The Far Side of the Moon

My but haven't we all felt like this a time or two? This has always been my favorite Far Side comic. I had it hanging in many of my offices throughout the years. At one time, it was re-captioned "Uh-oh, Bill's in one of his moods again."

I identify with the man in this frame. I think I have felt like him fairly often in my life. In still life as imagined by Gary Larson, its author and illustrator, here before the reader is the epitome of the utter frustration one feels when things are so clear in one's head, yet reality simply isn't bearing out the clarity.

We are left to wonder what led up to this character's psychotic break, but based on the expressions on the dog and cat, I can only assume it was animal shenanigans that made this man to feel he had to assert, in the simplest and most overt terms possible, the order of things.

Among the items labeled, all seem to be "less than" the man doing the labeling. Without him, no labeling would be possible. Without him, the labeling would be unnecessary.

So, I've managed to ruin the fun behind the joke by deconstructing it to the point where it makes you think rather than just accept the basic premise as it is presented. But Mr. Larson knows, like many other creative people in this world, it is the joke behind the joke that is really funny.

Was Mr. Larson having a bad day when he drew this? Did he ask for a latte and his assistant brought a mocha instead? Was his agent or artistic consultant giving him flack, or worse, suggestions that were not appreciated and certainly not requested?

I will never know. But this single frame is so instantaneously and utterly relateable to me that it has endured as one of my very favorite pieces of humor of all time. This is only one of many many Far Side panels that resonate with me. Larson is a master of making sure there is more going on that meets the eye. In crude drawings and simple set-ups, he creates entire universes. Some authors need reams and reams of paper and entire series of books what Larson does in a simply drawn panel.

The humor challenges the reader to be on their toes. When you are on your toes and you get the joke, you feel smart and witty. When you don't get the joke, you probably don't even know it, so no harm done.

I don't have a point, other than to express my thanks to Mr. Larson and his twisted Id for expressing so much with so little for so long. My hat is off to you sir.

Monday Miscellani

A Slow Boat From China

Our new iPad is on a slow boat from China. I hate like hell that all this American innovation is made in China, but such is such. I wish we could learn (re-learn) how to make the goods here that we are so good at creating and innovating. Talk about solving a lot of problems. I know prices would be high but people would be working.
____________________________________________________________

Blow Gabriel, Blow

Glad to know our Jersey peeps were by-and-large left without too much damage from Irene. Irene is a good name for a Hurricane. I think other good names would be Matilda, Lorraine, Gertrude, Florence... you know, all good old fashioned lady names. they remind me of the old ladies that used to piss and moan about me riding across their lawn to deliver their newspapers and then not tip me at Christmas. Old ladies filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing.

What happens when they stop using classical names for hurricanes to get with the times? Can you imagine a hurricane Trevor, Cody, Skylar, Dylan, Trey or Shaquanda?

Me either.

Hurricane Trevor... what, it would only target Ralph Lauren outlets? Hurricane Cody would leave behind unspeakable damage at every BMW dealership up and down the east coast.
I wrote a joke about Hurricane Shaquanda, but the ACLU airdropped Al Sharpton through my window to yell at me for being insensitive and made me buy his DVD entitled "There is nothing funny about anything."
_____________________________________________________________

Cruisin' on a Saturday Afternoon

Saturday we popped in my Sam and Dave cassette and cruised up and down 28th street seeing and being seen. It was great. Perfect weather, fun cars, lots of smiles. Tons of cops. Holy cow. I somehow don't think that was what cruising was like "back in the day", but it is all we have. And it was a great deal of fun. I suppose I will keep the Corvette just to do that once a year.
_____________________________________________________________

See You In September

Many of "My" kids are headed back to school this week, or going for the first time. This is a huge moment in their lives. I remember being so petrified. These kids are either much more confident than I was or they are brilliant actors. Some of them are pretty good actors, but I think they are just better prepared for this than I was.

Someone said at church Sunday to one girl, "Don't do anything you'll regret in 10 years." To which I quipped, "10 years is an eternity away, don't do anything you'll regret tomorrow morning."

Pearls of wisdom from one who had to sit on a lot of grains of sand in his day.

11 Years

Today marks the completion of eleven years of marriage for Em and me. Depending on the day, eleven years has either passed by like the proverbial warm summer day of song or it has been a long rocky road fraught with pitfalls and traps that lead to not a little discomfort.

No one said it would be easy. In fact, her parents and my parents have been married a combined 97 years if my calculations are correct. Good examples of what can be accomplished with love, respect, trust and patience.

At 25 years, my parents renewed their vows in our home. The priest came, there was a small group of attendees. The priest asked my mother "What is one word that describes your marital success?"

"Perseverance," was the response. There was no delay. It was if she had an answer for that question before it was asked. Nay, before it was conceived.

"Perseverance" is a mantra I chant under my breath. "This too shall pass."

The point is, I think our ability to look at each other, shake our heads and let it go is a key to our longevity. A woman I used to work with defined love as, "Knowing exactly which buttons to push, and then not pushing them." Neither of us are especially easy people and we're awfully similar to each other. We are both German, hot tempered (well, I thought I was hot tempered until I met the likes of my dear wife), loud, magnanimous and like to be the center of attention.

It's a recipe for disaster. Or at least that was the popular prediction among our friends at the beginning. I admit, (a little embarrassingly), to a certain amount of schadenfreude that many of those who predicted our demise have since had irreverseable meltdowns of their own institutions. I know it's not nice, and I feel dirty, but it is what it is.

