Lack of Cell Phone Contract Knowledge Foils Plot; Hostages Freed

Terrorists continue to find unique ways to disrupt daily life, but it seems their efforts are sometimes foiled by failing to read the fine print. That was the case in Marion, Ohio this week.

The latest in local terrorism comes in the form of late middle aged men and women. This folks are recruited to strategically place themselves in open areas where many of us grab our coffee, have lunch or utilize Wi-Fi. Once there, they will pull out their cellular phones and begin casual, general conversation. The unsuspecting nearby population is then pulled into and held hostage by these "monsters" and forced to listen to details that were once reserved for private places, like a home or residence.

According to police, 53-year old Margaret Brundage of Marion held twenty people hostage at the local Panera Bread late Tuesday morning. Officials say Brundage hid herself, like natural human camouflage, in the corner of the popular breakfast and lunch place. Once the restaurant began to fill, she called her accomplice and began discussing general things like family, Thanksgiving preparations and the weather.

For the better part of two hours, Brundage would casually move closer to folks who looked as if they were trying to ignore her or who were simply just not listening. "It was awful. I'm still in shock", says 28-year old Brian Reader. He tells us, "I only wanted to get a refill of the dark roast coffee, but before I knew it I had to endure details regarding the family dog who refuses go outside to do it's business during the current cold spell. I can't even look at my own dog now. My family is heartbroken."

Many of the hostages say they tried to move, but claim Brundage just got louder and more detailed about nothing, nothing at all.

Security footage of Brundage just before Tuesday's hostage situation.

Police Detective Scott Ferris indicates that they have been tracking these terrorists for some time now. "The members of this organization are taught to be louder and more prominent when there are other things going on in the area. There doesn't even have to be background noise or any competing sound, just make sure that anyone within earshot is aware that you are in a conversation. A conversation about nothing important or pertinent. It's scary", he claims.

Another hostage, Farrah Swineheart, says that, "..many folks made snide remarks and gave her (Brundage) dirty looks, but that just seemed to make things worse. It egged her on. Her conversation just increased with further nonsensical details followed by a deafening laugh or cackle-like sound."

Detective Ferris says this growing organization has taken off in the last decade or so. "These folks, in years past, were forced to be stationary and unable to move from room-to-room or place-to-place, so their reach was limited. This was because they were tethered to a wall, or a device, by a cord. Folks knew how to avoid them. Now with a sort-of grasp on the latest technology, lack of respect for others and an appetite for destruction...everyone is in danger. We must be vigilant."

As impossible as it seems, Tuesday's situation could have been much worse.

Panera Sandwich Engineer, Josh Townsend, says he first thought the worst, but realized folks just needed to be patient. "I was going to call my parents and say goodbye, but I noticed Mrs. Brundage was only using a flip phone, so it was only a matter of time, I thought, before her call was dropped", he states. 

The call was apparently dropped, but before folks could react Brundage was able to swiftly hit redial and before they knew it she was talking again and louder than before about even more ridiculous things. Fortunately, it didn't last much longer before her service was disrupted again and she was able to get away cleanly like an average person, just disappearing into the crowd.

Officials agreed with Townsend's assumption. "What we have going for us is that this group isn't always the best at reading the fine print or paying attention to detail. The hostages survived and weren't held long for the basic fact that Mrs. Brundage was not aware that her Verizon contract included a "new phone every two years" provision. If she had been aware, and taken advantage, god only knows how long these folks would have suffered and the extent of useless everyday conversation they would have been subjected to", claims Detective Ferris.

Police say similar episodes in surrounding states have lasted much longer and we are only witnessing the tip of the iceberg unless something is done. This week's victims were lucky, but will still have to deal with that fact that it was two hours they will never get back again.

Homeland Security is in talks with Verizon and other cell phone carriers to hammer out ways to at least curb the non-violent violence being forced upon the general public. 

In a statement released this morning, Homeland Security Public Affairs Director Howard Leavitt says, "We want to assist cell phone carriers in flooding the market with smart phones and devices with upgraded technology. This, we hope, will deter this group of thugs because the phones will just be harder for them to figure out. The more buttons and confusing icons we create, the better we can keep them at bay."

He goes on to say, "They (the carriers) have assisted thus far by making the contracts long and arduous to read. We just now need to work on the devices."

As for today, Marion is back to normal. Though tomorrow may still be in question.

Fractured, Not Broken

Double-takes, that is what passersby do as they cruise along in their various means of transportation. Apparently sitting in one's apartment building front yard under a tree with a book (and maybe a glass of bourbon) isn't the norm around here. Or is it the fact that I don't have my attention hijacked by an Iphone, Ipad or other ignore-the-outside-world electronic device creeping them out? Little do they know I'm watching and observing them just as much.

The apartment on
State Street.

These are the same looks I received when I planted a small garden in that same tiny front yard. I also dished out those glances and stares when I finally caught the couple who kept stealing those plants, pulling them right out of the ground, in the middle of the night as they were walking their dog. I had jokingly thought of electrifying the tomato plant cages just to teach them a lesson.

