tampa's Revenge
- Thread starter tampa
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The word is "vehemently", but the thing is "who needs a vendor?" Woodie is a scumball vendor hiding behind altruism/charity, and his room is all about hiding the fact that someone is on the take from e-signal or hotcomm, and that he makes money from seminars. It's Woodie's CCI Club <b>Inc.</b> for a reason.
You think wrong. I haven't fallen victim to these vendors. I'm smart enough to have learned early on that you have to make your own way in this business and "if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."
They will instead waste money on seminars, hotcomm and e-signal. Worst of all, though, they will have wasted their time.
I am not planning to knock Woodie here as my ego and my sense of humour had as much to do with my banning as Woodies ego and his irritability. But Sampson, I am afraid you come nearer to needing a reality check than Tampa does.
Like Nkhoi I also enjoyed Gio - but as Gio knows there are some who really can't cope. The idea of using Gio's tapes to buy property is exquisite humour and I hope she would see the funny side of it too.
I know a lot of former members who would identify with Tampas experience of Woodie in policeman mode and his views. I also know a lot of existing members who choose to ignore it because they choose to stay in the community.
Woodie actions go well beyond necessity if this is a room with no hidden agendas.
Itâs all kind of sad - isnât it. Pissing contests always are.
For the record, they found me hiding in the corner, and unceremoniously booted me out. Well, good riddance, I suppose. You come in to the room, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and end up leaving disillusioned. Hey, life is full of disappointments.
My views on the method, the concepts behind it, or what I learned have not changed. To be sure, I saw things during my tenure that I didnât like. I ran in to people I could have done without. But my overall assessment is not likely to change. I have too much invested in this CCI thing to allow personality conflicts to dissuade me.
And Iâm enough of a softie to lay off â I mean, come on, itâs Christmas and everything.
I wish none of them ill â I donât think an awful lot of some of them, but I wish them no ill. And Iâll continue to root for some others â though I may never know how things worked out.
Do I have any regrets? Hell no! I made some self-serving, sanctimonious stuffed shirts- or bras, as the case may be â squirm. I left others with more than a little to think about.
In the hours ahead, Iâll have a Christmas gift for you. Itâs a story â a true story. It was originally intended to be told aloud â a monologue - and took over an hour to deliver. I did my best to condense it in to a manageable written form. I hope it translates.
The holidays are intensely personal for me, and not a good time to be in the market. So I donât know how much time Iâll be spending at the olâ keyboard, but you just never know about those kinds of things.
In any event, thank you for checking in â you flatter me. And if you would permit me one last parting shot: "We donât need no stinkinâ Woodieâ¦â
For the record, they found me hiding in the corner, and unceremoniously booted me out. Well, good riddance, I suppose. You come in to the room, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and end up leaving disillusioned. Hey, life is full of disappointments.
My views on the method, the concepts behind it, or what I learned have not changed. To be sure, I saw things during my tenure that I didnât like. I ran in to people I could have done without. But my overall assessment is not likely to change. I have too much invested in this CCI thing to allow personality conflicts to dissuade me.
And Iâm enough of a softie to lay off â I mean, come on, itâs Christmas and everything.
I wish none of them ill â I donât think an awful lot of some of them, but I wish them no ill. And Iâll continue to root for some others â though I may never know how things worked out.
Do I have any regrets? Hell no! I made some self-serving, sanctimonious stuffed shirts- or bras, as the case may be â squirm. I left others with more than a little to think about.
In the hours ahead, Iâll have a Christmas gift for you. Itâs a story â a true story. It was originally intended to be told aloud â a monologue - and took over an hour to deliver. I did my best to condense it in to a manageable written form. I hope it translates.
The holidays are intensely personal for me, and not a good time to be in the market. So I donât know how much time Iâll be spending at the olâ keyboard, but you just never know about those kinds of things.
In any event, thank you for checking in â you flatter me. And if you would permit me one last parting shot: "We donât need no stinkinâ Woodieâ¦â
I will remember the day so long as I live. It was December 24th, 1986 â Christmas Eve, I was now over forty, at a crossroads in my live â recently divorce, living alone in a small furnished apartment â without family, without friends to comfort me.
I canât ever remember feeling lower, feeling more sorry for myself.