The hardest thing I have ever done was to offer forgiveness when I have been really honked-off. Emily really knows how to honk me off. And I her. Not only am I not good at saying I'm sorry, I'm not good at accepting an apology. Whoever said love means never having to say you're sorry was full of shit. Love means saying it and meaning it.

I am also not good at saying "you're welcome." I am quick with a thank-you, but I have a hard time accepting a compliment. That of course eliminates the compulsion to give compliments. Emily still does. Proving that perseverance is a key to success.

We are both completely and totally rock steady during a crisis. neither of us is prone to panic. There would be no screaming or running around in a storm or in a fire - we would just do what needed to be done. On the opposite side of that, we will snipe and gripe about the smallest insignificant things. In fact, I know there have been times I have actually hated, but for some reason, (and it isn't because I'm all googly and romantic because it's my anniversary - I'm actually in kind of a mood), I can't remember many of them. There are a couple doozies, but they have turned in to fun stories after the fact.

despite all these facts, we're a pretty good match in that neither of us are really capable of living with anyone else. But that sounds like resignation, and that's not right, either. I have grown comfortable with the fact that I cannot understand all that happens in life. I don't understand how we surpassed impossible odds to get and stay together. But when I try to imagine life differently, I can't. Maybe love means never having to say "I wish."

So here's to the last eleven, the next eleven and all the elevens we can manage to squeeze in after that. They won't all be good, they won't all be fun, but I can't wait to see what happens!

I love you, Em. Now, where do you want to go for dinner?

Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show

We went camping this weekend in Pentwater at Lake Michigan Camp, one of many hundreds of thousands of camps the United Methodist Church in West Michigan alone. The Methodists have more camps than the Catholics have cathedrals and alcoholics. Combined.

The town of Ocean Grove where we lived in New Jersey for awhile was a camp meeting town... a place to get away from the city and breath some ocean air while singing music. Just bring a dish to pass and you are in. Seems Methodism was founded upon the tenets of sleeping in tents, (and since "we" tend toward the upper end of the socioeconomic scale, RVs), singing hymns and eating casseroles. It's really a pretty good religion. Hang out on the beach and watch the sunset before spending the dusk and early dark in front of a campfire eating s'mores.

This was my first time camping as a Methodist. I used to camp as a young adult. There were more intoxicants and bigger fires, but essentially it is all the same. That doesn't count unless you camp at a Methodist as a Methodist. I was initiated as a Methodist years ago, but you can't really be a Methodist until and unless you camp. It's somewhere in the red hymnal.

The church's official motto is "Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors", which pretty much means come as you are. And I have seen this in practice so it's more than just a slogan. Regardless, people have regarded me with suspicion upon finding out I have never camped. That's all fixed. I Methodist camped, and liked it in a Methodist manner. I plan to go again Methodistly. It was a valuable trip, too since I learned a lot about how things go in the church which I will now share.

Methodists are the kindest people in the world. It's actually borderline annoying. We already explored the official slogan, but the unofficial slogan is "No, you first."

Pursuant to the real slogan, anyone can hold any position in the church. Women, minorities, gay people - Bishops and leaders and preachers, all. But, only men cook breakfast. Do not even enter the kitchen if you have a second X chromosome. The open doors thing is suspended when it comes to breakfast.

Once in the kitchen, the conversation turns to how many years you have been coming to camp. Not any camp, this camp. This is a subtle way of reminding everyone of the pecking order. It's almost like if in the wild, alpha males established dominance by playing chess in the park over tea. There is no weeping or gnashing of teeth, just a sense of resignation and understanding that it is what it is. In this case, being that worst kind of bottom feeding critter on earth, (a newbie), I was the melon cutter, the table mover, the chair setter-upper and the butter plate putter-outer. I will be 50 before I touch the grill.

The Methodists are brilliant at cooking for 100 people. There is something about quantity that brings out the best in Methodists. It's all about numbers and amounts. If your pants aren't tighter by the end of a meal, someone failed. There is no "No, thank you, I'm not hungry" to the Methodists. Read the earlier statement about me eating a s'more. I don't care for them especially. I ate it anyway.

Topics of conversation at meal time run the gamut all the way from "Kids these days...", to "when I was a kid". Occasionally there is a "You would never catch me wearing that..." which is more an indictment on the parents of the subject of the scorn... even if he or she is in their 30's.

Methodists don't take a public political stand, mostly because they are all over the map. It is an "agree to disagree, agreeably" situation. I heard one man guffaw at a joke deriding one side of the political spectrum, and the next day laugh equally as heartily at a joke filled with consternation about the other. Now it's possible that both were worthy of his laughter, but at least one of those jokes made him a little uncomfortable. He didn't show it.

It's O.K. to talk about "adult subjects", it's just not O.K. to do them. For instance, several of us there were avowed fans of brown liquors and classy, expensive cigars. Fine that we spoke of these things around the camp fire, however were any or all of us to tipple and smoke in the real we could face excommunication; which to the Methodists means you would be treated rudely by your wife and demoted to dish duty after breakfast.

It is also O.K. to speak in entendre. "Nice mellons," I said to Gene as he carried the mellons. "Nice Jugs," I said to Brent as he carried the milk and OJ to the dining hall. Laughs all around (probably polite since they are both essentially the same joke and not especially funny). However, bring that into the real world and openly admire the shape of a woman and you will do dishes. For years.

