to sink shin deep in the soft, cool pluff mud. 

My feet popped like a muffled champagne cork as I pulled them out of the black mud, and stepped up on the wharf. Looking down as I gingerly gimped  across the weather-warped boards toward the dock, I saw angry mobs of militant fiddler crabs shaking their fists at me. Above my head, a gaggle of gulls were whoopin’, hollerin’, and braggin’ about the slices they were cutting out of the marble slab sky.

I stepped onto the dock, reached into the big wooden storage box and wrestled with the tangle of faded beach chairs.When I finally managed to get one pinned, I plopped down in it to survey my wounds.

As the rising sun melted the morning’s mist, the sounds of a salt marsh symphony swept away the still of the night… the haunting “who, whooo, whoooo” of a barn owl, Hungry Jack fishes slappin’ the shrimp around the waterway, and the hypnotic hum of cicadas.

The folks in the house were at least a couple of hours away from breakfast.

This is the perfect time for me to kick back and contemplate my future… our future… to wonder about the mystery of life, the meaning of it all, and what contribution I’d make to the enrichment of humanity?

But, at the moment, all I could think about was how good it would feel to dig my fingernails into those ant bites and scratch them ‘till they bled!

On-line Dating Tips or How to Beautify a Grocery Store.

On-line Dating Tips- How to Beautify a Grocery Store

This is a first draft excerpt from a book I’m writing in my spare time. It’s a compilation of chapters on a totally unrelated range of subjects.

And it's the truth... mostly.

(Starting at, “... listing your intent...)

When required to list your "Intent", do NOT select, "I want a relationship" !!

How many times in your life have you ever fallen in love when that was your objective?

Since you started "on-line dating", how many successful relationships have, "I want a relationship" gotten you?  

In the “real world”, suppose a "hot" guy you've never met, walked up and introduced himself...

Would you say, "Hi there handsome! Before I have the opportunity to tell you my name, much less anything about me, I want you to know that I'm looking for a long term relationship.”?

Of course not... are you crazy? You don’t want to spook the guy before you have the chance to charm him into hormonal stupidity, when you can tell him anything you want.  

You gotta' let on like a relationship is the last thing on your mind.

Even if "Mr. McDreambutt" asks if you want a relationship, your FIRST answer is, "Are you crazy? A relationship is the last thing on my mind!"

Practice saying this with a wild-eyed, incredulous look on your face while you're putting on your make-up for your shopping trip. (Shopping trip?)

And make sure you edit your, "Intent" field to one of the "Dating" options.

Take your pick...

Option A, "I want to date but nothing serious", is code for, "nobody gets naked"

Option 'B", "I'm looking for casual dating/no commitment" leaves the possibility open for debate.

Now let's go find you a relationship, girl!!

The Grocery Store:

First, splurge on a fresh manicure and pedicure.

Now shimmy yourself into a pair of jeans that flatter your figure, wear a top that's tastefully revealing, and then slip into some classy sandals with at least 2 1/2 inch heels.

High heels jack up your rear-end like a 70's muscle car... guys dig both of these items.

Oh, don't forget to dab on a little of your most seductive scent... but go easy! A scent should linger at your departure, but not shout-out your arrival.

You're headed to the place that's brings more potential couples together than all the dating sites combined...the grocery store.

Look for a rich target, (oops, Freudian slip!)...I meant to say "target rich" environment … around Charlotte that’s the Tajma-Teeter… corner of Morrison Blvd and Sharon Rd, at Southpark.

A grocery store has everything a guy wants in one place, food, alcohol, and women. It's the perfect venue for a hook-up... packed with single men that don't have a clue............. of how to flirt in a grocery store.

“Can I buy you a drink?”, or “Would you like to dance?”, have a low success rate in the Harris Teeter.

So instead, they'll ask you serious stupid questions like, "Do I have to put fabric strips in the dryer, or can I thrown them in with the wash?"

Or humorous stupid questions like, "Why do they call it the produce section when there's nothing here but fruits and vegetables?"

If there’s an attraction, quickly decide if the dope's question is serious or humorous.

If serious, answer with the straightest face you can muster… don’t try too hard, or you’ll appear to have gas.

If you’re SURE it’s a joke, then laugh. But don’t titter… it will annoy your audience.

Imagine how it'll make you feel having men asking YOU directions for a change!

One other thing… to instantly squelch an unwelcome advance, just give him that, “I SAID I have a headache…” look.

But be careful, or you’ll repel all potential suitors within range of the blast.  

Fail-safe First Meeting:

Whether your initial engagement with "your" man is in a grocery store, at a funeral, or anywhere else… just remember these two sentences:

1) "That's interesting." and 2) "And then what happened?"

Everybody's favorite subject, especially successful men, is themselves. So whenever, or wherever you meet your quarry for the first time, prime the conversation by asking him a question, "What do you do?", "Do you know anyone here?", "Did the deceased owe you money too?"... Any question will do to get him talking.

The first time he pauses, say "That's interesting."

At the next break, "And then what happened"

Alter your voice inflections appropriately, and you can ask, "And then what happened?" at least twice, one more if you toss an, "Oh my God!" in there.

Here's the important part... After no more than 5 minutes, ask the time, tell him you enjoyed meeting him, then excuse yourself, and leave without looking back.

Now your man thinks he's watching the most interesting woman in the room walk out of his life forever ...(and he's right!)

If he doesn't ask you for your number now, he will seek you out later.

If not, then he's obviously not the man you thought he was!

Note: Please do not couple, "Oh my God!" with, "That's interesting." or you will leave the opposite impression.