There were no Christmas decorations, no tree. A handful of unopened holiday cards sat unopened on the kitchen counter. It was the day of the year that I loved the most â but not this year. I was too overcome with self-pity. Itâs tough being alone for Christmas.
The day began bright and early â mine always do. I sat there undressed, smoking countless cigarettes, downing untold cups of coffee. One hour turned in to another â it was nearly noon before the fog lifted â before I declared that this was no way to spend the day â not THIS day, not Christmas Eve.
In the closet off the living room was a packing barrel, labeled: Xmas Treasures. It had been put together by my ex-wife as she sorted through and divided up what was left of the life we had shared. I had never bothered to look inside.
For what ever reason, I cannot explain, I found myself drawn to that barrel. It contained a few strands of lights, maybe a dozen or so ornaments, some garland, and a small ceramic Christmas Tree my mother had made in a crafts class probably thirty-five years before. Going through the contents, I shook my head in disbelief at what the ex considered âtreasuresâ and at the inequitable distribution of what we had acquired over thirteen years of marriage.
But this was Christmas Eve, damn-it â the most important day of the year. As I held the ceramic tree my mother had made so long ago, the tree that I had seen at her house, the tree that made itâs way to mine after she died, memories began to come back â so many memories. Slowly at first, and then in a grand rush. This simple tree had been on display for so many happier times. Somehow it just wasnât right to not bring out again.
Iâm sure that your family has itâs traditions, as does mine. Maybe itâs silly, but nothing says Christmas more to me than the meal that has ushered in every holiday celebration for as long as I can remember - a big bowl of homemade potato salad and a Polish canned ham. It just wouldnât be Christmas without it.
I cleared off a place on the end table, and lovingly displayed the tree that now meant more to me than I could have imagined. As I stepped back, it never looked netter. But there was still more to do if this were to be a Christmas Eve as I had always known them.
Quickly showering and dressing, I made my way to the super market for what had come to be the most important meal of the year â a Polish canned ham, and the ingredients for a big bowl of potato salad.
Back at the apartment I set about preparing what was be my holiday feast â wife or no wife, packages under the tree or no packages under the tree. It was then that the most remarkable thing happened. As I stood in the kitchen, I could hear my dad assembling the Lionel Train set that so thrilled a young boy almost forty years ago. A train set long since discarded. And as I mixed together the potatoes and mayonnaise, adding the chopped onions and celery, my mother, and grandmother looked over my shoulder making sure that I was doing it correctly â they both smiled approvingly.
I canât recall hearing the doorbell ring, but soon this otherwise small drab apartment was filled with friends and family â my aunts Kate and Marie â my motherâs sisters who married two brothers, Franny and Joe â Kateâs five kids, Marieâs four. My dadâs father was there, sitting in his favorite chair, overseeing every detail. And so many more people who had been part of Christmas past â they were all there. Special toys that had once made the boy inside of me squeal with delight â toys long since broken, lost or given away somehow repapered as if by magic.
The air was filled with laughter and conversation, even Christmas Carols sung better than I can ever remember hearing them sung â sung by all the people who meant so much to me.
Later, after eating way too much, we all sat around reminiscing and sharing what had become probably the best Christmas ever. What had started out as such a dark day, ended so well. Before the night was over, we all agreed to do it again next year, and every year.
Iâve remarried now. My wife and I have each brought our own Christmas traditions to share with each other, plus we have started some new ones . Now, where you to come peek in our window on Christmas Eve, you might only be able to see Mary and I opening our presents, toasting each other, and enjoying the warm fire. But just as sure as I am writing these words, I promise you that my mom and dad, my grandparents, all the aunts and uncles, more cousins than you can count, plus old friends and neighbors are all there. All together again, sharing Christmas. Iâm sorry if you canât see them, canât hear the love and joy. Iâm sorry if you lack my imagination.
You see, Christmas isnât so much about trees and packages tied up with ribbons and bows. Itâs not even about ham and potato salad. Itâs so much more. Itâs memories. Christmas is cumulative â one builds on another. And this one will be the best one yet. But the most special thing about this Christmas at my house, is the knowledge that something will happen â I donât know what -but something will happen that will become a treasured memory just as soon as next year.
Merry Christmas, everyone â Merry Christmasâ¦
I canât ever remember feeling lower, feeling more sorry for myself.