So there you have it. Methodists love to camp, are kind to a fault, generous, social, love to eat, have no opinions, laugh at everything and pay for sins by washing dishes. Well, that's not true exactly, but if you were an alien come to earth to research culture and you were dropped in the middle of Methodist camp you might think it was.

A word to the wise for that alien. Make sure your shorts hit the knee... you wouldn't want us talking quietly about what not to wear over dinner while looking furtively in your direction.

Vacations With a Capitol P

Everyone is bitching about the President going on vacation during a time of crisis in our country. I say, lay off. This is the perfect time to take vacation. Our problems will still be here for him to be not able to fix when he gets back. Except they'll be even bigger. They were going to get bigger anyway, so why not take a couple weeks at the end of summer to decompress for the busy season ahead?

I am talking of course about campaign season. Believe you me, this is a great time to have a crisis. Everyone in Washington wants to be the one to point fingers as to the cause of our national crisis-es, then explain how they have the right plan to fix our national crisis... But they can't tell us what it is until we elect them.

Besides, when has our country not been in crisis? I am a member of the instant factoid, info-tainment, Fox News generation so I don't check facts; but if I did I think I would see that every sitting president has presided over some sort of crisis and none have canceled their vacations. The news only used to report when Bill Clinton was at the White House. That man got around, (the world that is) and no one seemed to complain about that!

They take the whole shooting match with them anyway, people. This would be the worst vacation you could conceive of. Imagine you were the president of a major corporation and to take vacation you had to bring the entire board of directors and your executive management team with you and meet with them for hours every day. Later, if it didn't rain, you could catch a round of golf with an old school buddy of yours that you flew in just to see you, except now he's only a manager and you are the big kahuna and you find it is awkward and you have almost nothing to talk about. On top of this, all your shareholders are there, surrounding you everywhere you go taking pictures and wanting to talk about share price!

Miserable!

Which is exactly the vacation any Washington politicians deserve right now. A miserable one.

I want Stenny Hoyer's Winnebago to pop a flat on Pike's Peak and Barney Frank's hot air balloon to ascend to great heights because he can't stop talking (hot air, get it?).

I want them all to get sunburned - a mere preview of what is in store for many of them should they not change their ways.

I want the mistresses and the wives to be having tea when Mr. Big Shot walks into the drawing room.

I hope Carl Levin loses the Benjamin Franklin look-alike contest he has been practicing for for years.

And as for you, Dutch Ruppersberger, (O.K. I admit I looked that one up), I hope you get a toothpick under your fingernail after eating crab and getting all that crap under your fingernails and trying to clean it out with a toothpick, even though your wife tells you she has the fingernail cleaner thing in her purse but you use the toothpick anyway and poke yourself. Then it starts to bleed a little and hurt really bad and even though you are smiling while eating the ice cream cone all you can think of is "damn, this really hurts" and then realize it's going to leave a big black blood clot under the nail and it's the hand you shake with and people will be grossed out by you for weeks.

Ron Paul - I like you. Dial back the crazy just a notch and you have earned another devotee in me. You have a nice week off. Take some time and scribble some errant thoughts on the back of a cocktail napkin and call it a stump speech. Have your family make some crude signs with esoteric slogans that only 10 people in America get and only 4 of them appreciate. Read Pat Paulsen's Autobiography. Read it again. Repeat.

I say, go ahead, lawmakers. Take all the vacation you want. Disappear for all we care. You got us into this, maybe it is time we start getting us out of it. Go f*ck up your golf game for awhile. Leave my country alone.

The Goodbye Grandma and Hello Maxi

The eagle has landed and Maximilian J. Cooper has entered the fleet.
2011 Kona Blue Ford Flex SEL.










The genesis of the name Maximilan J. Cooper is simple. This is a big car that has similar styling language of the current Mini Cooper, so badged for the eponymous John Cooper, principal of the John Cooper Motor Works. Maxi Cooper... get it? The 'J' is for John as a tribute to Mr. Cooper and his pen.







Note the supple Corinthian... uh, cloth, since leather was not in the budget. But the cloth has a nice hounds tooth pattern and looks like it will wear well. The seats are still heated, which at the end of the day is very important to me.
The stereo is only acceptable, (again the good one was out of budget), but it still has SYNC, (which Ford has done a brilliant job marketing since it is so highly desired but barely works). Overall, there are many good features. Certainly it is no beer can or stripper.



The first car I remember in my youth was my mom's '76 LTD station wagon; banana yellow and as big as the whole outdoors. She must have looked funny with the tweed bench seat cranked all the way up to the dash, clinging to the large diameter but still pencil thin steering wheel. My job was to sit in the "way back" and intercept any cigarette butts that flew back in through the open tailgate window before they burned the whole works down.
I appreciated that car in retrospect. Later she had a mini van and some of the best things that ever happened to me happened in that van (we'll just leave it at that, shall we?). Now I have this cross between the two. I think it is clean, cohesive, fresh and funky. It sure is comfortable, quiet and utile.


Welcome to the family, Maxi. May your 24 months with us be happy! Ha! I'm kidding, that was for my wife who shook her fist at me and said... "That car better still be in the driveway in 4 years!"

Let's be honest, that's a bit of a stretch, but I can almost see it happening.

Squeeky Wheels

I guess I kinda let loose a little on the phone with my parents the other day. I was ranting about how jealous I was they had an iPad and I had, well, not an iPad. They also have an iPhone and something called a Kindle from some fly-by-night internet place called Amazon... whatever that is. Since Barnes and Noble paid my mortgage (well, most of it), for five years, I don't choose to recognize that off-branded stuff.