Maybe its my saved from the trash lawn chair that accompanies me? It's arms are dotted with what looks like rust water stains, but otherwise works and is semi-comfortable. On second glance, the stains resemble Iodine or maybe dried blood. Hmm...its not blood. Then again I could have picked up someone's discarded murder weapon. Yeah, its not blood...I'm pretty sure...sort of. Do I have bleach in my apartment? Oh, nevermind.

I'm not alone, the struggling trees across the street keep me company. The four aren't very big, though they never really had a chance. They have obviously been trimmed (butchered is the better word for it) over and over. Some limbs are thriving, most of the others litter the ground with debris on windy days. One tree has no growth, just a six-foot stump with one branch pointing towards the sky at two o'clock as if to say "kill me now, seriously, just kill me" to the heavens above.

There isn't much moisture in that small strip of land about the width of my arm that sits between a busy residential street and a massive parking lot that, at most, is half full about twice a year. Its current major role is reserved for the massive piles of snow the plows shove around during Ohio's schizophrenic winters. Let's just say it isn't postcard worthy.

Occasionally my strange activities are interrupted. Last weekend I smiled at a woman walking by and she said "hi". Then proceeded to utilize the next 35 minutes to tell me about an unnerving domestic situation that has been taking place between her, her daughter and recent tenants-turned-squatters.

The animated monologue filled with expletives was a bit uncomfortable and she assured me that the rather fresh cast on her right wrist and hand was due to punching a wall out of anger. "Not from punching a person", she said with a laugh. I forced a laugh along with her, silly me. I was happy to see her move on, waving goodbye with the swollen, bruised sausage fingers sticking out from the end of that badge of honor encasing her hand. That image still haunts me.

Other times I'm interrupted by folks strolling by on the sidewalk having cell phone conversations with complete disregard for who is around, how loud they are, what they are saying or where they are. I say "conversations", but are more like arguments while pushing a small child around in a stroller who isn't protect by the blazing sun.

Its funny how they throw you a disapproving stare when they catch your eyes. Is it because they notice I'm listening or because I'm bad at feigning interest in a conversation I've been forced into against my will from half a block away? Oh, by the way...your child is melting.

Every now and then, I don't even have to go outside. Last fall my upstairs neighbor turned on the bath at around 7 am as I'm having my coffee and half-listening to NPR. Before long the sound of her running water seemed to be coming from my bathroom. I think its in the movie The Amityville Horror where blood seeps and drips from the walls? Imagine that blood is instead water.

My neighbor turned on the bath, then laid down and fell asleep. As a result, her bath ran over onto her floor - also known on the other side as my bathroom ceiling. About 30 minutes later I have cleaned up the mess, but have two loads of soaked towels and rugs to take care of. Not to mention the task given to my landlord to correct a drywall ceiling that, to me, resembles the aftermath of colliding tectonic plates.

I'm still waiting for the ceiling to be repaired, though I'm now greeted at each bathroom visit by thousands of tiny, damp drywall chandeliers that fall like Autumn leaves every couple of days...yay. She, my upstairs neighbor, did apologize - at least I think she did, or tried. That afternoon I came home from work to find a note on my door that read:

Sorry about your water problem.

 - Brooke

...are you confused? Yep, me too.

I'm not sure if it was the smiley face, that it was apparently my "water problem" or that she shares the name of a vehicle for running water. I still think I was somehow involved in a lost Seinfeld episode.

Anyway, it is at least entertaining here on State Street. My elderly, bisexual neighbor who half jokingly hits on me every now and then is a story for another time. 

So my question to you is - what less then perfect place would you want to be right now?

The Fourteen Day Goodbye

It has been a little over a year since dad passed away and seven months before that - in June - his dad, grandpa, passed away. But grandpa (known as O.J.) was 90 years old and was getting more frail as the days went on. Dad, Terry, was 63 and the time from which we discovered he had been sick - and sick for years, was hospitalized and succumbed to Cancer was all of two weeks.

It hit even harder that his visit to the hospital for what he thought was Bronchitis was on December 24th, 2012...Christmas Eve. What followed that were constant updates from his wife Shelley and calls from him - that is when he had enough oxygen and strength to breathe on his own. Very quietly we found out that it was stage four Cancer that had moved from his stomach to his lungs. This was going to be fatal and very soon.

I can't imagine how he must have felt and what was going through his mind when it was explained that there was not going to be a recovery - there is no treatment...it would be useless. The first week of 2013 had us - my brother, sister, Shelley and dad's brother Don - detail to dad that he had to decide when he wanted to be intubated, taken off the respirator and slowly, peacefully pass away. A friend and local Pastor John Evans played a big part in helping dad (and us) cope with the situation. We more/less lived in that wing of Adena Regional Medical Center for a couple of days.

As weird as it was, the hospital was crawling with old friends and faces - it was like an all class reunion of some kind. And somehow they were all there - working at the hospital of course - but almost as if they were helping us say "goodbye". This was our hometown, so it made sense to see people we knew. But it was on the verge of crazy.