There were no Christmas decorations, no tree. A handful of unopened holiday cards sat unopened on the kitchen counter. It was the day of the year that I loved the most â but not this year. I was too overcome with self-pity. Itâs tough being alone for Christmas.
The day began bright and early â mine always do. I sat there undressed, smoking countless cigarettes, downing untold cups of coffee. One hour turned in to another â it was nearly noon before the fog lifted â before I declared that this was no way to spend the day â not THIS day, not Christmas Eve.
In the closet off the living room was a packing barrel, labeled: Xmas Treasures. It had been put together by my ex-wife as she sorted through and divided up what was left of the life we had shared. I had never bothered to look inside.
For what ever reason, I cannot explain, I found myself drawn to that barrel. It contained a few strands of lights, maybe a dozen or so ornaments, some garland, and a small ceramic Christmas Tree my mother had made in a crafts class probably thirty-five years before. Going through the contents, I shook my head in disbelief at what the ex considered âtreasuresâ and at the inequitable distribution of what we had acquired over thirteen years of marriage.
But this was Christmas Eve, damn-it â the most important day of the year. As I held the ceramic tree my mother had made so long ago, the tree that I had seen at her house, the tree that made itâs way to mine after she died, memories began to come back â so many memories. Slowly at first, and then in a grand rush. This simple tree had been on display for so many happier times. Somehow it just wasnât right to not bring out again.
Iâm sure that your family has itâs traditions, as does mine. Maybe itâs silly, but nothing says Christmas more to me than the meal that has ushered in every holiday celebration for as long as I can remember - a big bowl of homemade potato salad and a Polish canned ham. It just wouldnât be Christmas without it.
I cleared off a place on the end table, and lovingly displayed the tree that now meant more to me than I could have imagined. As I stepped back, it never looked netter. But there was still more to do if this were to be a Christmas Eve as I had always known them.
Quickly showering and dressing, I made my way to the super market for what had come to be the most important meal of the year â a Polish canned ham, and the ingredients for a big bowl of potato salad.
Back at the apartment I set about preparing what was be my holiday feast â wife or no wife, packages under the tree or no packages under the tree. It was then that the most remarkable thing happened. As I stood in the kitchen, I could hear my dad assembling the Lionel Train set that so thrilled a young boy almost forty years ago. A train set long since discarded. And as I mixed together the potatoes and mayonnaise, adding the chopped onions and celery, my mother, and grandmother looked over my shoulder making sure that I was doing it correctly â they both smiled approvingly.
I canât recall hearing the doorbell ring, but soon this otherwise small drab apartment was filled with friends and family â my aunts Kate and Marie â my motherâs sisters who married two brothers, Franny and Joe â Kateâs five kids, Marieâs four. My dadâs father was there, sitting in his favorite chair, overseeing every detail. And so many more people who had been part of Christmas past â they were all there. Special toys that had once made the boy inside of me squeal with delight â toys long since broken, lost or given away somehow repapered as if by magic.
The air was filled with laughter and conversation, even Christmas Carols sung better than I can ever remember hearing them sung â sung by all the people who meant so much to me.
Later, after eating way too much, we all sat around reminiscing and sharing what had become probably the best Christmas ever. What had started out as such a dark day, ended so well. Before the night was over, we all agreed to do it again next year, and every year.
Iâve remarried now. My wife and I have each brought our own Christmas traditions to share with each other, plus we have started some new ones . Now, where you to come peek in our window on Christmas Eve, you might only be able to see Mary and I opening our presents, toasting each other, and enjoying the warm fire. But just as sure as I am writing these words, I promise you that my mom and dad, my grandparents, all the aunts and uncles, more cousins than you can count, plus old friends and neighbors are all there. All together again, sharing Christmas. Iâm sorry if you canât see them, canât hear the love and joy. Iâm sorry if you lack my imagination.
You see, Christmas isnât so much about trees and packages tied up with ribbons and bows. Itâs not even about ham and potato salad. Itâs so much more. Itâs memories. Christmas is cumulative â one builds on another. And this one will be the best one yet. But the most special thing about this Christmas at my house, is the knowledge that something will happen â I donât know what -but something will happen that will become a treasured memory just as soon as next year.
Merry Christmas, everyone â Merry Christmasâ¦
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