"I'm too broke! I am tired of being broke! I want, I want, I want!" That's exactly what I said to my parents in my animated man squeal over the phone. Two days later, my Mother called and said they would like to buy us an iPad for our forthcoming anniversary. Well, OK then, finally someone gave the baby his bottle!

And I say; it's about time.

There is a lesson to be learned here, children. That lesson is, if you don't get what you want, complain to someone who can give it to you and keep complaining until you get it. I heard of a study that recently came out that came to the conclusion that men make 18% more money on average when they are a jerk at work. For women the differential is 5%. That's some pretty good cabbage, people and it's all there waiting for you to collect.

We are going camping this weekend with a number of people from church. The "men" according to the information sheet, are making Sunday breakfast. It goes on to list the"men", Steve... Brent... Gene... No Bill. Well, there is a Bill, and he is a strapping bald man with movie star good looks, just like your author. But alas, he is not your author.

I did all I could do. I went about getting results. I complained. When I was told I could help, I said, "Oh, no... I'm going to sleep in, and I will be first in line for breakfast and I am going to complain about everything!" To which another bystander retorted "So it will be just like normal, then."

Touche.

I complained enough to get Emily to acquiesce to letting me get a new car. I put a deposit in today and will pick it up and close the deal tomorrow! Being bitchy works for me!

People, the world is out there waiting to be taken by you! Don't let it pass you by simply by being patient and friendly. Don't be satisfied with your perfectly acceptable lives, go get more! Make people suffer for their insolence if they don't fall at your knees and give you all you demand!

It works for me, it can work for you!
_____________________________________________________________

Ps. Tongue out of cheek, we are really appreciative of your generosity, Mom and Dad. We can't wait to get our iPad!

That Went Well...(Yes, Another Post About Cars... Sheesh!)

I am a basically inept mechanic. Couple this fact with the traits of being curious and essentially fearless and you have a recipe for disaster. But I like to tinker and I can figure most things out, even if it takes some time, some knuckle blood and enough effbombs to make Rahm Emanuel grasp his rosary cross himself.

Today all my parts came in from e-bay and NAPA to fix my car' s many maladies. You will no doubt recall the driver door window stopped working halfway between hither and yon, the driver door lock hasn't worked in over a year, (with the a brief exception when I affected a temporary redneck fix), and the automatic climate control has only blown out of the defrost for two years making the car uncomfortable to drive in any season.

In a recent post, I told you I ordered e-bay parts and a NAPA part for something less than $200.00 including shipping. They arrived today as described, except for the window switches which were in pretty rough shape. Some elbow grease and a super-secret, (and very likely carcinogenic), homemade chemical compound of my own design restored them to like-new. I went ahead and installed the parts.

It went well. Quick. Painless. No swearing, no blood, no spare parts. Everything worked the first time and has continued to work several hours on, in spite of the fact I have rigorously tested, (i.e. tried to break), the parts and systems. I even got it done before the rain and thunder overtook us.

Truly, this is a sign of the end of days. It never works like this for me. I always run into some sort of situation and need to consult a professional who invariably says things like, "Never seen this before..." and "How on earth did you manage that?" I don't like to be there when this happens, so I always drop the car off the night before and steal away like a thief in the night, furtive look and all. But I know it has happened, because I have to eventually pick the car up and pay. When I do, people come out of their little hidy-holes to look and snicker.

This time, I wasn't going anywhere I hadn't gone before. No new frontiers were established, just fixing the old broken frontiers. Fine with me.

I saved about $1,000.00 over what would have been charged to me if I had the dealer do this work. I wish I could turn the clock back and do the air compressor I had the dealer change at the cost of $600.00 plus dollars when I could have e-bought the part and done it myself for less than $200.00.

Such is life.

Now that everything, (literally everything!), works again as it should on the car, I have put it up on Craig's List. This is nothing new for me. I spent much money and shed much blood sorting out Emily's first car, a Grand Am named Bo. Bo was in sorry shape and very unreliable.

I fixed it all, said I never wanted to see the car again and sold it to friends. This is usually a no-no, but I replaced every damn piece on that car, so what could go wrong? Beside, they knew of the hassle it had given us.

They paid me more than a fair price for it and guess what... still running and they are still friends. The car is serving someone in their extended family. That was 2001. I figure all the time and effort I have put into maintaining this one, someone is going to get a stout car that will last forever and never cost them one red cent outside of gas.

Good for them.

I drove a new car today that I have decided is perfect for me. I don't need the leather and the filigree and the foof-de-do that I thought I did. It is still just this much more than I wanted to pay, even with $100.00 over invoice pricing with $4,000.00 cash back. But that's just what cars cost these days. It is equivalent to what a year or two old examples with 30,000 miles or more are trading for. It is, in short, a good deal.

It's really a shame I am on the top side of this equation rather than the recipient of people like me who take good care of their things and pass them along for reasonable money to people who can use them for many more years. But, that's the way it is. I provide a service to the lower end of the socio-economic spectrum (where I actually live, despite my best efforts to prove otherwise), although mostly to my own financial peril. I figure we walk (or drive) on this earth for a pretty short time. We should at least like our car.

Wish me luck on the sale! And if you know of anyone who wants a 2006 Mercury Grand Marquis with 100% new parts, send them my way. It's a pretty, comfortable, and safe car. And nothing else could possibly go wrong with it.

