Stan Sessions is the pick of the week.

#256 is the draw of the week. #256 is Stan Sessions and also the lucky winner. Is this the week I shell out the $500?

If he is a RI blog follower, I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon. Then I’ll have to check and see if he’s shared or posted RI’s link on his page. I seriously hope he has done the necessaries for the $.

If he’s not, he should spend a little more time signing up as a follower on this blog.

I wrote this post about 2:00 this morning. I was tired but couldn’t sleep. Looking at it in the light of day, I can see it makes no sense. But that’s in line with everything else I do.

I often hear people complain about their boring job. My job is never boring.

During the workday, it’s times like this when I often pretend I’m taking a hip hop dance class. Believe me, the sparks the camera caught are a small fraction of the unseen ones heading for my non-steel-toed work sandals.

I don’t know if anyone else is like me but things often stack up around me until situations and life are spinning out of control. The worse it gets, the less I want to dive in and fix it.

An additional factor that makes things even worse is I’m a pack rat. I hate throwing anything out. When I do manage to chuck something, as soon as the garbage truck crushes my long-hoarded treasure, I need it.

The needed item just left the premises, usually because my wife said it had to leave. I end up ordering a clone of the thing I just threw out. Without fail, the replacement item costs three times as much as I paid for the one I just threw out.

Being an inventor makes it worse. Here’s a small sampling of a few of my R&D treasures…

Believe it or not, all this stuff was shiny and new when I started on it.

The shop I work out of is rented from me and my siblings. Why I have to write out a rent check to 8 people (who all have more money than I do) to use seems illogical in my mind. I’ve worked on this place for 60 years and now have to write out a check every month.

I realize that I’m getting 1/9 of this rent money back but that might not last much longer. You see, I think they are trying to squeeze me out.

Unfortunately, these other youngsters have chosen to disrespect their elder brother and issued an edict a couple of years ago that I needed to clean my act up. They didn’t deliver an absolute ultimatum but I got the distinct feeling that they were going to initiate legal action which would prevent me from using my last name of Casper.

They voted in unison that they wanted to keep their hottie-tottie last name from being associated with a junkyard.

Since I’m the firstborn, I figure I should be able to create and proliferate a mess without any flack from the other eight.

In case you didn’t know, we Mormons have what’s called a Family Home Evening every week on Monday night. It’s supposed to promote family unity but once in a while things go upside down. This discussion happened on a Monday night in what you might call a hot, lively, radically unconventional and upside down FHE.

The only person with any common sense is fourth from the right and by far the best looking of the whole crew.

By the end of it, I had a hunch if I didn’t obey their unreasonable instructions, they were going to do a class-action lawsuit and not only take away my last name but also restrain me from calling myself Ben.

These were not just idle threats. My bros and cisterns are no-nonsense kind of people. They mean business. If I didn’t give them a satisfactory response concerning my, or should I say their little pack-rat pad, I would end up as an unknown soul.

My high school friends would say at the next reunion “Hey, whatever happened to that one guy?”

The universal response would be “Are you talking about the guy with no name?” And then “Whoever he was, I don’t think it ended well.” Another would say “I saw a tombstone at the Basin City cemetery with no name on it.”

Then they would all agree with “Yes, that was him.”

I have enough trouble as it is being patient when I go through the line to renew my driver’s license. If I were stopped from using my name, who knows how long I’d be stuck there at the counter trying to convince the surly inspector or inspectoress to issue me a license without a name. It sounds like something that they would never find a solution to.

Back in the 70’s my band used to play a song by America titled “Horse with no name”. I was starting to empathize with that poor horse.

I decided I had to keep my name from being deleted and I would have to pacify them. I told them that by December 31, 2016, I would have their property in “Pristine” condition.

They eagerly stood and gave a standing ovation. Then they typed out a contract with the word pristine being the most used word on the page. I signed it in the heat of the FHE moment.

I did not want to throw anything out. The price of scrap metal is in the toilet. Most of the items were not junk, at least when I started working on them. I feel strongly that if an artsy-fartsy connoisseur of fine sculpture from New York or Paris stopped by my holdings on Casper Lane, they’d probably write me a big-time check for the entire collection.

I keep waiting but no limousines have pulled in yet.

So this spring I started the clean-up. I have helped in other cleanups that were kinda forced on the collectors because they were moving or other pressing circumstances. I know how hard it is for hoarders to give up their stuff. I’ve gone through three or four months of agony in this effort.

To be honest, my siblings have been pretty patient with me. Here it is September and I’m still trying to achieve pristine. But I’ve made progress. Once again, here is a picture of one section of my creations followed by another picture I just took today of the same area.

This area is 55 tons lighter than it was last December. I’m convinced that sooner or later there’s going to be a world-wide problem because I think the change in weight is going to throw the earth’s axis out of sinc.

But then again, after the cleanup I hauled in 120 ton of gravel. I think that’s what brought on the eclipse the other day.

(The preceding story is based on fact but probably a little overblown. I actually have great love and respect for the other eight. And I am doing my best to avoid having a blank tombstone.)

Friday was a great day for me. A couple of days ago I avoided a near disaster when I mixed up a little too much oxygen, fuel and heat. So the last few days I’ve spent rectifying that unpleasant situation. I finished the job on Friday. Whew!

And in the middle of my morning, I had a guy call me from Pendleton and rave for a good five minutes about how much he enjoyed my book. I could take calls all day like that.

There might be a little ego-boost in those type of calls but I think by far the biggest kick I get is knowing that I made somebody’s life a little better from cramming a bunch of words together into semi-literate sentences that may or may not describe my life.

Let me stress once again that this blog is truth and satire blended. My book is truth as near as I recalled and often recorded at the time of occurrence.

This afternoon I did more cleanup at my old car wash. A guy is going to start detailing autos there so I had to rearrange many pallets of packratish-type paraphernalia so he has some room to work.

Today felt really good. I tackled two jobs I hate. I got them both done. That is a great day for me.

Tonight, we went to the Connell-Othello football game and were greatly edified. As we left a few minutes before the final horn to beat the rush, I passed Burl Booker at the gate. As soon as he saw me, he yelled for his daughter Megan and pointed me her way.

I walked over to her and she lit into me. In a good way. Let’s just say she likes my book and blog. Kind words. Much appreciated.

After Megan, I walked by an old friend who was just outside the gate. He is a wonderful and happy guy. I’ve known him for ages. I’m not going to name him since I don’t want people copying my work. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.

Many years ago, he was at my tire store getting his truck worked on. A spider was rappelling down from the ceiling and I pointed the critter out to this guy. He freaked out! I mean, I’ve never seen a guy come so unglued at the sight of any type of creature, let alone a little spider. He started ducking and yelling and cussing. I’m sorry but it was dang funny.

So I see this good friend every couple of years. And every time I do, I point to his shoulder and say “There’s a spider.”

And I always get the same reaction. The same lightning-quick jukes and jives. The same colorful language. The same slapping and smacking at the shoulder that I just pointed at. And the same name-calling directed at me at the end. But we always part friends.

I would think he would learn. This has gone on for 20 years. I better quit it before we end up with a massive heart attack. Either him from arachnophobia or me from rolling on the sidewalk laughing. Or maybe both.

If you’ve got the book, buy more for all your friends.