With a despondent  look on his face, dad came to a conclusion. We spent the night and morning in his hospital room reminiscing, playing music and laughing. Each laugh followed by an abrupt silence - knowing that it would all end soon. That afternoon we said our goodbyes through tears, strained faces, tired looks and emotional hell. I'm sure dad would have given anything to fight those temporary battles with us, but his was going to be final.

Two weeks...I'm still as stunned and dumbfounded today as I was then. That doesn't happen, someone doesn't go from looking perfectly healthy with no outward sign of sickness to stage four of this asinine disease and on their deathbed (for a lack of a better term) in fourteen days. That's ludicrous! He even had to celebrate - or celebrate as best he could - his birthday during this time.

I know we probably had not been as close as we used to be over the last few years with my brother living in Texas, my sister corralling a career as well as three children under the age of eight, and my flighty career and relationship paths. That's not to mention dad having remarried and then divorced, and then married for a third time. But I was just with him a month earlier watching the Ohio State/Michigan football game at his house and yelling at the TV like we did so many years ago when we were under the same roof. We had not done that together since I was fifteen or sixteen. Damn, had it really been 22-years?! We had only discussed the game on the phone days after the fact up until then. It was like we were pulled together for one last hurrah, only no one explained to us that that's what it was.

In that hospital room, I must of had a look of absolute disorientation. I'm in a fog because this doesn't happen, shouldn't happen...so why is it happening? I'm in tears, we all are, and we each hugged dad and say goodbye and tell him we love him. He's in too much pain or shock, or both, to cry but we can hear it in his muffled voiced as he fights to make himself sound coherent through the mask that is forcing oxygen into his failing, fluid-filled lungs.

I try to say something to him, but my emotions erupt and what little composure I had disappears. Suddenly I'm sobbing and I'm frustrated and this is really happening.

Dad seems emotionless, but you can tell he understands - he's ready to go. We are escorted out of the room to another area away from everyone. Small talk among us is hard to come by for about twenty minutes or so, then the nurse arrives to tell us we can go back in. As we get to the door to dad's room, suddenly we see him shoot up to the sitting position and the hospital staff runs to his aid and immediately escort us out of the room then close the double doors behind us. My sister is in near hysterics and the rest of us are unsure of what to make of it.

Apparently, dad wasn't completely under when he was intubated - the tube down his throat caused a knee-jerk choking/gagging-like reaction or reflex. Geez, like we need more happening right now! Minutes later we are back in the room, dad is unconscious and struggling to breathe on his own. We all grab a chair, try to relax, tell stories about dad, the past and recent happenings as we wait for his final goodbye.

The joke was that dad, who was the king of unfunny jokes and stories, had another "remember when" story he forgot to share or he had just recalled the most recent unfunny one he took from Reader's Digest and wanted to tell us about it at the last minute. Unfortunately, he waited a bit too long and the tube in his mouth kept him from giving us one last laugh - or more likely -  roll of the eyes. It is a shame he didn't get to do that.

Or did he?

Uncle Don and Donna, My brother Chad and his wife Steph, My sister Jill and her husband Chad, Pastor Evans and I sat there intermixing memories, laughs, silence and sadness for more than six hours. I don't know anyone who can be comfortable in a hospital room chair for more than five minutes let alone a quarter of a day. We nodded off for a few minutes here and there, but our bodies were waking us up as if to say, "What the hell is this? I don't think so!"

At least one of us kept an eye on dad or the monitors keeping track of his breathing nearly the entire time. There was an instance when the oxygen monitor neared zero. We all stood up and gathered around him waiting for the inevitable and taking deep, cleansing breaths. Though slowly, and unusually, the oxygen level crept back up again to what it was before and even improved upon it.

HILARIOUS dad, HIL-AR-EEE-US.

Even on his death bed (and unconscious mind you), the stupid unfunny jokes continued. We half expected him to open one eye, point his finger at us and say "Gotcha". Though, that was officially the last one.

A short time later when we were all engaged in conversation and not paying any attention to him or the machines - it all stopped. He had decided to go when he thought we were at peace and he was not the center of attention. That was January 6th, 2013.

It was just weird to spend the past year not getting a call from him now and then, realizing that dialing his number (which is still in my phone by the way) would not result in a conversation about what was happening in our super small hometown and trips down south would not include swinging by to say "hello".

Instead, it had us dropping by dad's plot in Little Mound Cemetery and having conversations with ourselves - pretending dad is fully involved and taking part. He's right next to his dad, O.J., just like they were a few months earlier, when they lived within 100 yards of each other. Grandpa playing stupid jokes on dad, dad growing frustrated with him...but then doing the exact same thing to us. Like father, like son.

The jokes have come to an end for the Simpson Boys of Richmond Dale, Ohio. So, I'm not going to apologize to anyone for all of the stupid jokes you hear from me and all the times I make your eyes roll out of your head.

You see, I'm just carrying the torch and it doesn't have too many hands left to hold it.