Angry Birds

Hitchcock was ahead of his time. We all know this. This is not a revelation. But, why I have come to this conclusion as of late is disturbing to me. I have a confession to make. I don't like birds. They, sort of creep me out. This is why Hitchcock's classic "The Birds" resonated with me.

I had a roommate in college who had a cockatiel. It was O.K. By the end of its life we had learned to get along O.K. He died as a result of our house fire. I had pulled my roommate out of said fire and he went rushing back in to get said bird. Smoke inhalation was the cause.

I have another friend from college who had another cockatiel who lived something like 33 years. He was cranky and bat-shit crazy by the time he passed, but he was an entertaining bird. The bird just died not too long ago. It was clearly a good run.

Ornamental birds aren't so much an issue as wild birds. I don't trust them. They seem smart and wily. I don't like smart animals, except for dolphins. If you don't go in the water, dolphins can't get you. But birds are dangerous.

Lately, I have noticed a polar shift in bird behavior. During my normal travels, I have seen a lot of crazy and aggressive behavior out of birds. They have been swooping closer, waiting longer to take off when being approached. I have discerned long, menacing glances coming from those beady dead eyes. Even their once pretty songs seem more like Klingon Opera lately. In fact, I read a new research study that indicates bird song is not communication so much as it is trash-talk. It's like males hurling yo-mammas at each other to make females love them.

I don't think the aggression is contained within the bird community. Case in point, I have seen several birds dive and swoop toward cars which are at speed. I have seen three in recent weeks not win this battle resulting in a scene reminiscent of stock dog fighting footage where like a plane with its wing shot off - the bird suddenly goes flinging off out of control in what is clearly a death spiral.

Yesterday it happened to me. I was cruising along Highway 51 (which is exactly 10 highways less cool than Dylan's Highway 61) when a starling took off and was well out of my way when for no reason at all, it stopped climbing, took a left and descended right into my windshield in the spot immediately in front of my face.

It hit with a terrific thunk. Actually, it didn't. It was a starling. It weighed less than a fart. I added the thunk in my head because it seemed appropriate.

I had the sunroof open and watched the now dying bird flinging over the roof of the car. Then I watched it in the rear view mirror as it landed, on the pavement behind and to the left of the car.
If it wasn't dead when it landed, it sure wasn't going to be able to move and it was in the middle of the lane, so it wouldn't be long before it was.

I believe this was a calculated attempt at my life. I believe the birds are gathering intelligence. They are trying to figure out windows. They might almost have it. And they are willing to sacrifice and accept the dreadful results of their intelligence gathering. They are putting the stupid ugly birds out there to die for the sake of research - leaving behind only the smart, clipboard carrying research birds bent on the destruction of mankind.

All I know is if a woman who looks like Tippy Hedren comes into the diner where you are eating lunch talking about birds who tried to pick her off on the drive in, you had better listen.

They're coming. And they are coming for us.

Thurday Quickshots

I have potential business crawling out of the woodwork all medium to big. Nice problem to have! Of course, time for blogging is among the first time to go when work is taking up more of my time. I know you understand.
_____________________________________________________________

None of my repair parts have arrived, so GrandMa Marjorie Rubenstein, AKA Large Marge the Barge is still sitting moribund in my driveway, sagging a little by the stern. Perhaps this weekend I will get her rolling again.
_____________________________________________________________

A lady at a credit union can get me 2.88% on a used car loan for 5 years? Sign me up. Now I just need to find the car.
____________________________________________________________

Be sure to look for an upcoming Blab Blah Blog about our new concept for Emily's cooking show. It will be Giada Di Laurentiis meets the terminator. Look out, Bitchin' Kitchen, there's a new badass in town.
____________________________________________________________

Woe is me. My life is so hard. We sponsor a client's drag racing team and Em and I will get to hang out for a bit on Saturday. All in the name of work. Tough stuff. Powerboat races, Drag races, lunches, events where the word 'drinks' is in the title. I should have gotten into sales a long time ago.
____________________________________________________________

Mowing the lawn yesterday, I saw a mother and her toddler son walk up the walk and stop a respectful distance away. Thinking perhaps the toddler was afraid of the mower, I cut it off and invited them to pass.
The mother than said, "He just wanted to watch you." O.K. I laughed and said I hoped he enjoyed watching as much as I enjoyed laboring away. Except I am afraid I was a bad influence because I was mowing at first in flip-flops, then realizing how stupid and dangerous that was, I ditched them and went au natural. So, hopefully the kid won't remember the man down the street who mowed in bare feet (hey that rhymes) and stumble into the deck of his mower on day only to have to hop away (hey!).

My Accidental Trip to the Post Office

I admit to being sort of (which is man-speak for completely, or utterly) ignorant to the ways of the post office. I would rather grocery shop than go to the post office and for those of you who have read my previous diatribe on men and grocery shopping, that will give you a pretty good idea of where on the great spectrum of chores going to the post office lies for me.

I had to go to the post office yesterday to ship off the controller for my HVAC in the car for repair. Imagine my surprise when it was on my porch today, looking just like it did when it left my hand (along with $11.20 of my money) one day hence.

This blog post is not about the post office, or about me being an idiot. Essentially, this is all expository and so if you want to get to the point you can read the essence down lower. For those of you who have time for more than the Cliff's notes, carry on.