No Place For Ray

I arrived early for a business luncheon at the Concord Mills Olive Garden. so I borrowed a newspaper from the bartender and headed for the restroom. Scanning the headlines as I entered the empty facility, I found a cozy stall, and closed the full-length, louvered door. 

I was folding the  the business section when I sensed something was wrong …or maybe it was when I spotted the feminine napkin dispenser jutting from the wall.

I tossed the paper down, and jumped up… or tried to… 

My right leg was numb before I finished page one.

I doubled over, adjusting my balance with little hops on one leg, massaging the other one with my hands, while holding up my pants with my elbows.

I was close to blacking out from the blood rushing to my head, when a quartet of ladies chattered in and parked in front of the lavatory mirror. 

The sudden clamor would have spooked a weaker man into giving himself away. 

Instinctively, I had the presence of mind to create a diversion by snapping upright with enough force to knock the dispenser off the wall with the back of my head.

It clattered to the floor. I mean my head. The dispenser had already arrived.

(Damn that hurts!) ...     

Dead silence… I could feel a knot sprouting.

(That hurts like hell! ) 

An ad hoc committee formed outside my door.

(Is this how a concussion feels?)

“You OK in there, honey?” asked the hastily elected spokesman. 

(Am I supposed to go to sleep or stay awake with a concussion?)

Again, in the measured cadence the “Taxi” cast used to give DMV instructions to Reverend Jim,

“Are---you---OK---in---there?”

“OK,  thanks…”, I squeaked in a gay Mickey Mouse impersonation.  
 

Then heard barely audible, “Bless her heart”, as the committee adjourned for lunch.

 "Bless her heart" is Southern code  for "dumb-ass"

Next a covey of well-heeled females clickety-clacked in.

At least my pants were up and I had the full use of my legs in case I had to make a inglorious exit.

I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear everything. So I listened and learned… a lot.

A little background…

For men, a bathroom has one purpose, unless somebody left the sports page.

Reading is a solo act. Talking is a team sport.

Guys don’t talk to anybody in the bathroom unless their blood alcohol level is, roughly, equal to gin.

Women are polar opposites. Actually using the bathroom facilities takes a backseat to talking. The reason a trip to the ladies room is a two-woman job, sometimes more.

At least forty women have visited this room in the last fifteen minutes, and that’s not counting the ones making round trips.

And boy, do they talk!

They talked about shopping, generally, shoes, specifically, and other women…cattily.

By far, the most popular topic was shoes.

Two women can discuss shoes for hours; three or more… indefinitely.

I never realized that shoes were so fascinating. No wonder my girl, Mary, has filled all of our closets with them. They’re not just shoes anymore. They’re conversation pieces with heels!  

I can honestly say that I have never stood, or sat, next to a guy in a bathroom, and said, “I just love your shoes. You’ve got to tell me where you found them!”

Maybe Larry Craig could use that as a defense.   

Just before the bathroom was clear enough for me to duck out, a gaggle of women burst into my stall, dragged me to the floor, and hosed me down with mace. Then, two of them sat on me while their accomplices pulled out my hair, kicked me, and tried to shake the life out of me.  

“Stop it! Stop shaking me!”

“Honey! HONEY!! wake up!”, pleaded my friend, Mary, as she gently rocked my shoulders, “It’s just a bad dream.”

“No Aunty Em, it was real!”

I got up to wash the sleep out of my eyes.

Mary gave me a hug from behind, then paused before asking,

”Raymond,  where'd you get that big lump on the back of your head?”

Meeting David Menger- Letter to Martha Kathryn Menger

Hi Martha,

You're beautiful... solid proof that both parents contributed to your gene pool... :)

Your father and I have been best friends for a long time, and this is my version of how we met.

A little background... back in our day, shortly after the dinosaurs became extinct... there was no childhood obesity problem because kids actually played outside... with other kids even.

Baseball, football, tennis, ping-pong, basketball... if a ball was involved we played it.
And "staying in shape" was not a motive. If it was fun and kept us out of reach of our parents for awhile, we were in... and the competition was fierce.

One afternoon, David and I were on opposing sides of a full court, pick-up game in the North Augusta gymnasium. I had the job of covering your Dad and was on him like a Spandex body suit... a complete surprise considering my "nickel-plated" basketball skills.

But had God blessed your father with the strength of a bear, the heart of a lion, and the speed of a glacier.

There was another reason. Your dad was pumping serious iron back then and had quite a physique. So, every time David would start to drive the basket, he'd pause to admire his reflection in the gym door windows. Once he asked to borrow my comb.

Late in the game, catching me in mid-yawn, he finally managed to pull down a rebound. Then, spotting an open man standing under the other basket, David wheeled and whipped the ball as hard as he could, .. right into my face... not the whole thing... just my nose, mouth, and eyes.

The pain was excruciating. I wanted to squawl like a toddler, but there were too many witnesses. So I shook it off, and kept on playing.

This made such an impression on your Dad that he returned my comb.

We've been best friends and boon companions ever since.

Now, if your Dad has a different recollection of the event, don't be too hard on him.
David has a vivid, humorously delusional imagination that auto-engages whenever he's regaling an audience with "Ray Head" tales.

I've always thought that your father would make a great fiction writer... ;-)
Please tell your David that I miss him and look forward to seeing him again.

For Just This Point In Time

For just this point in time
You are snippets and bits of...
Everyone you've ever loved
Plus all the ones despised

You're all the laughs that've creased your eyes
Plus the tears that seared your soul...
You're all the places you've ever been
And just those that touch your dreams...

You're every note of every tune that's fallen on your ears
And every word of every page you've read for all your years
You're snippets and bits of all of these things
For just this point in time