Dear Mr. President -- April 30, 2014

President Barack Obama,                                                                                        April 30, 2014                                                                    and First Lady Michelle,                                                                                                                                                              The White House,                                                                                                                                                                              1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW,                                                                                                                                        Washington D.C.  20500

Dear Mr. President, and First Lady Michelle,

Thank you for your recent letter of gratitude for correspondences.  It took a bit of courage to do this.  I am not in a habit of writing to many, other than a blog, and only about three-thousand people, mostly friends; not nearly the correspondence, and I am told that I have about three-million true friends, many of whom I never meet, much as you. 

The only other president I ever wrote letters to, was Bubba (my friend, Bill Clinton, whom I met in Chicago).  He sent me invitations to White House Christmas, almost annually; and, I always liked him because he talked to me as a person.  I am aware that he is ill, or so I am told; however, as with Dr. Chen Guang Cheng, his address eludes me.   I guess if you asked Bill, he might say he does recall me somewhere, and might even mention a book we shared.  But that is not the reason I write you.  It is different; and we are not really friends, because you do not really know me.  My best friend for years as pen pals, was Bill Brady; and he was a great mentor.  We stopped writing some time back, but I always think well of him and his wonderful wife. 

It was not my intention to ever write to you, except that fate delegated. 

About the time Newt Gingrich was saying, get an education (to US), I was working on my Master Degree.  Currently, I am diligently working for my second, even though I am much older than you (for which I am happy, as I hope you have a long and healthy, happy life, and in that respect you could call me a friend, only if you wish). 

How much education must one have to be President?

I realize that between two of you, your educations dwarf the majority of people, worldwide.  That is why I cast my vote in manner.   And you did some good things, especially for health care and as an advocate for education.

 As you see, I basically wish to ride upon a positive wave; but what I cannot understand, is why government should not work absolutely as they say it should – balanced on a pinnacle, from the bottom to top.  The sacrifices must be mostly made, from top to bottom as a cohesive solution, not your Department of Natural Resource coming to people as myself to eye them with envy, while denying their rights – same with Michigan State Police – Paw Paw, and beyond that, all the way to governor – these people represent self-interest only. 

Stealing is stealing, no matter who does it.  When you lock US citizens out of their own countries, and tell them that you do not represent them, and you keep valuables that belong to them, and refuse to make a report, and physically remove them, I think that is a crime against US.   I believe that is why our first nation is still simmering on hot coals. 

The crime US committed against US citizen, telling him they do not represent US – who do they represent, Mr. President?  Nobody wants to answer, other than American citizens, wronged. 

This is why I am requesting a restraining order against those responsible for my “sacrifice”—Michigan State Police, and your Department of Natural Resource (which Michigan is currently claiming).  And, I am asking for the return of my valuables, and I am requesting a meeting with FBI Director Combe, and I still wish to speak with Dr. Chen. 

I have education now, and hope to educate many more.  RSVP

Sincerely,

Johny Appalachia

YOU DON'T ALWAYS GET TO CHOOSE THE PEOPLE YOU MEET

Hustling With Minnesota  

Part of my High School haunt was an aged but by no means decrepit, pool hall. I never considered myself proficient enough to pursue a career in that sport, I just enjoyed people I met there.  You’d think “Archies” was a far out-of-the-way place, as it barely exists on any map of regular size.  It was the home town of Harold McGown (my father’s namesake, a relative) who invented the world’s first snowmobile; and also the ultimate place to meet many people from four corners of earth, as it appeared to be the center of the universe – certainly, it was ours.

I was a poor athlete as a youth.  Maybe I was built too bulky for sports.  Once I hit a ball out of a ballpark.  I ran the bases.  People cheered.  The umpire sent me back to second base.  We lost the ball game to everybody’s chagrin -- the only ball game I ever played in my entire lifetime.  Today, I could barely throw a ball across the street; so I’m guessing consistency.

The way I remember, there had to be about eight heavy, well-maintained, perfectly balanced pool tables, older than anyone who played on those tables, even the ninety year old owner.  And behind those tables, a three-lane bowling alley occupied others who came to relax or stack pins for a penny a pin – not my idea of fun, as sometimes balls tended to be hurled by harried troglodytes, and head injuries were at a premium.  You just learned to stay out of some areas.

I enjoyed playing pool with “English”, a technique we began to master at Catechism practices, at a table in the Jesuit church basement, as the pastor enjoyed placing bets on similar activities, smoked cigars and encouraged a healthy lifestyle--but the pool hall was very professional.  Where I could easily command a table in one arena, it was a struggle to maintain my own turf in the other; but, my friend Bob, clothed himself through school, playing pool after classes, or on weekends, at tournaments.  He was a hustler.  I could hold my own.  Together we cleaned house among regulars, and Bob often won, as he dressed fairly well and drove a new car.

The owner was a once professional player who conveniently owned his primary occupation, the pool hall.  For him it was a winning decision, as he literally won many games, just enough to make a cut above, maybe a few more logs for the fireplace as the woodcutter debited up.   His real advantage was his actual skill, something people are born with or lack thereof and he attracted the likes of world-renowned gangsters (Baby-face Nelson and a few others); also, great pool players. 

One day, a guy walked through the door while I was dorking somewhere else.  It was the only day in my life when I chose to watch the Saturday afternoon bowling tournament.  All three lanes were busy times two.  It was exciting to watch three guys stumbling over each other over balls and pins that kept smacking them repeatedly, and coincidently the guys, none of which I liked, could it be Socratic Irony?  While I was getting my laughs on the shoulders and to the chagrin of tortured bullies, wondering if I should sign up for a round, all I could hear in the background was a crisp, smack-smack-smack-smack-Smack.  You’d think the                 Q ball would crack in half, such was that sound that brought the rest of that hall to a standstill; and I was too naïve to understand the significance except the table was surrounded by fans so tight that it was impossible to get through to that table if you ever wanted to.  And the room was silently still while some guy with fat fingers ran entire rounds consecutively, again and again without fail, never missing while a few lucky folk looked on, excluding me.  It was Minnesota Fats.

Pool halls lured me during adolescent and single years for a number of reasons.  If you are a product of the country, disinterested in ordinary sports, preferring the likes of country brook and lake fishing, you might develop a city interest in pool halls and bowling – that is a valid theory.  Anyway, I accidently bumped unknowingly into Eddy Fields, the world renown psychic, in Chicago -- coincidently on a couple occasions; and it was frighteningly scary just to look at this genius who could not seem to tie his own shoes from time to time or maybe match his sox; and he told me the same thing twice, within a year, never knowing my name or history.    We played pool together, while people were paying him one-hundred dollar bills, just to grace his presence.  I never knew who he was.  That’s the problem.  You meet these people and they turn into ordinary personalities except for their quirks, as in everybody. 

In retrospect, Eddy probably acted more as a big brother when I saw him and he asked me to share his game.  He was a terrible player in my estimation, and it made me feel as comfortable because we never knew who the winner would be.   Nobody would be running the slate with everything in galactic order and never missing a beat.  It was more like a sophisticated version of the celibate, Cheech and Chong, if any such thing should exist, or ever did, as two people quietly struggled with this tortured event that seemed to be almost redundant after a fashion, flailing sticks and missing balls around the table, we each wished somebody would offer to beat us. 

Last time I saw Eddy, he was working as a psychic.  Before that, he was just a strange person I bumped into at the pool hall.  I had no idea what he did or who he was.  He was just Eddy, the guy I bumped into.  We each went our separate ways, non-the-wiser.  My Q stick got hung up on the rack.