Yesterday, I apparently exercised my inner idiot by placing the to and from labels in an odd arrangement. This was met with kindness by the post office lady who moved the labels around and assured me all would be well.

Well... you already know the punchline to that joke. Today, I expected a fight and instead another very nice person set me all up and we resent the package with nothing more than a 5 minute investment in my time. No money changed hands. I even got an apology, for something that my wife tells me was my fault to begin with. Maybe the post office isn't so bad after all!

Except you know if I am writing about it, there is something that went awry or jumped down my body cavity and died there.

And that would be the old man, shirt and hair flying almost comically in the stiff warm breeze who made a bee-line for me as I parked. I knew what was coming. I had been engaged. there was no turning back. I tensed and puckered waiting for the bum's rush as it were.

A little background before we continue. I hate being panhandled. It puts me in the unfair position of having, at least on the face of it, no compassion for my fellow man. And that is just not true. A goodly amount of our household income is devoted to buying groceries for the food bank, donating money to same, and providing fully prepared and rounded out meals to those less fortunate through a program at our church.

But you can't explain all that to the disenfranchised man whose circle of influence is conveniently located between two liquor stores.

Here he was approaching me, moving against the wind with remarkable alacrity all things considered.

"Hey, buddy, you got a couple bucks you can spare?"

A couple bucks! What happened to spare change? This guy wasn't exactly working the most prominent and well-to-do corner in the world. I mean, this is a neighborhood where certain sex acts probably only cost a couple spare bucks.

"I got nothing for you, sorry," I said as I blew past him with my box blocking between us in my weak hand in case I had to swing with my strong one.

He had the audacity to make some sort of comment, but luckily for us both, it was lost on the wind and he turned around dejected and headed back for the corner.

It really is sad that anyone in the wealthiest nation on our planet lives like that. But in Grand Rapids we have places for people to go. They can get help. Our church offers day labor at regular intervals where people can make some cash for four hours of work. The only thing not offered are drugs and alcohol. Nobody needs to be on a corner begging in this town. You choose to be on the corner begging for money; and my compassion ends at that line.

And I still feel terrible; for not knowing how to act, for not holding the man to my bosom and praying to the spirit of Mother Theresa to wash over me and to cure this man of his ills. But that isn't me. Instead I am made to suffer in my WASPy guilt for hours after the fact.

Which makes it even worse as I go back and re-read my rant. I have made this all about how bad it was for me when I got in my new car and drove back the quiet streets of my nice neighborhood and reentered my house and resumed my life.

He is still out there on the corner. Looking for something that once he finds it, won't do anything to help him be better tomorrow.

This is the world we live in. I am going to do my part. From this day forward, I am making a proclamation. Never again will I go the the post office. That ought to do it.

The Pithiness Which Doth Accompany Good Rest

Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--
Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 2

I know this blog is entitled "Grandiose Ruminations Rooted in Minutiae" which means it should be a periodical reckoning on par with Ken Kesey or Hunter Thompson. But pretend for a moment that this blog is ironically titled. Pretend, if you will, the blog is actually called Mundane Thoughts Anchored in Banality.

There you go. This works because today's topic is sleep; or, more specifically, I slept last night. For the first time in a long, long time. All through the night. No interruptions, (save for a pit stop complete with cat rotation), no hours in the middle of the night staring at the clock, no being too hot or too cold, no snoring, no feeling like crap when the time came to wake up.

Many factors are at play here. We are back to normal in our schedule so we took a walk yesterday. We had a modestly sized meal at a normal time. We had time to rest and relax before bed. We went to bed at a reasonable hour. We put in ear plugs because the new young neighbors next door were having a "mixer", (is that what the kids call it these days?).

And... this is a great and. For the first time since April of 2008, with the exception of being on vacation, (and usually not even then), I turned off my phone and I turned off the part of my brain that is responsible for late night cell phone reaction. It's called the verizonal cortex. I should know. I studied neuroscience for four years in a non-accredited program at a midwestern university best known for being Playboy Magazine's "Party School of the Year" my junior year.

Why this luxury? With the removal of the responsibility to sell emergency services and therefore respond to emergencies, I no longer am beholden the late night thoughts of disasters. I no longer have to stare at my phone waiting for it to ring. Dreading the mere fact it may ring. Not ringing was ringing in and of itself. Existential enough for you? Maybe today's aren't so mundane after all.

In my job before, I could be (and often was) needed any time 24/7. I have essentially been on call for over three years. That really burns a guy (or gal I suppose) out. But not anymore. I have more or less banker's hours now, except for some early meetings and breakfasts and the occasional event after hours or on Saturday. But these things tend toward the relaxed and fun spectrum, not to the "c'mon get that hose over here move move move", spectrum.

I don't know if this will be a cure for my insomnia, but it sure feels like a good start. And that is indeed a Grandiose Rumination.
____________________________________________________________

I have begun assembling the parts to keep GrandMa Marjorie Rubenstein, (AKA Ruby/Large Marge the Barge), on the road for just that much longer. Ebay is my friend as I have cruised the online world looking for bargains.

The first bargain was a rebuild service for my long moribund "automatic" climate control which gave up functioning altogether two years ago. The dealer wanted $700.00 to fix it. I found a guy who rebuilds them with a lifetime warranty for $75.00. Since my window is stuck in the down position and I will NOT under any circumstance drive a car with plastic taped to the door with blue painter's tape, now was a good time to excise that piece and send it in for repair. I hope to have it back by Saturday. But more likely it will be Monday.

