Editor's Note: This was Ben's final column while writing for the Crawfordsville (Ind.) Journal Review.
This will be the last column I write for the Journal Review. I may start them again sometime in the future. I would like to. But for now, this will have to do.
If any of you have column ideas, please still tell them to me and send them. I will keep a list, and somewhere down the road, maybe they will let me do this again.
In a day and age when there are so many different types of people, with various races, ethnicities and personalities, there is one type I'm more likely to associate with frequently.
I have an insatiable and unconscious desire to surround myself with Dr Pepper drinkers.
But IÃm also convinced that most Dr Pepper drinkers are psychotic.
Which comes first is unclear. And calling someone psychotic can be misconstrued, so Dr Pepper drinkers, donÃt take this personally. But ponder the following arguments.
The world's not revolving faster, nor have its inhabitants been hibernating, but time is moving faster. If time doesn't slow down, it could get pulled over, and it won't stand a chance in court.
Vacations have a lot to do with the insane pace of minutes. No, not the vacation you take. The vacation other people around you take. Many people working at the Journal have taken trips all across the United States, even to Canada. When someone leaves any business for a break, the remaining people must suffer the consequences.
Most sensible people would probably concede, pay the ticket and try harder next time. Not me. Finally, Aug. 2 at 8:50 a.m., the charges were dismissed. I was a free man. But the way it happened was a bit intriguing.
Boy it's hot outside. That's why I'm inside now. People keep talking about beating the heat. You've got to be kidding. You couldn't even beat the heat with a large frying pan. To avoid one silly cliché, I've decided to live by another — if you can't beat it, join it. Here's a short list of things to do to join the heat:
Start a fire — You can burn a lot faster, and burn a lot more for that matter. The folks at Woodstock 99 decided to light a few bonfires, loot shops and get really, really angry. Unfortunately, Willie Nelson escaped with few burns.
Bad things happen.
There's nothing anyone can do; they just happen. This past week, we saw our fair share of incidents. Nationally, a man whose life has been in a continual spotlight died in a plane crash. Locally, a young woman was found dead after being missing since July 4.
Tragedies strike at all times, mostly when least expected. There are numerous levels of tragedies, yet they all come back to one thing — loss. Losing something or someone can be devastating. But eventually, the void becomes a part of you, while you try fervently to concentrate on other things.
In today's society, there are two groups of people — ones who get paid to cut grass and ones who cut grass only because it's their duty to the country. Actually there's a third, smaller group of people, composed mostly of apartment dwellers, kids and travel agents. But they, too, have either had to cut the grass or will in the future.
Nomads have wandered through cities during the last two weeks, sold their goods and departed for lands of milk and honey.
They don't leave a trail, but their wares do – usually ashes, perhaps a foul-smelling odor but always a glowing experience.
Fireworks salespeople have rigorous lives. I recently caught up with one such seller, Smokin' Joe Romancandle. What follows is his normal day:
6 a.m. Wakes up, sings the "Star-Spangled Banner," eats a Pop-Tart and brushes his teeth.
Last month I was in Wal-Mart, and I aimlessly wandered into the vitamin aisle. There were hundreds of nutritional supplement items, but one caught my attention – shark cartilage.
Unfortunately, the label contained little information pertaining to what the product actually does, such as make one lose weight or grow a dorsal fin.
As a kid, I used to see "Jaws" on my wall at bedtime. Now I see health companies trying to withhold routine information on Jaws' cousins.
Can you keep a secret?
Last week, I met with a special agent from the Department of Defense. I had my shrubbery costume ready (luckily, there were no dogs around), but it wasn't necessary. The agent led me into a room in the Crawfordsville Armory, looked both ways and closed the door. The questioning was ready to begin.