Having too much time on your hands is never a good thing. After all, idle hands do the devil's work. But I have had time to meet some new friends and male callers through various online outlets and recollect some memories from my past with friends.
I recently joined a dating site and signed up for skype, learned how to use my video camera while chatting and didn't realize that there was a microphone that immediately turned on when the video camera went on. I was "chatting" with a fine Italian fellow, he asked me to turn on my camera and I obliged. I was on the phone with a friend while typing him and did not know HE COULD HEAR ME. I was describing the "not so bad looking, bald guy" that came up on my screen to my friend on the phone. The Italian fellow, the not-so-bad-looking-bald-guy, I was chatting with let me go on for about three to five minutes before he said, "you're so funny." I was surprised because, even though I am funny, I had not said anything that I thought was funny. He then alerted me that my microphone was on and that he could hear everything I was saying to my friend. Good times.
I went to school in SOUTHERN ILLINOIS, very different than going to school on the East Coast or any other place on the planet. It is total hicksville. Which is actually nicer than being in many parts of the Chicagoland area because I prefer hicks to suburbanites, they have more flavor.
By flavor, I mean character, the people who live in small towns, particularly in the heartland, or "Little Egypt" as Southern Illinois is sometimes called - the land between two rivers, they are defined by their circumstances and those circumstances can be very different than what we in the north are accustomed to. We had this liquor store in Southern Illinois, Pick's and Mr. Pick, at one time, owned a fair portion of the town, he was then in his 80s, always wore a suit (usually a fair colored suit) and bollo tie to work every day. And, after 2 a.m., when the liquor stores closed, you could knock on the back door and Mr. Pick, or one of his employees, would open the back door for girls, he liked girls. You'd come in, he'd sell you what you wanted and chat you up for a few minutes in his office.
Mr. Pick had a picture of his lovely daughter on his desk, a plump blond with big curls, it was a "glamor shot" so the edges of the photo had the smoked over look and it was a head/neck shot and she had a feather boa on. Mr. Pick commented on what a fine lady she was and how well she could shoot a rifle.
When it came time to leave, Mr. Pick would go over to his file cabinet, take out his revolver, put it in the front of his pants and walk you out the back door on his way to his Cadillac. We would take our bottle of Jack or a 12 back of cheap beer and head over to an after hours party and Mr. Pick would drive home to Mrs. Pick.