Then I saw a master switch block including escutcheon in the color I need and everything for $99.00. I made an offer for $65.00 and it was turned down. Later, I found another listed for $49.99, made and offer for $39.99 and it was accepted. I sent my auction win to the first guy and told him to check himself.

I am now looking at buying a new lock actuator and mounting, which I will likely do from the dealer because I need to see it and visualize if before I buy it.

Then I will bite the bullet and buy a new trim piece to replace the one that Mr. or Mrs. Crackhead marred while breaking in to my car. They want $120.00 new! I am trying to find a used one, but that search has proved more difficult.

Then I'm going to take her up to Cole at Autobody Experts/Carstar in Holland and get a full detail inside and out.

Then I'm going to sell or trade her in. Values are higher than I thought, if the various websites are to be believed. I want a "new" car. I deserve it.

The end.

Saturday Headlines

My Car Sucks
Grandma has failed me again. Ever since the person or persons in Cleveland decided they needed my stuff more than I did and broke into my car to get it, she hasn't been the same. Yesterday in the driveway, car loaded for Cicero, the window switch failed. After taping the plastic to the opening, we switched cars and were off.

I am now looking at all the costs involved with fixing everything that is wrong in that door. The hinges torque and make noise, the power lock doesn't work, the trim molding is marred from where Mr. or Mrs. Crackhead pried their way into the car and now the window switch block is dead.

Basically, I am shopping for a complete new door, with all subassemblies, since all the pieces parts separately will cost more than a whole new door. All-in we're looking at another grand down the tube into this gigantic rolling piece of shit car.
_____________________________________________________________
Back To Normal
Our week with Skylar has come to an end. She is a good kid. We love having her and we hope she had fun. Work and other schedules meant she sometimes had to fend for herself, but I think we managed to keep her entertained for the most part. We certainly kept her well fed.
_____________________________________________________________
Changes at Work
I have been dropped by the one restoration company since they realized the level of investment that would be required on their part to actually perform the work in my geographic area. I will now focus all my time on business development for Great Lakes Cleaning and its Parent, New Image Building Services. No sweat. I like that better.
_____________________________________________________________
Sick and Tired
I haven't been sleeping due to allergies and such. When I am awake I feel like hell because of overuse of meds and lack of sleep. I love the summer so much, it is ironic that it makes me so miserable. I have been sick now since the 20th of June. It is starting to be a real drag.
One of my students swears allergy shots are the way to go. I may have to relent. Something's gotta give.
_____________________________________________________________
Careening Coaster Costs Kidney
Shivering Timbers at Michigan's Adventure is terrifying. I knew I wouldn't like it because it is a lot like the Mean Streak at Cedar Point. Which I hate as well.

But, Uncle Bill is a good sport, so Uncle Bill waited in the hour-long line and rode that nasty terrifying, shaky wooden roller coaster for all it was worth. The pain in my cervical spine and shoulders (already victims of advanced arthritis) would have been alarming were it not for the fact that I noticed a kidney (I think it was the left one) on the seat as I was disembarking the car. I would have gone back for it, but people were already loading back on. I checked the lost and found before we left. There were several kidneys there, but none looked like mine.

I will ride almost any thrill ride there is, but the big woodies just beat the crap out of me. Add Shivering Timbers to the list of things I have done once and will never do again.

Allergies, Nightmare Sharks and Nieces

It is a head banging morning here in Michigan with allergens on a relentless march to destroy joy and happiness in our region. I can't remember a year since I first was beset by allergies during college that they have been this pervasive. Even in Savannah. That is saying something.

The last couple weeks I have been either unable to fall asleep or awakened in the night having been 'triggered' by something. I am double dosing the allergy pills and taking my allergy drops and even considering a chiropractor who swears he can help me with my allergies.

I would normally dismiss this a bunk, but I know this guy and bravado is not his strong suit. And I 'got' my allergies only after having my wisdom teeth taken out, so it stands to reason that there is an acute physiological reason for my suffering.

Well, not suffering, actually. If I had the choice to have allergies or diabetes, I would keep the allergies. Between allergies and cancer, achoo and achoo for me. Between allergies and being lonely or homeless? Pass the tissue.

It's all about perspective. This morning is just really acute. Burning eyes, banging head, congestion. It feels like a flu, but localized in my sinuses. It doesn't help that Skylar was having nightmares because of watching Jaws and kept waking us up to comfort her. There was not a lot of sleeping going on.

I actually got up three times with her trying to allow Em to sleep. I thought for this I should receive the good egg of the year award. But this morning she told me she was awake anyway. Which begs the question, why didn't she get out of bed? Hmmm. Oh well, I will let that one go.

Skylar, (our 12 year old niece), is visiting us this week. We usually have her for a week or two a year which is just about right. Enough to have fun and keep a good relationship but not so much I have to perform any actual parenting. She is a wonderful kid. Smart, funny, easy to be around. I hope it stays that way, for 13 is just around the corner. We all know what 7-10 year calamity that can reign upon a previously normal child.

If we do go through a 7 year drought, we will be happy to be waiting on the other side. She already said she wants a light blue Mustang with dark blue interior (except for silver seats because blue ones get so hot). OK, I can live with this choice. Her mother's first car, and my first car were Mustangs, so there is precedent for this.

She also likes Mini Coopers, Thunderbirds and all other manner of perfectly acceptable, (in my sight), cars. I like this girl. She also eats anything you can manage to get near her mouth and is laid back and likes to have fun. All-in-all, since her mother did all the hard work, we could take it from here.

On second thought, let's give it another 10 years just to be sure.

What a Pile of...

Em and I sort of half energetically started composting. We did it before in New Jersey with a similar amount of devil may care lackadaisical indifference then, too. But we got compost so in the end, nature overcame our ham-handedness and created from our scraps of organic waste, dirt.

Not dirt, I am told. Dirt lives under your fingernails. We were cultivating soil. Soil, it turns out is essentially the "leavins" of organisms feeding on your organic scraps. Molds, fungi, flies, worms, and the occasional leprechaun all conspire to poop out soil.

It is the circle of life and death, playing out in back yards all across America and indeed, the world. And while we discussed at our "green lunch" all sorts of methods and strategies of turning your crap into, well, different crap, the end result was that nature is doing this all around us. Without our help.

My garage is a perfect example of a structure being slowly composted back to the earth which provided the materials to make it in the first place. How hard can it be to turn some twigs and grass and eggshells and fruits and vegetables into dirt? Sorry. Soil.

Our main concern is space, since it is not the final frontier at all in our yard, it's the non-existent frontier. Also smell. There was a great debate about whether it was acceptable to put meat and fat and manure in your pile. It makes for great soil, but also could make for peeved neighbors when those tradewinds start blowing in their kitchen windows. Also, raccoons and biting flies and mosquitoes have a tendency to hang around piles such as these.

It's kinda like the seedy dive that serves great burgers. You have to decide whether your surroundings are worth the payoff.

A lot to think about. One thing is for sure, I still do not count myself among the hippie tree-huggers, nor am I a chicken little who thinks the sky is falling. But I am fascinated by the natural sciences and I don't care for waste. If I can have a beneficial ongoing biological reactor in my back yard that produces a benefit while reducing the amount of stuff I throw in landfills, I say it is impractical to not take advantage of it.

I have a pretty high carbon footprint as it is. I suppose this is a fun and cheap way of helping give back a little. With all apologies to Martha Stewart, s*it happens; and that's a very good thing.

...But it Looks so Gray, and Sad

It isn't the weather that looks gray and sad, it's my coffee. Because for the second time in a row, my half and half has, um, 'gone off' before its due date. My first cup of gourmet "at home" coffee in three days and it is besmirched by milk. Not even whole mile. Skim.

I love the color of coffee with cream. In New Jersey, I endeavored to paint an entire room, ceiling and all that color with a contrasting off-white trim. I liked it. A little monochromatic, perhaps, but attractive. It was the only room I ever had where all the furniture matched the carpets and the paint and the window treatments and the stuff on the walls.

I love to color of coffee with cream. It is so warm and happy to me. We learn through conditioned response (ala Ivan Pavlov) to love the things that bring us comfort and happiness. Coffee with cream is my first taste of happiness (and sometimes my last) of the day.

And now, the much anticipated, (and very much needed and deserved I may add), cup sits in front of me. Gray. Sad. Like the pallor of a patient losing his fight with his disease. Like a funeral scene in a movie. Gray. Sad.

At least the coffee is good. And I do like black coffee, so it isn't like I use cream to cover up a distaste for the base liquid. So, it tastes fine, I guess. But I was going for magnificent. And fine is a long way from there.
_____________________________________________________________

The last few days have had me on the road, again. I haven't traveled in a bit. I almost forgot how. It was but 12 months ago that I kept a ready bag in my trunk at all times since I lived at DEFCON 3 and may have to go at any time. I was fleet. Prepared. Savvy.

This trip, I had 72 hours notice (an eternity). It took me almost that entire time to stand dumbly in front of my closet, then the apothecary to choose my toiletries, then in the hot attic for which suitcase, then at my shoes, then ties, then files and so on until about the minute it was time to go.

I felt like Jake LaMotta at the end of Raging Bull. A big fat slow charicature of myself.

The trip went off without incident. Literally, which is too bad because I don't have any money in my pocket to show for the expense, but being in sales is like being a detective. You follow the leads.
_____________________________________________________________

I sold a job I am subcontracting to... myself. Em and I are going to remove wallpaper (which was poorly affixed and pretty much jumping off the walls already) and paint a bank branch. I sold this job in December last, but only now did they just approve it.

I figured I could make maybe $50.00 if I hired a sub, or I could take what I estimate is about 15 hours of my time and make about a grand. Tough choice in these tough times. I'll take the grand, thank you. Lord knows we can paint.
____________________________________________________________

I lost the battle with my lawn again. Sometime around mid-July I caught a creeping weed that is pervasively impacting much of my grass. I killed it with a mixture of chemicals and pulling. I think the weed itself is under control, but at the expense of some large patches of grass which are the shade of brown I imagine every time I read "The Grapes of Wrath". (Editor's note: That has been exactly one time. And that was enough.)

It is way too hot to seed and we have far too much sun beaming on the lawn all day. When we moved in, the city had just planted a sapling in our yard, so unlike our neighbors with large maples for shade, we have nothing. 5 years on, the sapling keeps reaching for the sky, so in only 15 years or so we will have the shade we desire!

Instead, I will have to wait for that magical week here in Michigan where it is temperate, sunny during the day; but not too sunny, has no frost overnight and rains a quarter of an inch at least once per day. Yeah. Right.

I guess if the beginning of this post is called ...But it looks so gray and sad, the end could just as easily be ...But it looks so brown, and sad.

Such is life.